Doesn't Anybody Know How to Pray?

On my fifth and last afternoon in Las Vegas, having just come down from a day of snowshoeing on Mt. Charleston, I was feeling quite good about being. "I sorta like this place," I thought to myself.

Within a few hours, however, all of that good feeling had vanished. Somehow I had I hit my "Las Vegas Wall," probably due to a combination of the horrendous traffic near the strip (which forced me to cancel out going to another show), and the long lines at the restaurants.

The thin veneer of my compassion for my fellow man had burned away and I began to look at everyone on the sidewalk with the jaundiced eye of what do you want from me? I knew I was getting out of there just in time.

So on Sunday morning, under the bright warm sun, I packed up my car joyfully and checked out of the Super 8. Scuttling any remaining plans about giving myself architectural tours of casinos, I beat it up Las Vegas Boulevard, then turned on Fremont Street and headed southeast on the Boulder Highway. Forgoing the quick escape of the Interstate was my last concession to exploration of Las Vegas for now. Thankfully the stop lights were merciful in letting me roll down the wide thoroughfare past (one of) the famous "Welcome to Las Vegas" signs and towards the suburb of Henderson.

It was a beautiful day, not just in the bright blue sky and the perfect bathwater temperature, but in how I felt in my soul. Everything seemed perfect. The car was moving down the road with the deep warming rumbling that felt like an airplane engine, and the wind was coming gently through the open window.

I had a growing feeling of overwhelming contentment, one that I rarely have lately. It reminded me so much of the unbridled and undiluted happiness I felt years ago while embarking on one of the great road trips of my youth. I had flashbacks to Austin, driving with my then-girlfriend on weekend trips to the Texas backcountry or across the South.

I felt as if I were twenty-four years old again, as young as freedom itself. Gone was all of the ennui of so many miles under my tires, and so many wrong turns and disappointments about what was at the end of the road. Restored was a feeling throughout my entire being---my shoulders, legs, and arms---that all was new again, and all was possible.

I knew how rare and fleeting this feeling was, one that Lord in His mercy grants to us poor sinners only from time to time. I knew not to expect this state to last even the day. It wasn't the natural state of being, to stay this way.

Thus I consciously tried to savord every second of feeling this way. As if to preserve the fragility of it, I glided gently to a stop at each stoplight, and then just as gently came up to speed again as the asphalt rolled underneath me like a magic carpet made just for my enjoyment.

Within an hour, I had piloted the BMW over the stark hills southwest of Las Vegas and through downtown Boulder City, the one-time encampment of the workers who built Hoover Dam in the 1930s.

As I approached Hoover Dam, I knew I should stop and take the tour, but in truth the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt the magic carpet ride I was on.

Thus when I pulled off the exit for the dam and discovered a several-mile-long line of cars waiting to clear the "security checkpoint," I quickly made an executive decision to forgo the dam tour for now. The last thing I needed to do on that day was wait for an hour letting my car overheat just to endorse the Cosmodemonic Police State of Amerikkka.

So I wheeled my car around on the narrow road (how it turns so tightly) and within a minute I was back on the highway, crossing the gorge of the Colorado River on the Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge. The desert hills of Nevada receded in my rearview mirror.

There was nothing left on the day's agenda except to drive until I reached my motel. All was in perfect equilibrium. I was in zenlike bliss of the road on the ample four lane highway that ran straight as arrow SSE across the Mojave Desert.

The traffic moved fast and soon we were all going almost 85 mph. The BMW's tachometer was at almost 3000 in fifth gear, something I rarely see. But that engine warms up like nothing else, and it was purring as if at half the rpm.

When I reached Kingman after an hour, the sun was still well high in the sky. I pulled the car over to rest for a few minutes, and give the car a cool down before going onward.

As I sat behind the wheel, I picked up my smartphone and send a quick text to my friend in California whom I keep abreast about my whereabouts, especially whenever I cross a state line.

I like to use obscure musical references, ones that I know he will get, to inform him of my whereabouts. My text read:

She believes in Robin Hood and brotherhood and colors of green and gray

Within a minute, the phone made the telltale sound of an incoming text message. I picked up and read his reply:

And all you can do is laugh at her

I smiled, knowing that he had got the reference and understood the meaning of my text.