As I exit Nebraska on I-76 to Denver my iPod queues REM's 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It' and as the song says, I feel fine. My night in North Platte was otherwise uneventful with the exception of the hijab brigade and the toothless hooker that lived under the bridge and cadged a buck from me on my way back from Wal-mart to my motel.
The road quality worsens noticeably as a I cross the state line and is pretty rough until I hit 473, the toll road that skirts Denver and, according to the tollbooth attendant saves a lot of time. I have no way of verifying this fact but I also have no need to see Denver close up so I pay the eight bucks total it costs to avoid it. A bargain, I conclude. Last time I was in Denver, I recall, was 1997 and there were a lot of shiny shoe wearing tassel loafer lawyers. I assume they're still there, unless they're out in the hills skiing or snorting coke or something.
Just south of Denver is the US Air Force Academy based in Colorado Springs. I didn't plan on stopping, but the most evil and devious of road construction projects required me to do so. Over and over again. For about 50 miles. Stop and go. All of the time I saved by paying to avoid Denver I lose here. I take up swearing like they do on HBO's Deadwood but it doesn't help.
Colorado is a mean spirited, worthless outcropping of rock, evergreens and rednecks. I meet Cletus and Bobbie Pam at the rest area north of Pueblo. I don't really meet them so much as that Cletus is so intrigued by me washing my hands in the restroom that he strikes up a conversation and like an idiot I answer. Cletus and Bobbie Pam hail from Trinidad, CO but work the Wyoming oilfields 'in their spare time'. I suspect they are high on methamphetamine.
Note: For future reference, in all of southeast Colorado, gas stations won't take credit cards at the pump! Have I traveled back in time? Before the era of science and technology? Hell, every single gas station positioned on a highway takes credit cards at the pump, don't they?
To further the indignity, in Pueblo, I had to 'pay before purchase'. I don't know how much it will cost to fill the tank. I can't see into the future as easily as others, apparently, knowing just how much I will need. Seeking some sort of retribution, I decide on $20 and pay with small bills and change which I deliberately count out as slowly as can be imagined. Oddly enough, or not, I should say, this doesn't seem to faze the eight year old bearded boy behind the counter, so short he can barely see over the petrified beef jerkey or out from under his Skoal cap.
Before I'm allowed to leave Colorado, I am forced to drive through two torrential downpours. Actually, I hydroplane at 80 mph into northeastern New Mexico. The first sign I see at the border crossing rest area reads 'New Mexico, Cleaner Than Old Mexico' and it seems to be true even though I'm not really familiar with Old Mexico and can't say it's a fact.
I'm planning on motoring boldly on until I reach Santa Fe but I begin to see signs announcing the exit for beautiful Las Vegas. The signs say Vegas is closer than Santa Fe! Even though I haven't been smoking dope, I'm confused. I know in my mind that Vegas is way over by Idaho or something but I'm also hoping I'm that close to the Emerald City.
Turns out I am. It's just that it's the New Mexico version of Las Vegas.
NEXT: Finding a smoking room and Buba's Pizza.
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