9:32 - More cones. What we've been failing to realize is that, though traffic is indeed moving through these sections, we've kicked down to about 60 mph for miles, which murders our average speed.
9:45 - Gas is getting low, and bladders are getting full. Can't they make a car that runs on this stuff? Think of the ecological efficiency!
10:00 - We're almost positive Chen's flying tin of body odor and screaming children has hit the ground by now, so we begin the strategic bombarding of phone calls. Everyone knows what a pain in the ass it is to get phone calls when rushing around an airport. But even if you're not going to pick it up, you're still going to check to see who's calling. That takes time, and more importantly, concentration. Jay will need both of those to hustle through the throngs of Americana that wade through McCarran International Airport like hippos in a watering hole.
The phone rings but there's no answer. He's on the ground, which means the long pedal on the right goes to the floor.
10:03 - Only the bounce of the landing gears and the roar of the thrust reversers are enough to wake me up. The capitan hasn't even retracted the flaps and everyone has a phone to their ears listening to the twenty voicemails that were left in the span of an hour.
Mine isn't much better. Ten missed calls from the frantic drivers trying to figure out how far away I am.
10:12 - We've been waiting for the doors to open for a bit now. Everyone's standing hunched over, with a phone in one hand and luggage dangling elsewhere, when the captain calls on the intercom to say that we've docked at the wrong gate and need to get pushed back out to the right one.
My phone keeps ringing, and now that it's on, the drivers must know I'm on the ground. According to them, they're at the state line, some 30 minutes away from the Strip and the Venetian Casino where we will meet.
10:20 - Finally, the doors swing open and I'm crawling my way out. This gate fiasco could mean the race for me so I'm doing the airport power-walk trying to beat the crowd heading for the main terminal tram.
10:32 - Chen picks up the phone. Frankly, we're shocked it's as close as it is. We're 19 miles outside of sin city, and he's already in a taxi. Never one to thank Murphy for his law, profanity spews out of my mouth as a minivan completes a three-lane blockade, right when we need the time most. After a grueling stint of 45 mph, we see our hole and explode through. We're catapulted down the last stretch of road faster than Mr. Sulu could think, "warp speed."
10:33 - I'm grabbing for the "oh shit" handle as we manage a spectacular 110 mph, four-wheel powerslide onto Flamingo Rd. The heat is definitely on, and Mitchell is definitely a racecar driver. I'm struggling to spit out directions as fast as the Skyline is devouring the hot Vegas pavement. Our progress comes to an abrupt halt, though, as we hit the longest red light known to man. Everything seems to move in slow motion and revs climb in anticipation.
10:35 - We swing onto the back access road towards the hotel main entrance, and wham, construction traffic. We're at a dead stop and this guy's getting no tip.
It's been five minutes since we hit this spot and no one has moved. The Skyline boys keep calling and I pick up every fourth call. They say they're still outside the city, but without background noise, it sounds a little suspect. Other cars in the jam are now hopping the median to turn around and I'm grabbing my bags ready to power walk the rest of the way.