PHOTOS: JEFF KARDAS & RICH SHEPHERD
PHOTOS: JEFF KARDAS & RICH SHEPHERD
As the night goes on, the place gets more and more crowded and more and more intoxicated. People are bowling through their legs, backward through their legs, rolling two balls down the lane at once. Chaos.on’t be afraid to ask questions,” my dad says as he drops me off at Pittsburgh International Airport for my first solo flight ever. Once I’ve successfully cleared security and boarded the plane, I figure I’ll take his advice, get out of my comfort zone, and talk to my seatmate. She fails to even acknowledge my presence, so I decide to enjoy the clouds outside. I make my connection in Newark, and soon enough I’m on the ground in Las Vegas. I call up my ride, our West Coast digital sales associate, Trent Lopez.
We arrive late for press day, and will call can’t find Trent’s media credential. “Are you sure you applied for one?” He did—way, way too late—but yes, he did. Once we get credentialed, we enter the credential access gate but are told we can’t make the 15-second walk down a windy pathway to the track; we have to go all the way back out of the fenced-in area and around the pits to the back entrance, which is supposed to be used for the media, apparently. We do as we’re told. The press-day activities go on, and we make our way among the other media, asking questions, taking photos, the whole deal. We check out the press/suite levels to find Ralph Sheheen taking it to Ricky Carmichael in Monster Energy Supercross 3 – The Official Videogame.
“Do you smell that?” Sheheen shouts as he takes the checkered flag. “That’s smoked GOAT I smell.” Classic. We finish our duties at the track and head into town.
rent and I follow Racer X publisher Scott Wallenberg and his son Kyle up to their room at the Vdara Hotel. We’re locked out of ours at the moment because the gentleman with our key is in the middle of a poker tournament. This is how Vegas works, apparently? We spend a couple hours talking until Scott leaves for Torsten Hallman’s 80th birthday party. We then learn that young Kyle is only 16 years old. I’ve only been here a couple hours, and even I know that’s too young for Vegas. Time to get out of here.
Trent manages to get us into the Seven MX/Ethika party across town at the Hard Rock. Aside from some elevator problems, we make it to the hotel suite and open the door to see two sets of Ethika-covered Seven MX Pacino “Chino” Braxton gear. (Malcolm Stewart wore it Saturday night at the race, and it was released for sale the Thursday following the Monster Energy Cup). Making our way through the suite, we hear what appears to be bowling balls striking pins. This suite had a bowling alley! We also see a hot tub that’s on all night, but nobody ever gets in, one of two-time X Games Best Whip medalist Genki “Wanky” Watanabe’s Kawasakis, and a pool table. What used to be the kitchen is now a DJ booth. The bass makes it hard to hear a thing, and I find myself shouting all night. Is this typical?
I find Tom “Tommy Tenders” Journet of #TeamFried and tell him how much I, as a media member, appreciate not only Team USA’s effort at the MXoN, but also Journet and Matt Rice’s coverage. Had they not gone and recorded and photographed any of the training or down time, we really wouldn’t have gotten to see the guys until the race started. Those guys are great.
After more mingling, Trent and I decide it’s time to call it a night. Our cab makes it back to the Vdara, and we stop at the front desk to finally get our room key. Room 12021 is deluxe to be sure, but I’m reminded that my last intake of solid food was several, several hours ago. But this is Vegas, which means 24-hour room service! About 20 minutes later our doorbell rings (yes, a doorbell! Every room had them!) and we’re greeted by James: “Is this the room of Mr. Lopez?” Why yes. Yes, it is. “May I come in?” I go to hold the door for James, but he’s come prepared with his own doorstop and much more than just our meals. After about three trips in and out—one that includes fake flowers in a vase, he brings in our dinners. You would have thought we were some bigwigs ordering Kobe beef at 8 p.m., but no, it was just Trent and me, hungry for some chicken tenders and fries after our long evening out. (Sorry for that one, Jerri!)
I find Tom “Tommy Tenders” Journet of #TeamFried and tell him how much I, as a media member, appreciate not only Team USA’s effort at the MXoN, but also Journet and Matt Rice’s coverage. Had they not gone and recorded and photographed any of the training or down time, we really wouldn’t have gotten to see the guys until the race started. Those guys are great.
After more mingling, Trent and I decide it’s time to call it a night. Our cab makes it back to the Vdara, and we stop at the front desk to finally get our room key. Room 12021 is deluxe to be sure, but I’m reminded that my last intake of solid food was several, several hours ago. But this is Vegas, which means 24-hour room service! About 20 minutes later our doorbell rings (yes, a doorbell! Every room had them!) and we’re greeted by James: “Is this the room of Mr. Lopez?” Why yes. Yes, it is. “May I come in?” I go to hold the door for James, but he’s come prepared with his own doorstop and much more than just our meals. After about three trips in and out—one that includes fake flowers in a vase, he brings in our dinners. You would have thought we were some bigwigs ordering Kobe beef at 8 p.m., but no, it was just Trent and me, hungry for some chicken tenders and fries after our long evening out. (Sorry for that one, Jerri!)
ace day. I wake up and pass through Trent’s room on my way to the bathroom. He’s lying at the bottom of his bed, shirtless, his head hanging, arms spread, eyes closed: he’s invested deeply in the Frank Ocean playing through the hotel room’s iPad. He tells me having the blackout shades that retract remotely were cool last night, but not this morning when the surrounding tall, shiny hotels reflected the sun directly at his eyes. Trent continues to sing, and I occasionally join in as we get ready to take on day two.
“She was supposed to have a parking pass for me, but they physically ran out and are unable to print more,” he tells the credential-parking gatekeeper. Two security guards lead Trent back to will call as I waited in the truck, not wanting to be involved in this situation at all. Within five minutes, he hops in the truck and hands me the parking pass. “Don’t ever doubt me, bro.”
We make our way to the press box, where things quickly start to go downhill. I learn the results are not getting imported to Racer X Online correctly at all. It’s nothing we did wrong, but it happens when the AMA changes the formatting of their results. Did I mention I’m supposed to be working this whole time too? Well, I am. I’m failing to multitask, though, as I watch and report on qualifying, catch up on what I missed earlier in the morning, try to fix the results, and maintain a conversation with Trent. We’re approached by a few other members of the media and I give them the basic rundown of my first Vegas visit so far: things go great, then shit hits the fan all at once.
By this point, the results pull into the site 1,000 percent wrong. As much as a pain as it is trying to figure out what’s wrong and how to fix it efficiently, I have to laugh. For a moment, all of Racer X Online appears to be broken and I’m about to close my computer and call it a day, but it’s only broken momentarily (the one time I really wanted it to actually break!). The day continues, and the situation improves. The racing is great, but if I’m being honest, I’m already looking forward to another party. You know what happened in the race; I’ll spare you the details.
We return to the Hard Rock, this time for a Monster Energy party, but the bouncer won’t let us in without wristbands. But we’re on the list! “But I see you don’t have wristbands, and I’m not getting fired for letting you in.” I have the email from Davey Coombs that says we’re on the list! Except I can’t find that email at the moment. Trent starts talking with some people who are leaving the party. “Oh, man, is that a great party or what?” They agree and talk for a minute or so until Trent sneaks in with “Hey, can I get your wristband?” (You can hear it whisper on the breeze: “The Finesser.”) Of course, the security guard is watching this whole interaction, so there’s no way he’s going to let us in. We take a step or two toward him and expose my forearm, the obviously-too-loose wristband sliding down. “Great, have a good time.” Trent and I exchange a glance. The Finesser.
Trent and I decide to just push through, go to the hotel to pick up our bags, and head for the airport. It seems like the most Vegas decision we can make. The sun is coming up. We should probably go.
hit up Wheels, who says he’s outside. I tell him to come inside about three times until I get what he means: he’s “outside” in the VIP section—already in the party. After spending some time with Trent, it’s time to try my own luck. Several drinks deep, I set my target on the door outside. I see the bouncer, but I’m going for it anyway. I get within a step or two of the door, put my head down to take a sip of my drink, and give her a quick look and a nod as I open the door and head outside. Holy shit, it worked! Another long night of laughter, cheers, and fun spreads into the early morning. Trent and I decide to just push through, go to the hotel to pick up our bags, and head for the airport. It seems like the most Vegas decision we can make. The sun is coming up. We should probably go.
We drive through town one last time, and there are more people out now than when we made it back to the hotel. Trent drops me off at terminal 3 and I make my flight. I’ve completed my second objective: making the Sunday morning plane home. On my flight out of Vegas, I talk with the guys next to me and ask if they were at the race. Looking at their grins, I can tell that’s a yes. As we’re making our final descent, more chatter happens. A rough landing brings the pilot over the loudspeaker: “Thank God!” A lady behind us chimes in on our conversation. “Honey, I’m not sure how you were sleeping on that bumpy flight.” The guys agree, but eventually understand when I tell them this was my first bit of shuteye since Friday evening. While deplaning, the pilot happens to step out of the cockpit and sees my shield hat. He looks at me, smiles, and says, “Racer X, Davey Coombs!” It’s time to go
home. 
