There are a few things in this country that move faster than a man late for work, except, perhaps, a Las Vegas commuter who believes the highway is expressly for his personal ambitions. That grand illusion found interruption early Monday morning.
Just after 3 a.m. on April 27, the Nevada State Police received a summons to the westbound 215, a little west of Rainbow Boulevard, where a motorcycle and a sedan had concluded their acquaintance in the most final manner. The motorcyclist was declared dead at the scene.
The driver of the sedan stayed put and cooperated, which is the least a citizen can do after fate handled the rest. The authorities, being wise in the ways of unfinished facts, declined to guess at the cause, which is a rare and admirable restraint in an age that prefers a loud wrong answer to a quiet, honest one.
In the meantime, the highway, usually so eager to carry us along at unsafe speeds, was brought to a standstill. All westbound lanes were closed. By 7:30 a.m., the road reopened, and the daily race resumed as if nothing had happened.
Which is the peculiar genius of modern life: we pause briefly for tragedy, tip our hat, and then press the accelerator again, confident, as ever, that misfortune belongs exclusively to the other fellow.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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