Does this look like a racetrack? Yes, at least in the eyes of Vegas Grand Prix organizers. This stretch of Main Street between Bonneville and Carson avenues is part of a 2.4-mile race course that will be set up through downtown Las Vegas for auto races on April 6-8. Nearby landmarks include a porn store, bail bond shops, a bus station and flophouses. Photo by John Gurzinski. Click image for enlargement.

Today's a big day at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway, which will be packed for its annual NASCAR Nextel Cup stock car race-apalooza. But next month, the track in the northeast Las Vegas Valley will lose its monopoly on places for races.

No, the cops haven't given up and formally declared the Las Vegas Beltway a street-racing drag strip. And yes, West Alta Drive is still a speed trap.

Instead, organizers of the inaugural Vegas Grand Prix are converting a maze of downtown Las Vegas streets into a temporary racetrack for a series of auto races April 6-8 by the Champ Car racing league. (Sorry, guys. That's not the circuit featuring uberhottie driver Danica Patrick. She won't be there.)

When it comes to providing a scenic backdrop for fans to ogle, downtown has its spots: the Fremont Street Experience, the big neon cowboy thumbing gullible tourists toward crummy kitsch for sale, etc. But the route mostly skips those cheesy but eye-catching sights, opting for a zigzag path showcasing the real downtown we know, and from which we steer away our visiting relatives.

Think I'm kidding? Over the past few days, I took out my map of the 2.4-mile course and did a few loop-de-loops to get a feel for what the anticipated 150,000 race fans will see.

And when I finished, I thought to myself, What, did Las Vegas not get enough attention for the NBA All-Star Game?

Ride along with me and judge for yourself, based on this cumulative roundup of what I saw.

The starting and finish line is just west of downtown proper, along Grand Central Parkway between Ogden and Bonneville avenues and bordering Union Park, aka the 61 acres, aka 61 acres of dust and nothing. It's an empty hole in the middle of the doughnut we call Vegas.

Someday, the "park" will be home to a fancy-schmantzy Alzheimer's center being designed by some big-shot architect that'll look like a melted building. Which is exactly the sort of structure to which you'd want to bring a person suffering hallucinations.

Impeding my drag down Grand Central, which serves as the track's front straightaway, was a picket of orange road work cones, lined up as part of a last-minute spruce-up. Only one lane was open in each direction. Kind of like an interactive "U.S. Highway 95 Experience" for race fans, I suppose.

At Bonneville, I took a left past the Clark County Government Center -- a magnet for tourists worldwide, no doubt -- and passed a trio of wilted palm trees lining the median on the way to Main Street, which serves as the back straightaway.

That's an appropriate term, since you'd probably want to get straight away from there unless you're seduced by the porn shop at Bonneville and Main and its promised novelties, videos, magazines and 24-hour arcade.

Diagonally across the street, some dude napped in the shade with his tail pointed toward the road and butt crack hanging out of his saggy pants. An empty can of Icehouse beer lay on its side next to his side.

Having staked out a great spot from which to watch the race, he was still there three hours later. Since he had rolled over and the day wasn't very windy, I figured he was still alive, at least.

Up the street from Phil McCracken were what passes for social services in the valley: a pair of bail bond shops (one boasting of a 24-hour Internet cafe, a service that just-sprung alleged felons are always asking for); a row of extended-stay hotels and single-room-occupancy inns we call flophouses; and the bus station and its usual motley platoon of inbound rubes and outbound bail-jumpers standing watch outside.

Hope they didn't have reservations at the old Hotel Nevada, the now-shuttered casino across Main from the bus depot where the windows were boarded up and the words NO LOITERING were spray-painted onto its outer walls, screaming classiness to all passers-by.

Sticking to the map route, I took a right on Carson. Whoops! Carson was closed for road work. Hope they get that taken care of before the race starts. No fear there; road work always finishes on time around here, right?

Re-entering the course on Bridger Avenue at First Street, I passed the backs of many hotel garages, reminiscent of similar scenic vistas offered by the Las Vegas Monorail, but with the added treat of spying upon casino workers huddled together on smoking breaks.

But the grandest back-of-a-garage view came along Fourth Street, where the mostly empty Neonopolis parking deck loomed. The race should be old hat for Neonopolis, which certainly is used to cars zipping by without ever stopping.

Farther down the street, a row of tacky tourist shops teased me with their wares: Jewels! Cigars! A pawn shop! Outside, a panhandler in a wheelchair waited for a slot machine to fall from the sky.

Left on Ogden, I slammed on my brakes to yield for a woman firing up a ciggy in the middle of the street, near the darkened Lady Luck hotel. (Grand reopening date: Who knows? Or cares?)

Steps away, the statue of Benny Binion riding horseback gazed down upon me, ol' Benny's spirit probably wondering why the hell anybody wants to give tenderfeet an excuse to quit gamblin' for some racin' thingamajig.

Ogden past Main took me right by the new Internal Revenue Service building -- another landmark people from around the world come to see before they die -- and then back to Grand Central and the finish line.

For the race, the streets will be ringed with really tall concrete-and-steel barriers, purportedly to keep spectators safe.

But it doesn't hurt that the walls will cut down on the view, either.

If you have a question, tip or tirade, call the Road Warrior at 387-2904, or e-mail him at roadwarrior@reviewjournal.com or OSofradzija@reviewjournal.com. Please include your phone number.