TBJ_99 I did it my way (even on a highway)

Dear followers, one last post from the chronicler. Whoever has travelled this far. It's great that you're here. You don't like being alone in the world. Mr Sinatra's famous song comes to mind. Probably a personal national anthem for many people. And perhaps a fitting, charming summary of his little adventure. This sixth fragmentary exploration of the world with a racing bike and light luggage.

1185 km on the bike, 4500 km in Greyhound

The chronicler is on a plane to Amsterdam. Not the one that was planned, of course. He wouldn't have made the connection in Seattle from San Francisco, so he was sent to Los Angeles. There, too, things were tight and he almost didn't even get to board the rebooked plane. The automatic barrier at the gate wouldn't let him through. "See an agent" and this agent informed the chronicler that the plane was overbooked and he could not fly. Someone didn't turn up and they probably wanted to avoid any trouble with the racing bike that had been checked through. So he was the last to board and is now looking out of the window.

He has never seen such a large, contiguous, hostile and yet fascinating land surface as it glides beneath him. Las Vegas and the chronicler's invisible ninth line of Mesquite are just disappearing.

Between LA and Salt Lake City

Under a grey New York sky, he had arrived twenty days ago and started his journey home in California into a cheerful blue. In between lay a line, a cut through a huge country, with people who were always well-disposed towards him, who housed him in white sheets, fed him, entertained him or simply left him in peace.

He has travelled 1185 km in the saddle and many times that in buses. He is lucky enough to be able to afford it, lucky enough to have a passport that gives him the freedom to travel all over the world and, finally, he has been lucky in the whole endeavour. Even with his own technology. Apart from three punctures, the racing bike hasn't caused him any trouble. This light-footed carbon construction has held up, this precise technology from Japan has always worked beautifully, Simon Geschke has bravely held out in the wind at the front and, despite rough jams in the bus cellars, has not even lost his helmet.

Brave Simon

He didn't mess up too badly himself and always tried to take good care. The one time he was reckless with a beer and a half, the driver did it for him. On the highways and interstates, no loosely attached porta-potty swept him out of the saddle, no loose lashing strap of a truck whipped him off. No. He arrived safely. Thank you, whoever was looking after him. He is especially grateful to all of you, to those who helped with the preparations, to those who gave him their blessing, which was very important to him, to everyone who said something along the way, which is always especially nice. On top the grandchildren videos. Thank you, men! And especially you, Lea, who fetched the texts from heaven every morning before work, provided them with the right photos and polished them at the end. The chronicler didn't have the necessary tools with his mini-iPhone, nor would he have had the time.

He can't say it enough, luck, he was always very lucky. Not every day was brilliant, and rightly so. But the others shone all the brighter for it. 

It was just right to arrive in Palo Alto, in Silicon Valley, the gold rush town of the digital age. To see the modesty of the old Google headquarters and to walk around the company's two new cathedrals. Huge, silvery, filigree tents that are open on the inside right up to the roof. 

Googleplex; mobile hairdresser so that no time is lost

To be able to pop into the brand new Microsoft headquarters, to be allowed to go in just like that, at least in the front area, to be able to take part in an AI conference. Because he has already paid a lot to this company, he helped himself to the buffet with vegetables and delicious dip without a guilty conscience.

The chronicler as Alice in Wonderland

Seeing the almost run-down, huge NASA headquarters with its own airfield from the outside and realising that no money is made with something like this. Done right.

TBJ, Trump, Biden and Jesus. Wang Dou caught up with him on the last day. The chronicler had been ringing in the morning and arrived quite late in the breakfast room of the motel. A burly Asian man was sitting there playing a tablet. The chronicler helped himself to the buffet and uttered his obligatory "How is it going?". Grumbling from the neighbour. Out of nowhere came a tirade about politics and the power of money and the lack of appreciation for human behaviour. He said he was an investor and was pursuing the idea of organising money transfers via facial recognition using AI. However, he obviously had problems with the way people currently treat each other. It culminated in the statement that there is too little love. Without love, a person is not a person, without love, life is nothing!

This prompted the chronicler to get rid of his question. It didn't take his neighbour very long to understand what he wanted. He said he was Chinese from Shanghai, had lived in Toronto for a long time and had a family with two children. Jesus or no Jesus, if there was such a thing as a saint in China, then 100 for him. When the chronicler objected that yes, but someone has to do the practical work somehow, he changed his mind to 10-0-90. 

Wang Dou, in Chinese spelling the surname comes first.

Wang Dou thought about everything for a moment, was overcome with emotion, apologised and began to cry, sobbing from the bottom of his heart. They said goodbye from this small motel breakfast room with a hug. What was that all about?

Because he is an engineer, the chronicler has put all the collected figures into a simple diagram. Anyone who has travelled with him will have guessed that Jesus' slice of cake is going to be overpoweringly large. 

The chronicler's own state of mind, which led him to ask this question, seems to be on the minds of many. His survey is not representative in the scientific sense. But it is a certain cross-section of the whole country, determined by chance and the way in which contacts are made. The chronicler can roughly categorise all of his counterparts. On the intellectual fringe, who believe that faith and feelings have no place in politics, on the other fringe, the strongly religious side, who see the inclusion of the person of Jesus in politics as almost sacrilegious, a few who are not interested in either, and then there is the vast majority who understood immediately and gave unbiased answers that corresponded to their intuition, their inner need.
The chronicler has his own ideas, but does not presume to bother you with them. Everyone will have their own idea. One sober conclusion is that he cannot imagine Mr Trump becoming president. And if he does, it will be thanks to the strange electoral system. The earth will continue to turn even then. 
Above all, he has met people, whether they were 100% for Mr Trump or slammed a big slice of cake to Mr Biden. Nobody from either camp smelt of sulphur! 
At the end, an excerpt from Jack Kerouac, who then set off for San Francisco:

They were talking about the harvest, which was moving northwards. It was warm and mild. I would have loved to run and get Rita again and tell her many things and really love her this time and calm her fear of men. Boys and girls in America don't do well together; they have to be perfect and so they are expected to go straight to bed with each other without really talking first. No courtship - no real and honest conversations about the soul, when life is sacred and every moment is precious. I heard the engine of the Denver and Rio Grande railway far away in the mountains...

There was no way the chronicler would have swapped places with him. How much time and experience you can fritter away in a frenzy (he says today).
May/June 2024

PS: There's always something. But better this way than the other way round. The chronicler arrived in Amsterdam complete and on time. His racer did not. Probably didn't make the short changeover time in Los Angeles. And has to be delivered later...

TBJ_17 Get off the freeway man! Yes, officer!

White sheets in Palo Alto, in the valley of fast thinkers, Silicon Valley. That's where he wanted to go! 

Both were in the drawer of the bedside table, the screen is better on the Bible

The chronicler is lucky. His accommodation for the last two days is a charming, well-kept motel that is at least fifty years old with a suitably spacious room, mature trees in the courtyard and a pool in which you don't immediately hit your head when you turn round because it is so shallow. He's surrounded by hostels that would have sucked four or eight hundred dollars a night out of his card. His Pakistani hostel warden has gone against his habit of being bargained with, so in the end this doesn't even really hurt. The companies around him and their clientele are on a different level.

The chronicler says here from his point of view: This last tour today has crowned the whole thing worthily. He set off early because of the wind forecast.

And because it was on the doorstep, of course on the freeway. It wasn't long before he passed a police car with customers at the side of the road. As he drove past, he heard something like: Get off the freeway man.

He wasn't on the blue line anyway and thought not to overdo it and drove a few metres further off the motorway. 

Before a set of traffic lights, he heard that short howl that you've heard a thousand times in American films and when he turned round, he had the corresponding image. Flashing red and blue lights, a dogde in white, an officer in khaki. He could already see himself in a cell. "You can't drive on the freeway. ID please." "Can you hold the bike please?". He has the ID in his rucksack. "ID please". Before this became an endless loop, he clamped the bike between his legs and dug out the ID. Where I would live. Somehow you always have to worry about getting homeless people here. In the end, he understands the chronicler's journey, goes to the car and has the details checked. 

Yes, officer. Thank you officer

It's a good thing the chronicler in Washington doesn't have an entry yet. He received a warning that he wouldn't have to go to court, and in the end they worked out the cycling alternative together in Google. Yes, you've experienced that too.

He is really grateful to the officer. This forced diversions led through farmland. The chronicler saw almond trees bearing almonds for the first time in his life and guessed from the size of the field why this is a cheap mass product and not, as he knows it, a rather expensive ingredient in baking.

Endless almond tree plantations

They are watered through an artificial water channel. 

Water, far from the south

It didn't have to stay on track in the roar of the freeway, it cranked nicely over land. It was really lively on bends and even under trees. 

He was still a long way from his destination, but he was already feeling a little sentimental, happy about this little stroke of luck and from here onwards he was actually just driving wet. He had to cry a little at every opportunity that seemed like a nice coincidence. 

Paradise after a thousand kilometres of desert

Fennel break, wild and delicious

Just before he thought he was drying out, luck brought him a small Mexican snack bar at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. It didn't seem to be nowhere at all. A large number of fellow road cyclists turned up to get some exercise before the midday heat. Fremont is just round the corner.

He could have had fresh, grilled meat in whole ribs, he preferred corn porridge in a banana leaf

Somehow it seems to do the chronicler good to watch what he eats. He had slept pretty well that night and put this down to the two meat-free, spicy ready meals in paper cups that he had bought in Tracy in an Indian supermarket around the corner.

It was threatening to get hot again today and the chronicler had to move on. Heat warnings are currently being issued in California. The magic mark is 100° Fahrenheit, which equates to 38° Celsius. He recalled a television moment in a snack bar outside Las Vegas. The last few years there, between 60 and 80 days a year had exceeded this limit. For the chronicler, the reference to the all-time record for this limit crossing was particularly interesting. It took place in 1947 with 100 days. And the chronicler knows that this was also extraordinary in Germany. An elderly lady from his village, who has since died, told how they had to drive the cows into ditches out of sheer necessity to find any grass at all. 

In this more civilised area, cyclists also have more rights. What a nice feeling to not just be tolerated.

You could say that there is still a lot of room for improvement in this respect in this country

Yes, and then he was suddenly there. And almost a little disappointed. The Google main building, a rather unspectacular brick building from the outside. The reception is smaller and more modest than most hotel lobbies he has experienced here, but miraculously just as accessible, even with a bike in hand. It was precisely this unspectacular entrance to the company that made him like it even more.

He had a pretty big lump in his throat when he explained to the woman behind the desk that he had done this and that. And maybe one of the CEOs would happen to be in the building, with whom he could talk for a few minutes, from the other end of the food chain of this, in his eyes, extraordinary company. You can think like that, but it doesn't have to work. It didn't and he admits that it was a pretty daft idea.

Christian couldn't let him into the building either, but he was happy for the chronicler and really wanted a selfie. The chronicler would say that Christian didn't answer the standard question out of polite reticence

In order to provide his followers with at least a presentable sight at the end, he drove around the corner to the visitor centre. Google did not build the inconspicuous headquarters itself, but took it over from a bankrupt shop and only remodelled the inside. The building here, of which the visitor centre is only a small part, is one of the first office buildings to be built quite spectacularly according to Google's own ideas.

Yes, and this is where his line along the thirty-eighth ends.

https://www.relive.cc/view/vKv2nmDok4v

Thank you!!!

Thank you already, Lea!!! Without you this wouldn't be here.

He's flying back the day after tomorrow. He's really looking forward to home and the people there. On the plane he'll have time to think up an epilogue and when he gets home he'll analyse his survey somehow. Tomorrow he'll crank through the neighbourhood of Microsoft, NASA, Apple and co. and won't bother you with it. He still has to get three rolls of household foil and hopes that the people at DELTA Airlines are happy with it. Until then.

Stay tuned a little longer.

TBJ_16 Between LA and San Francisco

A journey is not a series of highlights. And after Las Vegas, you need to cool down first. From Mrs Paris's beautiful pool and the rooftop bar, the chronicler had to walk for kilometres through all the glitz and glamour towards the airport and the bus terminal. Giant casinos, huge hotels, fountains and rushing waterfalls, huge electronic billboards that really scare you with their flashes of white. Now he has seen it in the flesh, even from the saddle of a racing bike. Hook on.

City police; one picture, that's all there was to it. The bus is about to leave

Somehow incomprehensible, this art world in the middle of the desert. It's also incomprehensible how you can choose this as your retirement home, like the elderly couple who initially sat next to him in Able&Baker. For example, you can't even go outside the city and take a walk in the woods. There isn't one!

The chronicler sits in the Greyhound between Los Angeles and San Francisco. The current driver is a hit. Already grey-haired, a serious figure with Asian roots, he raps the announcements about the rules, the stops and other events into the microphone. The chronicler can't help it and has to clap.

Outside it is cloudy and boringly flat. Orchards to the left, orchards to the right, the central reservation of the interstate a sea of pink, red and white oleander bushes. Between cities like this, the need for transport is high and the bus is correspondingly full. In LA, the chronicler barely escaped travelling death by breaking the rules. It was his tenth Greyhound tour, but the staff were keen to get on his back again. "The bike has to be in a box!" Even though he had come here as a transfer rider with the film economy packaging. The box variant would be rubbish anyway. There is far too little storage space in these Prevost buses for today's suitcase sizes. A racing bike in a box would take up half a compartment. "I know you now," said the man in charge. "Next time you're not coming with me!"

This is where the chronicler gets a bit cheeky. Whoever is blocking other bus manufacturers in the USA from getting a foot in the door here is stupid. Every European overland vehicle has storage heights that the wheel could stand in and this split windscreen has not been available in Europe since the 1980s.

What the chronicler failed to mention the whole journey: From New York to here, there is also a lot of South America in the country. All signs, from the toilet to the supermarket or the bus, are bilingual, in English and Spanish. And the people are omnipresent. As a poor part of the population, they sit on the bus with the chronicler in large numbers, often without any knowledge of English. They are simply there and make up a large part of the population, especially here in the south. Sitting next to him is Gabino, who is less than forty years old and comes from Mexico. He speaks perfect American and is just starting a removal company with a relative using a lorry. He is missing two teeth at the front for a symmetrical smile. Given his income, it will probably stay that way. He is on his way to a niece's graduation party. Gabino is not interested in politics, but he doesn't complain either. His answer is: 0-0-100. He doesn't want a photo of himself.

Even if it's boring at the moment, on Palo Alto and Google Plex, the chronicler is happy and is thinking about getting on his bike today to have one more day in the Valley of Fast Thinkers. First a coffee and something sweet in Tracy and see what happens.

It's evening now. He stayed in Tracy! The idea was good, but the wind was the kind from the bellows that would have been enough for mouth-to-mouth breathing. So he decided to stay, looking for coffee and cake and a hairdresser. The city makes a homely impression, clean, beautiful green spaces, a kind of old cinema as an art centre. In general, this idea of arriving in large cities and starting out within a day's journey of them presents him with a string of pearls of generally unknown but often very charming small towns. 

The hairdresser's shop right at the beginning was actually closed, but the boss was in the shop with her daughters, asked him all the questions and sent him round the corner to a barber. Her name was Samantha, she revealed 0-0-100 without hesitation and didn't want a photo, although it would certainly have enriched the photo collection. She sent her two young daughters to a public school. When the chronicler expresses his dislike of this class segregation, she provides the reason. Religion is not taught at the municipal schools, but this is a matter of concern to her. A modern young woman!

He has to wait for the barber. Not for excellent little cakes from a small Asian baker, with a disarming smile and a very precisely braided thick, black and grey mottled plait. Together with an Americano, "only half water please", a delight!

Carlos lays his hands on the chronicler's head with care and skill. After all, he doesn't want to turn up as a scarecrow on Mr Google tomorrow. Of course, Barber also has to be asked and delivers what would otherwise be 0-0-100. He was born in the States, is of Mexican origin and is twenty-three years old. He likes Mesut Özil and Toni Kroos and is interested in cultural similarities. Sure, I'd love a photo and should send it to him, please.

Carlos knows what he's doing

Between Los Angeles - where he just changed trains - and San Francisco - where he doesn't want to go - lies the headquarters of Google. For the chronicler, it epitomises the recent enormous upheaval of the everyday world and the tool that makes this kind of fragmentary exploration of the world possible at all. That's why he's going to wash up again tonight to be ready for the visit. Whatever they are prepared to show him there or whether they let him in at all.

Then it will soon be good! 

Your reporter, live from Tracy.

Toilet at Mrs Paris H. and at the Quality Inn

PS: This kind of travelling has plenty of them: big differences

PSS: There's football on the telly at the moment. Germany Ukraine, broadcast by the pro-Trump channel Fox, English commentary, funny pronunciation of the names. 

TBJ_15 130 km asphalt - Las Vegas

Las Vegas? Yes, I know it. I once went there on a racing bike ;-) This is how the chronicler imagines future small talks on the subject. He had to fight hard for it. But in the end it was easier than he thought. He left the casino in Mesquite before five o'clock in the morning. People were still playing in the room, or were already playing again. The air was warm and it was still dark. For the first time in his travelling history, he turned on some music on the handlebars, Radio Pittsburgh. Interstate 15 was running perfectly. Brand new asphalt fine concrete, a surface that would accompany him for almost one hundred and thirty kilometres. A term of quality that every member of a local parliament should hammer into their head when it comes to the equipment of cycle paths. Accept nothing less.

Early start, exactly the right decision

Even though the temperature was still bearable, the low humidity was a problem for the chronicler. Six per cent is nothing. Apart from drinking, he would have to constantly apply moisturiser. Stupid stuff. The sun made a brief but spectacular appearance with its shadow play on this rugged land surface.

The shoulder was clean because of the high speeds, but the dirt was just five metres away in the gravel. 

No variety, miserable view because it reaches so far

There were two service stations on the route, which alleviated the greatest need. And there were puzzling clues on the track.

Otherwise there was little entertainment

In between, he saw wires in the arid landscape: high-voltage power lines carrying the electricity from huge solar parks. 

Looked more like a lake, solar park

After the last chance to refuel, thirty-eight kilometres were still on the to-do list. The chronicler got long teeth. But in the end, as so often, it was bearable. Firstly, from kilometre one hundred it was downhill and the silhouette of the city appeared, magnetically sucking him in. The winding elevated roads and the many descents and ascents with plenty of traffic gave him another high blood pressure, but then he was at the door: Atomic Style Lounge. He wanted a haircut. The worldwide agreement between all hairdressers was against him: we're closed on Sundays anyway and especially on Mondays!

You can't have everything. 

https://www.relive.cc/view/vdvmJgyzkNO

Closed. Despite the fact that it looked tempting, he won't be coming here again.

There's a lot of Atomic in this neighbourhood, where the hairdresser's address led him, and in a flash the balance was there. He feels invited to the ABLE BAKER brewery pub for a toast drink. Able and Baker were the code names for the first two atomic bomb tests around the corner. And so it wasn't just the hairdresser that was atomic, but many things on this street, including the popular Atomic Duck beer.

One duck is said to have wobbled into the city unscathed after one of the explosions: the Atomic Duck

As he will remain homeless here today anyway, he settled down at this high table to continue writing the report and conduct his interviews on this occasion. 

Cashmere and Ronald impressed him with a little something: they prayed before the meal

The two were amiable neighbours for a long time, although the chronicler didn't overhear any of their conversation. Nor did he want to. Cashmere lives here and works as a marketing woman, Ronald is a coach. Both are in favour of 0-0-100. 

Things get kind of awkward when a couple from Virginia set up shop across the street. Sandy and Grover. What the chronicler roughly understood was that Sandy doesn't like the appropriation of Jesus that seems to be happening regardless of the chronicler's idea, especially by Mr Trump. She showed him a recent Facebook post, which he includes here for completeness. 

Less well known here: The inclusion of religion in this election campaign

Sandy didn't give any numbers either, her husband was rather shirt-sleeved and delivered a completely new variation.

Grover: 0-0-5

The chronicler as Hans in Luck. He won't be spending the night in Las Vegas. At a quarter to twelve tonight, his bus leaves for Tracy, the last stage start. He has to change buses in Los Angeles. He's already sick to his stomach of having to travel on in a mess. What he really dislikes is sitting on the bus for fourteen hours, sweaty, salty and dirty. So his idea is to ask to use the pools in the big hotels. The bigger and finer they are, the more generous they usually are. He is turned away three times, even at the Westgate.

Was not allowed in his pool

An inconspicuous little college student behind the service desk of the huge Conrad Resort, to whom the chronicler went bypassing the queue at check-in, impassively pulled two magnetic cards from under the table, wrote Pool on them and gave them to him. 

Hans in Luck

He gave his racing bike to Juan for safekeeping and now he is sitting on the pool lounger, showered and relaxed, hardly able to believe his luck. He couldn't possibly wet as many towels as the pool service wanted to give him. By the way, he looks silly. The merciless sun has blackened his legs and arms. He looks as if he's been bathing in dark chocolate while standing on four feet.

High above him on the huge hotel front is a gigantic digital picture show. The pool closes at eight. Maybe not the bar by the infinity pool, the one with the view of the golden Trumptower. But it does!

Thanks to Paris H.

Because the bar on the 66th floor is still blocked by a private party, the chronicler strolls through the gigantic ground floor.

Half drunk on glitter

In the end, he managed to get a Bloody Mary on the 66th floor. After showing his ID. The chronicler was grateful and quite enjoyed it.

Above the rooftops of the city

TBJ_14 38°, not latitude, Celsius!

Hello everyone. The chronicler is hoping that the weather where you're currently being held is simply pleasant. It's a different story for him. He has landed in the forecourt of hell in more ways than one: In Mesquite, one hundred and thirty kilometres from Las Vegas. He arrived here around half past three, with an hour to spare, the last on this journey, and stepped out of the bus into a hellishly hot air. The black tarmac of the car park topped off the official air temperature. He had set his crossing of the continent at 38°, but latitude and not Celsius!

How do fat people cope with this?

Now panic is creeping in about tomorrow, he not only has the wind as an opponent but also the thermometer.

The further south, the smaller the bus

He started by getting his bike ready in the car park, the man watching him was from Dortmund and was travelling in a hire car. He had stopped here on his round trip to watch the team from his home town lose against Real Madrid. It's strange how economical compatriots abroad sometimes are in their speech. When asked, he sent the chronicler round the corner to a huge hotel with an adjoining casino, where he discovered another limbo at reception. A huge room full of colourful slot machines. 

Who comes up with something like that? How can you spend hours, days in it?

He hadn't expected this until Las Vegas. Women and men stared at the flashing discs like children at a smartphone. The chronicler wouldn't want to swap places with them for ten minutes. Or should he give it a try? The hotel is cheap because the rooms are probably co-financed by the slot machines. He can even relax his body in a large pool. Mesquite is already in Nevada and is a border town to Utah. Gambling is prohibited there, and the largest bank is called Zion Bank!

Politically, the chronicler has nothing to offer today. He suspects it's getting boring anyway. It would perhaps be more interesting if he could find out more about the history of his counterparts. People are always interesting.

He would like to tell two more things about today. Almost directly from his hotel, a tram took him the 22 kilometres to Salt Lake City International Airport, from where the bus departed, for really little money. 

City tour for little money, but the majority still drive a car

And he was able to enjoy this spacious, green, modern city at his leisure and marvel at the brand new, stylish airport. Then he sat in two different buses for over six hours and was once again reminded how huge the country is and how deserted it is. 

Left out of the window, right out of the window

Especially here, where nature is so hostile to humans. Lean dry grass, sage bushes, man-high shrubs that the chronicler cannot identify from the bus. And yet every now and then, in between, there are large industrial or commercial facilities.

At the end of the day, the chronicler in Peggy Sue's 50 Style has eaten scary food, bought nuts and water at the supermarket and some chocolate, which is good for writing. The alarm clock is set for four in the morning and the sun rises shortly after five. By then he has to be rolling along the motorway. He really wants to get to the Atomic Style hairdresser in Las Vegas before closing time. 

Take care. 

TBJ_13 Salt Lake City: 12 points

The chronicler has arrived safely in this special city and spontaneously decides to award the maximum number of points in the Eurovision rating scheme. He has somehow been particularly lucky today, including the white sheets in this orgy of marble, crystal and carpet

(the rooms were a bit more modest).

Little America, he didn't know it before, affordable

This morning, he was quite the tinkler. It was just too cold outside. The sun was shining, but it was chilly.

No temperature for old men

This motel was old but clean and the owner was an interesting character. The chronicler can't think of which American film and which actor he reminds him of. Rather short, slicked back, black hair, a friendly face and doesn't walk with a walking stick due to his age. Perhaps the readers can help. There is a special breakfast on old, beautiful porcelain (his wife's hobby).

The chronicler takes breakfast to his room because there is to be a press conference with Mr Trump shortly. He has just been found guilty of all thirty-four charges in New York. The chronicler sees Mr Trump for the first time in a longer sequence. He doesn't understand everything, but what he takes away: Mr Trump is a gifted storyteller. This morning was the first time the chronicler turned on the television. Before Trump, he saw a channel in which a Jesse Kelly, on his own America on fire channel, wanted to tell people that there is a communist conspiracy both in the administration and in the courts, and that there are also so-called street communists outside who are controlled and financed by the intellectuals. On another channel, a round table explained current events with reference to the Bible and allowed questions from the audience. What they all have in common is a certain uniformity that finds its perfection in concrete hairstyles.

Gosh, thought the chronicler, don't they have anything better to do and can they make a living from it?  And, as a common citizen, you can spend a lot of time in front of the screen and end up in a mental tailspin.

It had become so warm in the meantime that he switched off the TV with relief and set off. Because of its special features, he had to stop at Walmart again and then he was back on the motorway. 

He crossed another border. Utah, just as treeless, but more colourful. Warm-toned rock formations accompanied the railway and interstate lines following the valley. 

The meadow is a ground squirrel paradise

Unlike in Wyoming, in Utah you are allowed to drive eighty miles an hour. It therefore rattles and howls a little more.

80 mph

What had inspired so much respect in the chronicler yesterday, namely this long stretch without supplies, evaporated into nothingness. He was through it faster than he could get hungry.

Then, like a miracle, a Whole Foods supermarket appeared in this mountain wilderness next to the road, among other supply options. You may remember this Amazon chain, which targets the very well-heeled, earthfriendly and organic orientated clientele. The chronicler always goes there with reluctance, but has to admit that the coffee is perfect and the muffins are pretty outstanding (which is more than he could say for the household foil for wrapping racing bikes). 

He sat down with coffee and sweets in the sun and in Anya's path. Anya was interested in the bike and the idea and explained to the chronicler why this Whole Foods was located in the middle of the mountains. It was located in Park City. A famous ski and summer sports resort, comparable to Aspen. This also explained the presence of Porsches, Audis and the whole range of Infinity cars. You could only afford to live here if you were a millionaire. 

Anya raved to the chronicler about Salt Lake City, the university, the salt lakes and other advantages that he had forgotten. She knew about the city's air quality and told him that Utah was currently the most sought-after state for the extractive industry. She was very amused by the chronicler's question and delivered 0-0-100 with conviction, even though she is not a believer.

Anya, knows a lot, has no profession, teaches skiing, mountain biking and is currently looking after a friend's pet

After Park City, the chronicler had to climb again. After a hundred kilometres, it was hard on his legs and the traffic increased again to four lanes. But he knew the longitudinal section! 

Only downhill from now on

More than twenty-five kilometres downhill without braking, only paying attention to the traffic behind us at the exits and entrances. We managed around fifty kilometres per hour, including loud songs. Salt Lake City was a real invitation to the chronicler. Smooth, spacious streets and green spaces. 

https://www.relive.cc/view/vdvmJgK8jxO

A young man sent him to Whiskeystreet for a drink on arrival. Because he didn't get on with the bouncer at the bar of his choice (it's the law in Utah that you have to show your ID before entering bars, in reality he didn't like the face of the chronicler), he turned the corner to jazz, soul and beer, without ID and bouncer.

live music

Naturally, the chronicler with his racing bike and his clothes stands out among the guests on this Friday afternoon after work. Katie was delighted as a snow queen at the chronicler's idea and had 0-0-100 and a hug for him.

Respect! Note the addition of schnapps. Clockwise: Katie, Elizabeth, Morgan. All work in the hospitality industry

The people at the neighbouring table are no less friendly and open and are happy to provide information.

Andrew 0-10-90, Jeremy 0-80-20 and Steve 0-0-100

They are all lawyers. Jeremy and Steve are married and have children. Steve admitted that the trial and the guilty verdict against Mr Trump also had a political background. Mr Trump's supporters probably saw it that way too, which is why they quickly donated well over thirty million dollars just after the guilty verdict, and probably not just in large sums. 

At first, the chronicler here in town wanted a haircut. But now he's waiting for Andrew's recommendation until he gets to Las Vegas. He is to try the Atomic Style Lounge there and hopes that the name says it all.

It's been a special day. Good night, everyone. 

TBJ_12 Just shut the fuck up for once

Sorry. The introduction is vulgar and the chronicler still hopes that the AI will find an appropriate translation for the English-language part. 

The chronicler once again sits in the Greyhound, which he was allowed to board in Denver without complaint. In a model bus station in the centre of the city, in the basement of the old, majestic, excellently renovated Amtrak station. He is far from alone today, but in illustrious company. 

That can take hours, and it did. In the end, he missed the exit and travelled too far

Everyone is harshly and insistently warned by the resolute bus driver to use headphones. "Nobody wants to hear what you're listening to!" At the next stop, she announces a ten-minute break. "Don't think I'm going to grab you by the hand inside (the service station) and tell you the ten minutes are up."

Sugar water milking parlour, with so much choice, ten minutes can be a tight squeeze

Why this snotty headline? It came to the chronicler a while ago and won't leave him. He's been on the bus for nine hours today, he's spent many hours on the bus looking at the country, he's physically measured some distances and Google Maps is his daily reading. Now he looks out of the window and sees endless scenery again and thinks to himself: What a huge country! 

Land, land, land, from Denver to Fort Laramie

It's not just huge in terms of area, Canada is even bigger. It is also politically huge due to the number of people living there. Three hundred and thirty million are three hundred and thirty million individuals with different interests in very different environments. The chronicler understands a little about how organisations work and he has the greatest respect for the fact that so many individuals are able to follow an idea together at least halfway peacefully, have work, get enough to eat, find transport and shape their lives roughly according to their own ideas. Whether it's Mr Trump or Mr Biden, you can simply have respect for the fact that they throw their hats into the ring and do this at their age and remotely have an idea of how to somehow manage this task. And you can be confident that they can't handle their own hats completely weightlessly. There is a huge back-office apparatus behind it, which has the expertise and advice and sometimes tugs at the boss's sleeve. 

Wikipedia reveals that one of Mr Nixon's closest aides had all presidential decisions passed through his desk towards the end of his term of office because of his alcohol problem, in order to avoid any gross mischief. Of course, the fish always stinks from the head first, but we haven't got that far yet. The chronicler's point is that it is not easy to govern this huge country, this enormous mass of people. Is it okay for us, thousands of kilometres away, to shoot our mouths off like many in the chronicler's country do and make snap judgements? Or should we, as one of his former employees used to say on his computer screen as a constant reminder, "Just shut the fuck up"? And leave it to the people here to decide who they want to see at the top? Thank you for your patience, it doesn't happen that often.

The chronicler was lucky this morning. He left Paris H.'s noble cellar dungeon rather late, his body wouldn't let him leave any earlier. In any case, he wanted to have a look at the Art Museum. A futuristic shop.

Zack, decision to take a look to remember the city in particular. And it worked. A lovely, elderly museum volunteer brought him in for free because even the senior citizen's entrance fee was too much for such a short visit, but she didn't want to let him go. However, the art inside was too heavy for the chronicler for such a cheerful blue morning. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the whole experience.

The Denver Clan didn't play here for nothing. The town seems to be rich, it used to be and it doesn't look any different today.

Built by the people, the city and the county of Denver

The chronicler reads a bit about Jack Kerouac's dream city Denver and the wild life there in 1947 and finds it a bit arrogant today.

"Wow!" The man and I had a long, pleasant conversation about our respective plans in life, and before I knew it we were rolling through the fruit markets outside Denver; there were chimneys, lots of smoke, railway tracks, red brick buildings and, towards the city centre, the grey sandstone houses. And I was there, I was in Denver. He let me out at Larimer Street. Full of joy and with the world's stupidest grin, I stumbled towards the old hobos and worn-out cowboys of Larimer Street..was Ray Rawlins, Tim Gray's mate from childhood. Ray came rushing in to pick me up and we hit it off straight away. Together we went on a drinking spree through the bars on Colfax Avenue. One of Ray's sisters was a blonde beauty called Babe - a tennis-playing, wave-riding fairy of the far west. She...

After the incident with the person sitting next to us, who had forgotten to get out of the bus, the boss at the wheel gave us another harsh message: everyone has to make sure where they have to get off. She couldn't have all the passengers' destinations in her head.

The man in front of the chronicler was from Arkansas. A peace-loving, friendly person. He visits his mother in Washington once a year, which costs him three days of travelling and over two hundred dollars each way. A flight would cost around three times as much.

Robert, lives in a red, i.e. conservative state; he does not hesitate for 0-80-20

The chronicler fits in nicely on his exit from. Evanston, Wyoming, one hundred and thirty interesting kilometres from his next destination, Salt Lake City. Interesting for his journey because it has relief, because he sleeps at an altitude of over two thousand metres, because tomorrow he will be riding a kind of hammock suspended at the other end at two thousand one hundred metres and because there are no supplies for the first sixty-five kilometres. So he has to pack well. 

Evanston - Salt Lake City

This also applies to him, the night-time temperature is zero degrees and will remain in single figures until the start. He has to come up with something. First of all, he is still warm and cheaply accommodated in a motel and texts under white sheets. 

Yes, and then there's the wind direction in this land without trees ;-)

Have a nice day and good thoughts for the European elections (if you're from Europe). The others are watching relaxed.