Life is good. Especially when you've had a shower, are lying under white sheets in a nice, spacious hotel room and have a hot drink next to you. You can guess from the picture what the chronicler means. He doesn't want to show off, he just wants to show what his (affordable) carrots are that allow him to endure adversity. And there was plenty of that today. The chronicler has been cranking away all day and has to retell the story. And first of all: there was no excess time. Everything fitted together seamlessly.
Simply beautiful; search picture with racing cyclist in the bathroom
It was interesting from a presidential point of view, but he wanted to deliver the route description first. He had to get onto the motorway straight from his castle bed. According to him, a motorway, the highest category of interstate is intersection-free and No. 119 was not. Of course, there is plenty of traffic on these metropolitan routes. The chronicler is used to that. What he is not so used to is the spatial division. In North America, you don't drive on the carriageway, but on the shoulder. This is usually a fairly wide strip next to the white markings. A rumble strip is then milled near the carriageway to bring the dreamers among the drivers back on track.
On the rumble strip, the wheel steering beats like a machine gun
So the strip to the right of the rumble strip is more of a collection point for ballast stones, rubbish, animal carcasses, screws, exhaust residue and load parts. That's why the chronicler likes to stay in this reasonably clean but fairly narrow strip between the white line and the vibrator. It works quite well, but you have to be careful that sometimes the construction joint next to the white line is poorly filled or not filled at all and then likes to suck in the narrow racing bike tyre like an Italian earthquake fissure. So, that was a bit much detail, but it kept the chronicler busy for the whole 100 kilometres. Vrooom, the traffic is an imposition, which is why the chronicler can only do this alone. It doesn't really bother him. After all, he's not alone in the world. And he also notices that most drivers, especially the big lorries, are quite considerate, almost British in their politeness. Not all of them. It's comforting that they're not allowed to drive much more than 100 km/h, although this causes quite a racket with the large roadtrain-like lorries, especially when they use the engine brake.
On the motorway through hilly terrain
Because the carriageway is mostly made of concrete, it has a bit of the character of the old Reichsautobahn: Toktok-Toktok-Toktok. It is neat and tidy. There are houses with direct access next to the motorway. Their huge lawns around the house are perfectly mowed right up to the edge of the road. Unlike in the west, unusable household goods or vehicles are not simply left on the property to be overgrown by nature.
There are quite a lot of carcasses on the carriageway, flattened fauna. Sometimes you don't even realise what's lying flat. You can tell from the teeth whether it's a predator or rodent, and from the shell whether it's a bird or a quadruped. Because they are so unrecognisably flat, pity has also disappeared. This is quite different with large animals, such as deer, which are usually still quite whole and are probably cleared away before they are completely flat.
Fortunately only a polyester
The chronicler had a lot of respect for this section because of its length and the 1600 metres of elevation gain indicated. But that somehow disappeared into thin air, even though he still had a headwind. Either it was too mild or the air is thinner here, but it didn't bother me much and the uphill and downhill sections were rather gentle. That's what's special about North America, that the roads have a fast layout and you can just lie down on the handlebars and let it flow. Nevertheless, this constant up and down will spoil the chronicler's cut. Physics with the square in the resistance takes care of that.
And so it went reasonably well. The sun warmed his porridge and scrambled eggs from breakfast from behind in his black cycling shorts. The Scott crackled along light-footedly and at this point he had to thank his friend Uli, who checked the technology and brakes again and put a more robust tyre on the rear. Thanks for that.
https://www.relive.cc/view/vmqX3Qdo7o6
But that didn't save him from getting a flat tyre twice, preferably at the back. Once perfectly with a bench seat in front of a self-storage unit and two charming black women inside. One of them asked who had got me that. The chronicler pointed upwards. She replied, yes, someone wanted you to take a break. In the end, it was enjoyable and successful. The chronicler's repair skills were not successful, because after a few kilometres the tyre was flat again. This time in the bushes. He finally managed to fix it.
Must also be sometimes, keep tidy
Before he could conquer the former steel metropolis and sports city of Pittsburgh, he received what he thought was an unjustified reprimand. A pickup truck from the parks department pulled up next to him and the black driver explained quite angrily: "You can't cycle on a highway. He can and, according to the internet, is allowed to, but he didn't want to provoke his hosts. Google Maps had an alternative and delivered him to a clean, interesting and somehow beautiful and quiet town.
Pittsburgh, he will have to skip the Andy Warhol Museum, without much regret
Asking him once took him to Marketsquare. It had a lively restaurant. The food was good, he dared to have two Yuengling beers, which lifted his spirits even more, and then finally found his way to this lovely bed. But only after he had repaired the hose in the sink.
What was going on presidential style? There wasn't much going on at breakfast in the Inn. The elderly, heavy-set lady at the next table wasn't really keen on the idea and was still pretty damaged from an operation. She doesn't like Mr Trump, but her husband does, although he is slowly changing his mind.
The lunch break was completely different. The chronicler had seen a restaurant at a traffic light and was really impressed by the place. A perfect example that there are also good shops away from the chains. He ordered a Coke, which did him good for a start. Christa, the waitress, not only served him the Coke, but also water and a bowl of homemade potato crisps.
The Cesar salad with it cost just as much as the green plastic tea in the met
The chronicler took heart and asked Bryan, the boss of the shop.
Bryan and Christa. Jesus comes first with absolutely 100%, and Trump should become president
Bryan wholeheartedly wishes him a good journey. When paying, the chronicler quickly asks Christa, the waitress. Jesus doesn't need to be chosen. He's there anyway. She wishes for Trump. Petrol prices of around four dollars and milk at six dollars a gallon is a problem for many people. And Mr Trump would have taken great care of that. And so the chronicler leaves a shop that is run with passion, discipline and professionalism and is a focal point for the mostly elderly people in this rural area, providing them with affordable food. The operators will vote for Mr Trump.
Tioni, one of the two ladies from the self-storage, 2-5-93, delivers a completely new mix.
Tioni 2-05-93, also wishes the chronicler a good journey
Good night everyone. Tomorrow is another transit day on the Greyhound. This time with a change of trains. Let's see.
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