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...
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