Hamilton Mack Laing rode his six hundredweight Harley Davidson Doppelwums through here long before the chronicler, in 1915. Sand and mud gave him a hard time. The chronicler also rode across the continent, but far more comfortably. Mr Laing would be delighted with the precise concrete track. He would no longer burn the insides of his thighs on the exhaust pipe because of the machine skidding around wildly in the soft sand.
But the chronicler also had to suffer. He had a headwind, 100 kilometres of precise wind from the front. Not caressing from diagonally or as a blow to the side or sometimes as a slap on the bum. No, always full on the twelve. And so this day was not a cycling day in the usual sense, it was a hard workout in modern parlance.
Blue line and wind; precise opponents
The chronicler has to cry here for once. That wasn't fair! Having 25 km/h wind against you or behind you is worlds apart! So.
It was no problem to find a hostel after midnight last night. The distances are so huge that beds, hot coffee and a beer are always and everywhere available. The bed was clean, the shower still had infinitely hot water and no colour peeled onto his toothpaste, although the ceiling looked like it. In the morning, he realised that the world ended at a wooden fence one and a half metres from his window. The Tamil family who ran the place were friendly. He ate only fragments of the continental plastic breakfast, went on his way and decided to take it easy today.
The clean, light grey concrete carriageway has clean joints. Nothing rattles. The surface is grooved lengthways, and drivers forgive it the use of the carriageway. The land here is so flat that, from a distance, the curvature of the earth is mistaken for a gentle hill. In fact, Google indicates an earth curvature of almost eight metres for a length of ten kilometres. And in the chronicler's opinion, you can see over ten kilometres. In his leisure time, the chronicler ponders the huge caterpillars with which geological development has proceeded here. Or perhaps it once roughly covered everything with soil, soaked it with water and spread the slurry precisely with two or three blows of the earth. It's almost eerily even.
The huge agricultural tractors, the endless goods trains alongside the road and the massive grain silos give you an idea of what mainly happens here.
work, work, work
Before the chronicler switched to moaning and suffering mode today, he mused as usual. After all, you get bored, especially when there's nothing in the landscape.
He drafted speeches, stupid stuff, ventilated relationships, praised the grandchildren up and down, thought about his customers and rehearsed the last chapter.
He waited four kilometres for this opportunity; a chance to lean his racing bike against something to take a break
He is happy about his invention of the hopon-hopoff. He remembers an acquaintance who travelled the Mississippi from its source to its mouth, a distance of around 3000 km. His answer to the chronicler's question about the three dominant characteristics of this tour was limited to two: boring and adventurous. The chronicler suspects boredom and doesn't need it at all. He doesn't need or want boredom in abundance just to eat up the kilometres.
He writes these lines in Cozad, 3000 inhabitants in this flattened landscape in the Meridian Tap House over salad and coffee. Cozad lies on the 100th meridian.
Somehow you always make it nice
Farmers, old people, families who want to have a nice day sit in silence and wait for these food baskets, lined with red and white chequered napkins, in which carefully decorated sandwiches with chicken, turkey, bacon or beef are served. They drink water or cola, always with ice, and whether coffee or a cold drink, each one comes with a straw.
So, the chronicler has to move on, he only has twenty-six kilometres on the clock. Kristina, the boss, gives him her answer between paperwork: 10-10-80. She couldn't believe that Mr Trump could ever become president and thought the whole thing was a PR stunt.
Kristin runs one of those charming, ubiquitous, non-chain restaurants
The wind is disgusting and the road is so miserably straight. The chronicler may not even look up in the hope of seeing an end. Each time, the sight of the grey line ending in flickering mirages in infinity is like a whiplash. Finally he leaves it. He also refrains from trying to keep the cut somehow presentable. He doesn't even notice when the road takes a slight bend after sixty-five kilometres. He simply takes another break, Crady, population 300, and a petrol station with a mini-market. It gives him the cheapest break yet.
In Brady once full for three dollars fifty
He eats his purchase on the firewood packets for seven dollars a piece. The sight of the pub opposite is part of the change that is visible everywhere.
300 inhabitants are too few for a pub today
In the east, people tend to keep quiet, even in the countryside. But Tagg has a few words with the chronicler. He asks him about his purchase. Tagg doesn't split up. He credits everything to Jesus and will vote for Trump, who he believes has done a lot for the country.
Tagg is retired, lives in Crady and worked for the railway
North Platte is the name of the destination. Platte is the programme for this whole area. A central location for the railway. The only town in the surrounding county. The chronicler has a new experience. You can also find cheap and nice accommodation. A kind of cute motel falls at his feet. Nice outside, nice inside.
Manager Yonn
Yonn, with his friendly moon face, manages the business. The owners are from. It really is an extremely cosy and carefully run shop. After the business check-in, it's Yonn's turn. He finds the question strange, says he is not interested in politics and only becomes talkative when the chronicler asks what he misses most about politics at the moment. Lower petrol prices. In Trump's time, the gallon was two thirty dollars and then rose to two fifty dollars. During Biden's time in office, the price rose to almost four dollars and is now three dollars fifty. That's expensive for him. Yes, he doesn't like this liberal versus conservative debate either. If both parties were locked in a room, there would certainly be fights. In the end, he offers the chronicler 50-25-25, who has the idea that Yonn, as a Native person, can't do much with Jesus.
On an impulse, the chronicler adds a single dose of relaxation bath to his small luggage at the drugstore at home. Almost all American bathrooms really do still have a bathtub. So does his cute motel. After this ordeal, he enjoys some blue relaxation soup today.
https://www.relive.cc/view/vNOP7kdPX2v
Tomorrow he has until one o'clock. He will guide his audience through this small town. He is not familiar with this kind of thing from American series or films.
In 1947, Jack Kerouac hitchhiked through North Platte in company on the back of an open lorry. Because the lorry had no side flaps and the road was bad, they were in constant danger of falling off.
Montana Slim and the two high school guys wandered the streets of North Platte with me until we found a liquor shop. They threw something in, Slim too, and I bought a bottle. Tall men with grumpy expressions watched us from houses with fake stucco facades; the main street was lined with square box houses. Endless vistas of prairie opened up beyond each of the sad side streets. I sensed something different in the air of North Platte, but I didn't know what it was. Five minutes later, I knew. We got back on the lorry and sped off. It was getting dark fast. We all took a drink, and when I looked around, the green fields along the Platte River had suddenly disappeared, and instead, as far as the eye could see, there were vast wastelands, just sand and scrub. I was amazed. "What the hell is this?" I shouted over to Slim. "This is grazing land, man. Pass the bottle."
Have a great day and good luck to everyone.
