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
