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. 

TBJ_11 Denver without Clan - Rocky Mountains with snow

White sheets in the basement at Paris H. in Denver. Today, one thing at a time. Because the chronicler had respect for the distance, he left Fort Morgan at seven o'clock after a coffee and apple in bed. The shower water from the previous day was still in the bath.

Turn right behind the tracks

It was fresh but somehow also beautiful. Blue skies, little traffic on the side road, agriculture to the left and right with a sophisticated irrigation system. And he had a tailwind. So much so that he could usually ride in third gear. You could sing songs loud and off-key. The swallows didn't mind. On one side next to him, goods trains sometimes hummed past. To the north, Interstate 76 accompanied him. Where his side road crossed the tracks in a detour, there was a cluster of houses, a few farm supply shops and a breakfast shop after his hat. Clean, handmade, the only customer before him had just left.

His daughter ruled the dining room and his mum was behind the serving hatch in the kitchen. A little nephew of the manager was dropped off here every morning by his dad, his mum was in California for a few days and there was no kindergarten in this cluster of houses. The chronicler had no idea what he wanted and took today's offer.

Part of the fragmentary exploration of the world; he can go to the supermarket for salad again tonight; but she served it with the salutation "Here honey..."

The chronicler was surprised by her answer to his standard question here in the deepest provinces: 100 for Jesus, the other two are idiots. She muffles her voice, probably so that her mum doesn't hear.

Prairie Ranch House; if you are ever in the neighbourhood

Somehow this restaurant deserves a much bigger audience. Mum and daughter do their best.

He couldn't remember exactly, but in the end, part of this route only went over the interstate. That really means motorway. The surface quality was great, the shoulder was clean, which is no wonder when lorries are speeding past at 130 km/h next to it. There are no small parts left behind that could make a hole in the tyre. It's more like a sieve of pieces that would cause the chronicler to fall if he didn't get round them. It was all a bit exciting. What would the police say? Nothing, none came and he got along with the other road users. The video shows a bit of the scene.

Interstate 76

At some point, he was able to take a parallel side road again. And then he felt a bit ashamed. He was hungry and there was nothing else but KFC. So he immediately apologised to the chicken. This massive overloading of meals with meat, mostly chicken, creates downright aversion.

He at least took cabbage salad and sweetcorn with the smallest unit of meat on the menu

Then it got funny. Somehow it chirped around him, not localisable but penetrating. The chronicler had been approached by a bird here before, but there was no bird to be seen. Until he finally discovered masses of ground squirrels warning each other with this birdcall-like sound. The chronicler wanted to be authentic, sat down at a hole and wanted to wait until the occupants reappeared. But the head warden made such a spectacle that this endeavour was useless.

Perhaps the back office will install a gopher here ;-)

In between, interesting construction sites appear next to the railway, which are probably used for oil fracking. Huge noise barriers shield the surrounding area from the loud machine noises that are necessary for the oil extraction process. The old nodding swing pumps next to it are standing still.

In Denver; according to some internet ranking, the most liveable city in the USA

Denver Clan, not a household name for the youngsters among you, but very much so for the chronicler. Or so he thought. But he took the precaution of looking it up and was wrong. He didn't used to watch Denver Clan, he used to watch Dallas. Today he would say that both series belong in court for time theft.

What he has seen from afar with respect and joy are the Rocky Mountains. A chain of mountains with snow-covered peaks. The road leads upwards. Denver is also known as the 1-Mile City because it is one mile above sea level. Today, the chronicler climbed from around 1200 metres to around 1600 metres, evenly distributed over the entire route. Tomorrow he'll be back on the bus, the day after tomorrow will be quite interesting in terms of relief. Colorado is somehow attractive, flat land alternating with rolling hills, almost treeless and now the mountains on the horizon. Not this penal camp-like endlessness of Nebraska.

Arrival café with sofa and sweets

The chronicler has found a chic café in the lounge of a high-rise office block, settles into the cushions after the long tour, enjoys an American coffee and pastries and picks out three yuppies to interview. He is also curious to hear what the big city voice in the west has to say. But he runs straight into a wall. In his opinion, he has presented it politely and clearly, but the answers are from left to right: I'm not voting, I would have liked Nikki Healey, I need to think about it longer. When asked for their first names, they definitely decline and leave. Yes. Part of it.

He still has tomorrow morning, the bus doesn't leave until twelve. So now the washing is done. Then there's still time for a stroll through Denver, elegant tower blocks, rich old buildings, art on every corner. The chronicler has decided on a fragmentary exploration of the world in a German restaurant. It may be expensive, but it's productive. 

The guests come here to prepare for their journey; currywurst for the person sitting next to Jack

Jack flies to Munich in July and travels from there to Brussels to visit a friend. He delivers 0-50-50 to the chronicler, doesn't want to reveal his profession until after his retirement and doesn't want a photo. Jack lives in Chicago.

Kenyon comes from where the chronicler wants to go next: Salt Lake City

Kenyon has fewer problems with this. He is travelling to Germany for a fortnight in October. A guided tour. His answer is 100-0-0. Kenyon is an atheist, has two children and works as an electrician in automation.

See you tomorrow.

https://www.relive.cc/view/vxOQjmKrk26

TBJ_10 Nebraska - Colorado - Summertime

Hello, the chronicler is sitting in one of the compressor rooms in the USA, i.e. in a poorly insulated, spacious motel room whose air conditioning makes quite a racket to keep temperatures bearable. You live by the difference, says friend Uli, so the chronicler takes it in his stride that the multi-coloured door frames are not intentional but due to peeling paint, and the residual puddle in the bathtub is also calm. Instead, he was able to position his racing bike in front of the room. There, where the elegant to battered cars are always parked in the films.

All right for a small price

The chronicler has arrived in Fort Morgan, another small town in the Midwest of the USA. His starting point for tomorrow, for Denver. Let's see what the clan is up to. He has won an hour for the second time in a short space of time. The one that is regularly bemoaned at home as the changeover to summer time. And he's now in Colorado, which he previously only knew in liquorice form. If Nebraska was treeless and flat, Colorado is also treeless, but by no means flat. A huge, gently undulating landscape of sandy soil from the Ice Age, which is used for agriculture with huge irrigation systems. Because the maize is still small, the tallest plants are sage bushes, which stand out from the barren grassland with their whitish light green leaves. Completely black cattle stand out as individual specks in this impressive picture.

The chronicler is so fascinated by the landscape that he doesn't feel like talking to the friendliest bus driver yet. Kati, who greeted him with a laugh in North Platte, said about the racing bike that she doesn't normally take such things with her, but today she had room. The chronicler had taken care of packing the rear end again and thought her remark was more of a joke. Kati drives for a company previously unknown to the chronicler. There are only four other passengers in the almost new vehicle. Finally, the chronicler sits down on the step to the driver's area, his bum behind the white line, his feet in front and his best view forwards. Kati thinks that's fine. To his right sits a black woman with incomplete front teeth, whom Kati always calls Nurse. 

The conversation dies down when the chronicler comes out with his question and Kati categorically points out that she is not allowed to talk about politics, religion and sex according to company regulations. It would cost her her job. Okay. We remain on good terms anyway!

Kati, twenty years on buses 

The chronicler would like to add something here. He slept very well in this carefully designed accommodation in North Platte and it also somehow instilled a sense of calm in him. Or perhaps the chronicler is slowly becoming more relaxed on this tour anyway. After all, he still had time, and for this he had created a local exploration in Google maps. Because he had read this on Wikipedia: North Platte has the world's largest marshalling yard, operated by Union Pacific. They built a tower, the Golden Spike Tower, to give him an overview. Golden Spike was the gilded nail that was used to close a famous gap in the railway line in the nineteenth century.

You can only build something like this in an area like here; sorry for the unproductive photo; the yellow in the foreground and on the left in the picture are just locomotives, about a hundred of them.

Down in the souvenir shop, the chronicler met customers Cheryl and Barry, who provided an answer in return for his story: 5-5-90. Chery presented and Barry mumbled that that was more or less his opinion. Maybe not quite.

Cheryl and Barry take a trip to North Platte; they live 120 miles further north

On the way there was a railway museum, which actually only consisted of two objects and a railway keeper's cottage, but was quite something. 

The chronicler was extremely grateful for this coincidence and for the friendly explanations of the keeper; they were alone on this beautiful site.

Monsters of steel

At this point, the chronicler makes an attempt to give a little more impression of where he is. And this small town of North Platte, which was so pathetically difficult to conquer, somehow appealed to him. What you don't usually find about places in Wikipedia, he read here: Information on average income. And in this city, the average is roughly 30,000 dollars a year. Knowing that a doctor in a large American city earns ten times that amount, he is overcome with a certain perplexity.

He has also made videos from his racing bike and hopefully the back office can integrate them.

First of all, the back office is closed tomorrow morning (CET) and will deliver later. See you there.

TBJ_09 Riding on the continent - 100 km workout

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.

TBJ_8 Mountain festival and: Do you know Jesus?

Today is the chronicler's mountain party. He has completed his fifth tour. In Iowa, which could also be somewhere in Europe, except that Europe is not big enough for that. Everything is bigger in America, even the natural areas of the same character. Now, for once, he is already sitting in the bus and rocking towards the next starting point: Lexington in Nebraska. This bus route from Chicago to Denver only runs once a day and the chronicler didn't feel like spending the night in the state capital, Des Moins, only to be able to board the bus after six o'clock the next day. So he's moving on today in his cycling gear, unshowered, and will have to look for a hotel after midnight. Keep your fingers crossed for him.

The driver is the same one who very kindly took him from the Burlington interchange to Okaloosa yesterday. We shake hands like old friends.

Don, secondly, is a pensioner and has several cold-blooded horses trained by the Amish; the chronicler forgot to ask his question

You can't ask Oskaloosa to have a bus stop worthy of its name. But for the rather modern and wealthy town of Des Moins to offer such a small space six kilometres out of town somewhere next to a forklift dealer is a brazen disregard for the dignity of its users.

But first things first. Sometime yesterday afternoon, the chronicler got off the bus in a sleepy hamlet. The afternoon sun was shimmering in the air, driver Don wished him luck and sped off. There was nobody on the road. Sergio Leone would have immediately had a melody in his head.

Oskaloosa stop

In the absence of a saloon, the chronicler first went to the local drugstore and bought a nail clipper, which he desperately needed. The hotels were just outside the town on the motorway. Directly in front of the more expensive of the two, he got a flat tyre in the back, the unfortunate effect of which was compensated for by a nice room with a senior discount. 

The chronicler was not in a good mood yesterday, questioned his plan and its general usefulness and felt the rest of the journey was a burden. And he was also a bit lonely. That happens! And to the chronicler especially after drinking alcohol. After the tyre repair, a shower and a visit to the Walmart opposite, the world looked a different place. Deborah intercepted him at the entrance. She was there to greet the customers and had seen the chronicler arrive on his racing bike. After a brief exchange of information, he was declared famous and a colleague had to take a photo.

Deborah was exceptionally slim. She used to work as a nurse, now she is seventy and does this as a retirement job. She has two children and, like the chronicler, seven grandchildren. We were quickly on the same wavelength. She's a Native American, but unfortunately he didn't hear the tribal designation. Jesus gets 100%, Mr Biden is too old for her and she doesn't trust Mr Trump.

The chronicler repeatedly realises that meat-free food is hard to find. Everything has chicken or bacon. Finally, he can retreat under the white sheets with a vegan salad, cheese, a bowl of fruit salad and a hot drink from the room bar and regain his physical and mental strength. In the morning, it's also nice to skim through the blog prepared by the Todtenhausen back office. Running! And so he was back on top of his game this morning, partly because the hotel had a pool. 

In the breakfast room, he asked Larry if he didn't want to sit at his table. A little unsure what his wife would think of it, he sat down and Chris eventually did too. And then things got special. Larry took his wife by the hand and prayed, prayed for the food and for Detlef, the person sitting next to them. Both were here for a family celebration. And again the chronicler had come across customers who thought the connection to Jesus in this matter was absurd, almost immoral. "Do you know Jesus," Larry asked, causing him some embarrassment. "Jesus took all our sins upon himself with his suffering!"

And Chris stated unequivocally that only Jesus could fix it. For the earthly part of necessary rule, they will vote for Mr Trump. At the end, they said a fond farewell. They had to go to church, Larry: "Jesus may not have a timetable, but the church does." They will pray for the chronicler, wished him well and he was grateful for that.

Cris and Larry with the chronicler at the Fairfield Inn in Oskaloosa, Iowa

Dear Larry, the chronicler can't resist a comment that popped into his head on the highway today. Sorry for his big mouth. Yes, it's probably meant that Jesus takes away our sins. That in itself is an incredibly difficult task. Isn't it considerate to refrain from venial sins so that the burden doesn't become too great? And isn't overeating and eating unhealthy food also a sin, albeit a small one? I could imagine that he would be proud if his followers were self-confident and responsible with their frames and thus neither became a burden to others nor waddled through life overly deformed, even in old age. Sorry.

The patched tyre has kept its shape and the forecast rain has been thoughtfully brought forward. Today is Memorial Day and the spacious motorway is sparsely populated. 

Counting to ten, the chronicler cranks past two police cars parked on the central reservation. No wailing sirens, no flashing blue lights. The officers remain seated in their fat Dodges, watching the Sunday service on their tablets or perhaps sex films. In any case, they don't seem to think the chronicler is game to be hunted. 

Legal! Racing bike on the highway; For Dave Jackson, the owner of a 1960 Cadillac Sedan deVille in the colour Persian Sand

Iowa is clean, the highway without dirt on the shoulder, no rubbish on the roadside, the farms don't sink into slurry like he saw in England. To avoid erosion in the undulating relief, the farmers leave strips of permanent green parallel to the slope.

Gentle soil cultivation

What irritates the chronicler are the huge lawns around the estates. They are as big as golf courses and the lawn maintenance is the same. For the chronicler, it is unimaginable to have to mow such areas. But it also seems to be for relaxation: Whizzing across the grassland on a ride-on lawnmower of the municipal vehicle category with ear defenders. Elsewhere in the world, the most intelligent tricks are used to save energy. Here, perhaps we could simply think about not mowing an area of fine turf the size of Lower Saxony every ten days.

The chronicler has to admit that it looks nice, cultivated, just as the houses are well maintained and the car park in the open carports is at least three-part.

Almost all the houses have this style; as a village pub, it is an exception Smokey Row Coffee Shop in Pleasantville

The chronicler is lucky again for his lunch break. A village in the middle of nowhere. The only shop open has charm, the food is delicious and the children who run it do a good job. His attempt to get rid of the disgruntled, taciturn red fox's question fails miserably. No reaction. In the end, he just thanks the chronicler for correcting his opening hours on Google Maps. According to this, the shop was closed on Sundays.   

Because he doesn't like to come across as cheap, the chronicler had pumped up this tour from the more direct 90 km option to what he considered to be the appropriate minimum length of over 100 km. This diversions is also nice, but has the disadvantage of being a secondary route that has simply been laid on the relief like a grey sash, while a mountain has to be removed for a highway.

Up down, up down; Memorial Day flag at the cemetery

Des Moins, a picobello refurbished state capital, spacious, new pedestrian walkways, decorated with flowers; the restaurants and brewery pubs are well-staffed. Somehow the towns here in the Midwest seem to be reinventing themselves. 

New two-part pedestrian and cycle bridge

https://www.relive.cc/view/vevY3Y7kWJ6

At this point, the chronicler would like to point out that he had at least two predecessors on this route, who followed it in quite different ways and at different times. There will be countless, but he only knows of these.

Hamilton Mack Laing, Riding the continent, a Canadian nature lover and biologist, who came this way on a Harley Davidson in 1915, at a time when the roads were still made of sand or mud and he had to trudge through them. His daily stages were often no longer than those of the chronicler. When the roads were completely inadequate, he also used the sleeper-gravel track between the railway tracks, observing the respective timetable. He shunned the hustle and bustle, slept in the countryside next to his motorbike under a canvas tent that he attached to it and was happy to hear the birds singing in the morning. He knew them all. 

The other, far better known, is Jack Kerouac with his book On the road. An eloquent description of a wild departure westwards as a hitchhiker in 1947. The chronicler remembers that in the seventies this book was often found lying around on white lacquered bedside tables alongside the joint cutlery and the Mao Bible. At the time, the chronicler was reading Johannes Mario Simmel and, as a severely school-impaired person, was enthusiastic about the attempt at educational reorganisation in England's Summerhill and had a great time with Asterix and Obelix. 

Tomorrow he is meeting Jack in North Platte. In addition to Simon Geschke, the chronicler's partner and friend has also given him Jack Kerouac as a digital reading book. And he's at the very spot where the author was stranded for a few days in North Platte.

Until then, it's a good read.

TBJ_07 The bike has to be in a box!

A phrase that has immediately given the chronicler high blood pressure since it entered his vocabulary in 2018. This time it's serious. He's riding with Trailroad. Another company that won't let it run under any circumstances and the driver isn't being malicious, just rule-abiding, so they're not allowed to transport the bike. The chronicler panics, sees his plan evaporate and the West disappear into the fog. So they fight. Maybe the counter has boxes. It doesn't, and the black woman there, whose appearance dates back to the time when she was on tour with Aretha Franklin, doesn't care much.

At the gate, he shows the driver the large plastic bag lapping over the edge of a large rubbish bin. Would that be ok? He nods. Without further ado, the chronicler tips the rubbish into another bin and Scott's bum into the bag. The driver nods again. The bus is clean, equipped with modern screens and quite full. It has worked, but somehow bothers the chronicler.

Hopefully the transfer driver is also happy with it

He has to change buses once and is curious to see what the next driver has to say. Now, during the break, he is sitting in the deepest Midwest in a locally run restaurant, surrounded by huge car parks and the 24,000 inhabitants that make up Burlington. He has three hours to tell you all about it. Don't worry, it won't be too much.

This is the first time he has skipped a day, as announced. He had an appointment with the sister-in-law of an old friend, Sabine. 

From the in-house reading room on the fifty-sixth floor

Not only did she put him up in her spectacular flat on the twenty-eighth floor, right on Lake Michigan. She did his laundry, gave him his monthly injection because she's also a doctor and took him out with her lively boyfriend Alan. It was fun and interesting and late at the end. Thank you Sabine, thank you Alan. He had to get up again at five in the morning to get to the bus station.

Alan and Sabine discuss the question

Alan thinks quickly. In response to the chronicler's question, he rattles off: 100% Jesus. Politicians are incompetent. They have organised the economy in such a way that the ratio of CEO salary to average income has risen from one to eight to one to fifty since the seventies. It has failed to provide more paid leave, paid maternity leave, and health insurance. and today has the record of 120,000 drug deaths from last year on its hands.

Alan is also a doctor, will vote for Mr Biden and is preparing a speech for a Harvard alumni reunion this weekend. Sabine has seven-day shifts and currently has four weeks off. As a German, she is staying out of the topic, but seems a little piqued that Alan also sees certain necessities in politics from the Trump toolbox.

At the start in South Bend yesterday morning, the chronicler had another part of society on the hook.

Rick and Jim do business over breakfast

Rick and Jim like to be disturbed, realise what he wants and come round the corner with 20-20-60 and ⅓ - ⅓ - ⅓. Rick says that if we have 60% Jesus in us, the remaining, necessary 40% will inevitably work well. The chronicler forgot to ask for their personal details. Sorry.

The cranking was fine. The traffic was bearable, at times he could use the brand new carriageway alone for kilometres in the roadworks area.

The chronicler would probably know a few candidates

Flat land and a tailwind. Agriculture dominates here. Covered in dust, farm tractors rush over the huge fields, which would delight the chronicler's grandchildren. House-high red Case machines with four equally large rubber track drives, oversized triangles on the sides for propulsion and low ground pressure. 
The sun is shining, he stupidly leaves Michigan to the right. Why not take a look over a cup of coffee? After a break, the sky turns pitch black as we head north. Even the chronicler's heart sinks. At the last minute, he takes refuge in a rusty industrial building at the side of the road. Lucky for him.

Torrential rain around Chicago

Large equipment for specialised civil engineering is repaired between oil drums and tool benches. Machines for the foundations of high-rise buildings. Always hard and noisy dirty work. He doesn't understand much of what the people explain to him in slang and at high speed. The sky is colossal over the hall. In such a way that the chronicler would have barely survived in the wild, but would have been rendered useless for days. The parts of his equipment forever. There was enough time to interview Casey before the road was passable. He is married, has two girls and appears to be a chief mechanic. 

Casey, 25-25-50

The men bid the chronicler farewell with best wishes and warn him of the town's youthful gangs.

The almost forty kilometres to the city centre lead past tank farms, gutted steelworks corpses and large, steaming industrial plants. Chicago is not so easy to conquer. Firstly, there were more than 140 kilometres between the starting point and the destination and secondly, and this is something the chronicler has never experienced before, the blue dot goes crazy in the high-rise canyons, wandering back and forth uncontrollably. It only finds its way to the hostess via the traditional method of orientating itself by street names. He has not been shot at or robbed.

https://www.relive.cc/view/vYvE2kB5LGO

PS The chronicler doesn't want to leave out Etienne, who is sitting next to him on the bus, travelling to Davenport, Iowa, looking at him from the side with a mixture of disbelief, mockery and joy in his face. Etienne wants to know again and again why the chronicler is doing what he is doing. Is he a journalist? And he doesn't accept the question. You can't compare anyone with Jesus or even use parts of him.

He has four small children and answers evasively to the question of what he does for a living with factoring. He is of the opinion that politicians only serve their own interests. He has no idea and doesn't want to. He accepts what comes. What does it look like in Germany? The chronicler thinks well and adds that many people still complain and lament. Often unjustified, in his opinion. And Etienne is not dissuaded from his opinion that the people are right. If the politicians don't work properly, the people will clearly recognise this. He and the chronicler cannot come to a common denominator. But after this special hour, Etienne is at least convinced that the chronicler already knows what he is doing and can let him go in peace. At the next stop, Etienne can't be dissuaded from buying him coffee and chocolate. Thank you!

The chronicler showed good will, supplemented the bin liner with household foil from the dollar store and so the Scott disappeared into the bus cellar without any discussion.

Super. Do it well.