TBJ_16 Between LA and San Francisco

A journey is not a series of highlights. And after Las Vegas, you need to cool down first. From Mrs Paris's beautiful pool and the rooftop bar, the chronicler had to walk for kilometres through all the glitz and glamour towards the airport and the bus terminal. Giant casinos, huge hotels, fountains and rushing waterfalls, huge electronic billboards that really scare you with their flashes of white. Now he has seen it in the flesh, even from the saddle of a racing bike. Hook on.

City police; one picture, that's all there was to it. The bus is about to leave

Somehow incomprehensible, this art world in the middle of the desert. It's also incomprehensible how you can choose this as your retirement home, like the elderly couple who initially sat next to him in Able&Baker. For example, you can't even go outside the city and take a walk in the woods. There isn't one!

The chronicler sits in the Greyhound between Los Angeles and San Francisco. The current driver is a hit. Already grey-haired, a serious figure with Asian roots, he raps the announcements about the rules, the stops and other events into the microphone. The chronicler can't help it and has to clap.

Outside it is cloudy and boringly flat. Orchards to the left, orchards to the right, the central reservation of the interstate a sea of pink, red and white oleander bushes. Between cities like this, the need for transport is high and the bus is correspondingly full. In LA, the chronicler barely escaped travelling death by breaking the rules. It was his tenth Greyhound tour, but the staff were keen to get on his back again. "The bike has to be in a box!" Even though he had come here as a transfer rider with the film economy packaging. The box variant would be rubbish anyway. There is far too little storage space in these Prevost buses for today's suitcase sizes. A racing bike in a box would take up half a compartment. "I know you now," said the man in charge. "Next time you're not coming with me!"

This is where the chronicler gets a bit cheeky. Whoever is blocking other bus manufacturers in the USA from getting a foot in the door here is stupid. Every European overland vehicle has storage heights that the wheel could stand in and this split windscreen has not been available in Europe since the 1980s.

What the chronicler failed to mention the whole journey: From New York to here, there is also a lot of South America in the country. All signs, from the toilet to the supermarket or the bus, are bilingual, in English and Spanish. And the people are omnipresent. As a poor part of the population, they sit on the bus with the chronicler in large numbers, often without any knowledge of English. They are simply there and make up a large part of the population, especially here in the south. Sitting next to him is Gabino, who is less than forty years old and comes from Mexico. He speaks perfect American and is just starting a removal company with a relative using a lorry. He is missing two teeth at the front for a symmetrical smile. Given his income, it will probably stay that way. He is on his way to a niece's graduation party. Gabino is not interested in politics, but he doesn't complain either. His answer is: 0-0-100. He doesn't want a photo of himself.

Even if it's boring at the moment, on Palo Alto and Google Plex, the chronicler is happy and is thinking about getting on his bike today to have one more day in the Valley of Fast Thinkers. First a coffee and something sweet in Tracy and see what happens.

It's evening now. He stayed in Tracy! The idea was good, but the wind was the kind from the bellows that would have been enough for mouth-to-mouth breathing. So he decided to stay, looking for coffee and cake and a hairdresser. The city makes a homely impression, clean, beautiful green spaces, a kind of old cinema as an art centre. In general, this idea of arriving in large cities and starting out within a day's journey of them presents him with a string of pearls of generally unknown but often very charming small towns. 

The hairdresser's shop right at the beginning was actually closed, but the boss was in the shop with her daughters, asked him all the questions and sent him round the corner to a barber. Her name was Samantha, she revealed 0-0-100 without hesitation and didn't want a photo, although it would certainly have enriched the photo collection. She sent her two young daughters to a public school. When the chronicler expresses his dislike of this class segregation, she provides the reason. Religion is not taught at the municipal schools, but this is a matter of concern to her. A modern young woman!

He has to wait for the barber. Not for excellent little cakes from a small Asian baker, with a disarming smile and a very precisely braided thick, black and grey mottled plait. Together with an Americano, "only half water please", a delight!

Carlos lays his hands on the chronicler's head with care and skill. After all, he doesn't want to turn up as a scarecrow on Mr Google tomorrow. Of course, Barber also has to be asked and delivers what would otherwise be 0-0-100. He was born in the States, is of Mexican origin and is twenty-three years old. He likes Mesut Özil and Toni Kroos and is interested in cultural similarities. Sure, I'd love a photo and should send it to him, please.

Carlos knows what he's doing

Between Los Angeles - where he just changed trains - and San Francisco - where he doesn't want to go - lies the headquarters of Google. For the chronicler, it epitomises the recent enormous upheaval of the everyday world and the tool that makes this kind of fragmentary exploration of the world possible at all. That's why he's going to wash up again tonight to be ready for the visit. Whatever they are prepared to show him there or whether they let him in at all.

Then it will soon be good! 

Your reporter, live from Tracy.

Toilet at Mrs Paris H. and at the Quality Inn

PS: This kind of travelling has plenty of them: big differences

PSS: There's football on the telly at the moment. Germany Ukraine, broadcast by the pro-Trump channel Fox, English commentary, funny pronunciation of the names. 

TBJ_15 130 km asphalt - Las Vegas

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

TBJ_14 38°, not latitude, Celsius!

Hello everyone. The chronicler is hoping that the weather where you're currently being held is simply pleasant. It's a different story for him. He has landed in the forecourt of hell in more ways than one: In Mesquite, one hundred and thirty kilometres from Las Vegas. He arrived here around half past three, with an hour to spare, the last on this journey, and stepped out of the bus into a hellishly hot air. The black tarmac of the car park topped off the official air temperature. He had set his crossing of the continent at 38°, but latitude and not Celsius!

How do fat people cope with this?

Now panic is creeping in about tomorrow, he not only has the wind as an opponent but also the thermometer.

The further south, the smaller the bus

He started by getting his bike ready in the car park, the man watching him was from Dortmund and was travelling in a hire car. He had stopped here on his round trip to watch the team from his home town lose against Real Madrid. It's strange how economical compatriots abroad sometimes are in their speech. When asked, he sent the chronicler round the corner to a huge hotel with an adjoining casino, where he discovered another limbo at reception. A huge room full of colourful slot machines. 

Who comes up with something like that? How can you spend hours, days in it?

He hadn't expected this until Las Vegas. Women and men stared at the flashing discs like children at a smartphone. The chronicler wouldn't want to swap places with them for ten minutes. Or should he give it a try? The hotel is cheap because the rooms are probably co-financed by the slot machines. He can even relax his body in a large pool. Mesquite is already in Nevada and is a border town to Utah. Gambling is prohibited there, and the largest bank is called Zion Bank!

Politically, the chronicler has nothing to offer today. He suspects it's getting boring anyway. It would perhaps be more interesting if he could find out more about the history of his counterparts. People are always interesting.

He would like to tell two more things about today. Almost directly from his hotel, a tram took him the 22 kilometres to Salt Lake City International Airport, from where the bus departed, for really little money. 

City tour for little money, but the majority still drive a car

And he was able to enjoy this spacious, green, modern city at his leisure and marvel at the brand new, stylish airport. Then he sat in two different buses for over six hours and was once again reminded how huge the country is and how deserted it is. 

Left out of the window, right out of the window

Especially here, where nature is so hostile to humans. Lean dry grass, sage bushes, man-high shrubs that the chronicler cannot identify from the bus. And yet every now and then, in between, there are large industrial or commercial facilities.

At the end of the day, the chronicler in Peggy Sue's 50 Style has eaten scary food, bought nuts and water at the supermarket and some chocolate, which is good for writing. The alarm clock is set for four in the morning and the sun rises shortly after five. By then he has to be rolling along the motorway. He really wants to get to the Atomic Style hairdresser in Las Vegas before closing time. 

Take care. 

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.