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For six years, a 300-pound biker in Tennessee pushed his Harley past one house every morning. Engine off. In leather. Sweating. About eighty yards. Nobody on the street knew why. The house belonged to my coworker Kuroiwa's aunt. She came to Tennessee in 1983 with her husband, for his job. He died in 2015. She stayed. Eighty-four years old, alone, with a tiny, nervous Shiba named Kinako. Kinako was afraid of everything. Thunder. Trash trucks. Mostly, the enormous motorcycle that went past at 6:50 every morning. Every morning at 6:50, she shook behind the window. The biker's name is Tank. That is apparently his real name, or close enough. He has a beard you could lose a sandwich in and a voice like a cement mixer. One morning, he looked over and saw a small orange dog trembling behind the glass. And a small old woman holding her. The next morning, he cut the engine where her street begins. An 800-pound motorcycle does not coast well. So he got off and pushed it. Past her house. Then three more houses, until he was sure. Then he started it up and went to work. Every morning. For six years. In July. In the rain. He never knocked. He never met her. He didn't know her name. She knew his. Well, she knew what he looked like. Every morning at 6:50, she was at the window with Kinako, watching a giant push a motorcycle down her street in total silence. This April, she passed away at home. Kuroiwa flew to Tennessee to settle her things. On the kitchen table, under the salt shaker, there was an envelope. Her handwriting. In Japanese. "Kinako goes to the man who pushes his motorcycle past our house. He is very big. Please find him. He already loves her. He just doesn't know it yet." Kuroiwa walked the street with the envelope, knocking on doors, asking for the big man with the motorcycle. Everybody knew exactly who he meant. Tank opened the door. Kuroiwa translated the note. Tank stood in the doorway for a long minute. "Ma'am never even met me," he finally said. Then he lowered himself onto his porch steps and cried into his beard, with an orange dog standing on his boots. Kinako lives with Tank now. She only understands Japanese. Tank learned one word. He says it very loudly. It is the wrong word. She sits anyway. The next day, Tank bought a sidecar. Kinako rides in it. She wears goggles. When the engine starts, she doesn't shake anymore. And still, at 6:50 each morning, where that street begins, Tank turns the engine off and pushes. Nobody lives in that house now. He knows. He says he doesn't care. He says it's a nice quiet street. The guys in his club voted Kinako an honorary member. She attends every meeting. She has never once paid dues.

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📍60 years on, Kinkon Hydropower Station testifies to enduring China-Guinea friendship #China# #Kinkon# #Hydropower# @AmbXieFeng @SpoxCHN_LinJian @xuejianosaka @zhang_heqing @salahzhang @consulat_de @ChenPingMFA @CGMeifangZhang