Great White Ozarks

There is nothing great, nor white, about the Ozark Mountain Range. They refer to Missouri as the Show-Me State - so far, most people have only shown me their worst sides or their middle fingers, for which I hardly think it is worth emblazoning the expression on thousands of Missouri license plates.

I could not have asked for worse motorists - one kind fellow shouted obscenities at me and then attempted to sideswipe me with the boat that he was pulling behind his Silverado. Another gentleman very cautiously and courteously passed in the other lane and, when I waved a "thank-you," his passenger flipped me the bird. I have quit rolling my eyes when I hear people make horrendous jokes about being in a "State of Misery" because they aren't actually making jokes. They are actually being empathetic toward people who are passing through this awful place.

I have never so vividly imagined such terrible things that I wish would happen to such drivers as the semi-trucker who passed within six inches of me at around 45 mph. Motorists speed by as if they are zombies, unwilling to offer up a wave or a nod.

Alas, the mountains haven't been as bad as I imagined - they are, however, like unto riding a roller coaster. You might inch along at 4mph, cranking as hard as you might, only to rocket down the other side well in excess of 40 mph. I have never ridden such truly exhilarating terrain. The troughs of these great hills open up, yawning chasms, the bottom of which you can scarcely see from the top. Sometimes you feel lucky to have escaped the maw of these great beasts, aching to swallow up cyclists. What a ride!

Either way, I am out of the worst of the terrain. I have found myself in the care and company of some of the most hospitable folks around; we are sitting down to a nice supper. More on that to come.