The south is a scary place. Make a Wrong Turn and you wind up in some nasty territory full of mean-muggin and angry zealots. When you've seen more than 3 churches since the last gas station, it's time to bring that moving average up a couple miles per hour.
The scariest thing about the south is how uncomfortable your existence makes the hilldwellers. From afar (or from their comically old, ridiculously huge pickups) they project either a glare or a honk and "YEE-HAW!" in some attempt to intimidate; catch them alone and it becomes obvious they're terrified of the outsider. Stumbling over his words, the hick will tell you to be careful, for nobody cares about cyclists in this part of the country (except for him). Every one of them says this. That their rudeness is caused by terror isn't much of a comfort.
I survived without injury the solo leg of my journey and met up with partner 1, Christopher. We're going to ride about 10 days, starting tomorrow, to meet Zach and maybe a unicyclist in Ellington, MO. Also, Christopher's aunt cooks the best food I have ever tasted.