Route change

   A modest ride of thirty-eight mile brought me into the tourist Mecca of West Yellowstone.  The place is mobbed with obese people everywhere driving motor homes and waddling down the sidewalks stopping at one tacky tourist trap after another. They came to Yellowstone to do this slothing around town.  No hiking and trying to experience the beauty of this park.    Too much high fructose corn syrup, expensive vegetables, excessive portions, sedentary life styles focused around the television and the computer, no exercise other than opening the refrigerator;  god forbid getting on a bicycle for a few mile ride.  America needs a big kick in the behind.  As my mother always said about these obese individuals, "Don't they know that we have to look at them!"

    Putting my mental blinders on to screen this blight, I searched for a place to land for the night.   Having no luck finding an affordable place to stay, I geared up to ride down the road fourteen miles to a free campsite friendly to cyclists. I had to stock up on provisions, so I found the local market.  as I was walking out of the grocery store with my stash of food, another biker on a recumbent, Glen McLeod, saw me, struck up a conversation, "Where you headed?" etc..  Having scoped out the place, he had a campsite staked out on plot of grass and trees big enough for several tents amongst a city of RVs.  I signed in and set up my digs.  What a relief not to have to ride miles out of town.  Glen and I cruised downtown for diner and few cold ones.  We carried on like we had know each other forever, shooting the breeze on everything and exchanged informations on places we had ridden through.  He confirmed the stories about Eastern Kentucky, the worst meth drug epidemic in the country, wild dogs, muggings, bad heat and humidity, overall a very shakey situation for cyclists. He narrowly missed getting mugged by toothless hillbillies coming at him with clubs. A car coming up the hill saw him and ran interference for Glen so he could escape down a hill.  I had been hearing stories about this area from numerous cyclists.  The story was the same; it was time to alter course to friendlier territory.  Glen had the route worked out in detail which took me north from southeast Kansas.  It will end me up on the Eastern Shore near D.C..  Adventure Cycling, who sponsors the route, has yet to reroute cyclists around this problem.
      One valuable tip Glen gave me was the horizontal handicap orange flag.  Every biker is plagued by the cars and trucks who often cut us too close out of vindictiveness or stupidity.  Zip tying the pole and flag to my rear pannier rack extending it out to my left side about twenty inches is a brilliant innovation.  The waving orange fluorescent flag gains another few feet of clearance for the cyclist and sends a clear warning to motorists that we need space.  Of all the tips I learned along the way, this one was truly a life safer.    

     Tomorrow is a rest day.  I will probably relocate in the afternoon to the Madison Junction camp ground to cut off fourteen miles on the following day's arduous ride over mountainous terrain.  It was sad to see Glenn head off west, he was such a good guy to hang out with for a day.