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| Photo Credit: 129Photos.com |
Tuesday, August 13th began before daybreak. Having learnt my lesson
from last year, the RT rode task-specific trailer up from Florida the day
before — although I’m not sure if its ride was a pleasant one. (Hey #Uhaul,
bounce much?)
I grabbed a quick shower and light breakfast as Mr. Copperface crested Big Oak’s eastern tree
line. Time! Prep for the shaken-n-stirred motor (that’s what my retired policeman
father calls it) would soon follow. Fueled and preflighted—tires, brakes,
clutch and lighting checks, plus setting my phones mapping for the
pre-programmed “DRAGON RUN” route — meant she was ready to roll. I climbed on,
bid my farewells to the folks, and quietly chicaned my way out of their
subdivision. The air was damp but cool, even for August. In any case, at least for me, it was electrified.
Bifurcating Murrayville from Bark
Camp to Old Dahlonega at that time of the morning is always a treat. People are
barely awake, allowing their automatic headlights (and consciousness!) to remain off in the morning
mist. School buses and chicken trucks aplenty. Good Morning and Good Riddance.
Within moments my route jumped onto a sleepy Claude Parks Road, which, after a
nice, curvy/hilly warmup would take me to GA52 and an area known as Garland.
No highways for me just yet. Within a mile, I
crossed a newly-minted roundabout—which reportedly confounds commuters for
several months in these parts — and dashed northward via Copper Mines Road. I’ve taken this route through Georgia’s relatively new wine country several
times over the past couple years and innumerable times in my youth. It’s rapidly becoming a favorite. Love
the vineyard vibe, and even though I don’t consider myself a wine snob, I’ve quaffed multiple tomes
on the subject. Fiddled with some home-fermentation many moons ago, too. Chateauneuf
de pape, anyone? Anyway, It’s awesome to see this industry take off near my old
stomping grounds, and I’m onboard with nearly everything it represents.
Excellent use of the land, great times for visitors and tourism, joyous memories for
event goers, and spectacular venues for music and photography or other arts! Yeah, I dig it.
Copper Mines soon terminated at Cavender Creek—which Google’s voice assistant
pronounced as Kah-VAN-der for some reason. I promptly switched the American Google girl
out for a nice Aussie lass without street name pronunciations. Much better in
the helmet. KahVANder Creek brought me to Town Creek Church Road, then Frogtown
Road, and finally Damascus Church Road—all quiet and bucolic byways traversing
farmlands and wineries. The roads before THE roads are just as nice, you see. To the
folks that experience this on a daily basis? Lucky. This is pretty much the same route taken last
year towards Cherohala. I was anticipating
US129 through Neel’s Gap again, and it did not disappoint.
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| Photo Credit: Google (Apparently in winter. You can't see around it fully in the summer!) |
Since taking this route twice to and fro
Cherohala, I came to appreciate its twisties. The three-lane width made for
greater sight-distance and speed. Best of all, one’s ability to pass slower
vehicles without much ado. The crisscrossing of undulations lane-to-lane (in
same direction) when no traffic is around can’t possibly be overrated. So much
gravity at work and play. What a bonus… and I get to do this TWICE today?
At Neel’s Gap — near Blood Mountain and intersecting
the Appalachian Trail — US129 heels to the northern shade with a cooler, crisper
feel. The bends soon settled down into dale farmland leading into
Blairsville, Georgia. Sublime highway cruising until civilization reared its
ugly head by way of road resurfacing, and this meant lane closures and waiting
in a long traffic queue until a pilot truck lead us through the work zone. The
cool and crisp suddenly gave way to helter swelter. Thank God I arrived only
a couple minutes before the flagman flipped his sign from “STOP” to “SLOW”. But
that thanks became curses (Murphy’s Law, of course!) when the pilot truck
decided something less than parade speed was appropriate. Bloody gravity… This meant
my feet dangled for constant corrections to save the clutch. I know little of
other bikes; this beemer is my first. First gear is tall — meant to rocket
take-offs from 0-40 — and it does not idle well at such a slow speed. I’d lean
into the rear brake too if it weren’t for the prehistoric ABS (anti-lock
braking system) that’s “grabby” at best to describe. These are all little
nitpicks with my beloved. I have a few. She’s not perfect, but which bike is?
North, Miss Teschmacher, NORTH!
Cruising up US19/129 several miles past Nottely Dam
and my paternal grandmother’s birthplace of Ivy Log, I unceremoniously crossed
the state line into North Carolina. Gentle highway curves and hills for a few
miles eventually brought me to the intersection with US74, several clicks
southwest of Murphy. It’s a ramshackle flea market zone, as though unconsidered additions haved been steadily amassing since the middle of the last century. Smoke lingered
from craftsmen kilns and oil fryers, and I caught glimpses of gravel alleyways dotted with cigarette butts and bits of foam cups. The market had its newer,
cleaner parts too, in fairness. Clearly the area catered to tourism. Mountain schtuff!
As enticing as it all might be, it was early and I had another mission. The first bit of it involved stopping by the Old First Baptist
Cemetery in Murphy.
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| Photo Credit: TNT - Old First Baptist Cemetery, Murphy, NC |
I’ve been on a genealogy quest for several years now. Our particular Taylor line has a nice little mystery involving
President Zachary Taylor’s grandfather (Zachary, Sr 1707-1768) and his enigmatic second
wife, Esther Blackburn Jones, from whom our path ends without some additional proof. Rumors of
document obfuscation, or blatant destruction have circulated online — conspiracy
theories involving the cleansing of familial taint so a certain presidential
candidate possessed the preferred vetting characteristics. Appearances and heredity were just as important
then as they are now. A second wife with as many as 10 additional children, and
perhaps a couple more adopted? All claiming heritage to the country’s brand new
seat of power? Indeed, the Taylor estate in Orange, Virginia was (and still
is) vast, and ole Zach probably didn’t want a dozen kids fighting over it. His
property and other court records aren’t easy to research, either. The fine folks in Orange have
apparently circled their wagons around the county court house, too. Maybe redacted;
maybe MIA, who knows but maybe several unknown descendants who possibly barked up
the same tree as myself. Have to place a “To Be Continued…” here, but the cemetery
did reveal some bone-fruit in that I confirmed the location of a GGGG uncle who
married into the Cherokee tribe. This factoid ultimately killed the remaining rumors of native blood in our own Taylor line. Oh well. Kind wondered why I didn’t innately run out to the woods naked and
track bear sign. Now I know! (Still wonder about my father ;) Wait a minute... come to think, I do enjoy a good casino. Hmm...
The next batch of miles heading northwest up
US19/74/129 is an open four-lane highway flooding traffic its way through the Cherokee
River Valley, which is a sedate and rolling mixture of corn or tobacco fields
with light industrial warehouses, backdropped by those lovely Blue Ridge
mountains of the Nantahala National Forest.
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| Photo Credit: Google |
Hate to insert another Google Earth shot, but I
haven’t yet graduated to a 360° helmet cam. (Keen on the Rylo...Christmas hint!)
This is pretty much what my view looked like. Maybe less road snakes, more clouds, and a tad
more greenery. Frequent rain had been reported just before my run.
It was still morning,
barely, and the breeze still fresh. Up ahead in Topton, the clouds appeared
heavy and clinging around 2,700ft elev. That’s
not in the Mostly Sunny forecast, I thought. Riding in the rain no longer bothers me, though. In fact, I would
have welcomed a brief shower. The RT handles weather with amazing
ease — something I learned after being trapped by a massive thunderhead
a month or so earlier. 18-mile solid downpour, and lightning exploding less
than a mile away just on either side other road. It was right out of Lt. Dan’s hurricane
scene. Idiot me climbed the mast and cursed God that day. Take me if it's my time, but I'm riding through here! Yet, with the road completely
flooded and winds pouring sheets of water from the side, the bike never once
quivered, not even a little. Damn, this is a FINE machine! (and kudos to
Michelin for those Pilot Road GT 4s). So, yeah, some minor droplets in the
hills would be no problem.
It never happened.
The next valley gave way to additional heat and stagnation. Robbinsville appeared
on the GPS and it was close enough to lunchtime to justify a light meal. Hmmm…
burger joints or the local question mark? Just before The Dragon? Probably shouldn't
experiment, right? Well then… Wendy’s or McCardboard’s? You can guess where I
ended up. 10:30. Perfect timing. Had the dining room to myself, save for Curious John working the front counter. My guess is he’s seen a few
motorcyclists in his town, but since I was the only person in his dining
room, he felt the need to strike up a conversation. Turns out he was central
Florida escapee as well. Found his next life in the hills and won’t be going
back, not even for the winter sun. Has it
really gotten that bad? I wonder…
The small burger was just okay (whaddaya expect?) but it was enough to negate sloshing around by what was to come. Across the street was a
preferred fuel vendor. Perfect. I topped off the tank and leaned on the
throttle northward on US129. Next stop, that piece of Tail I’ve been dreaming
about.
Now, I had to come back and add this bit at the last minute because I clean forgot about this trio of Harleys I had to follow all the way up to Deal's Gap from Robbinsville. Too many curves and traffic; no realistic passing opportunities. To make it worse, they apparently weren't accustomed to sharp switchbacks either. The group would compress around tight turns and on one sharp switchback, nearly came to a full stop right in front of me. Awkward. I finally had enough and pulled off Tapoco Road just beyond Cheoah Dam. I let the clock tick for a few minutes and resumed as a solo climber. Much better.
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| Photo Credit: Left Hand Productions |
I made it!
Okay, decision time. Stop at the tourist meccas, or ride the beast first.
Decisions, decisions…
Since the parking lots were already burgeoning with riders — mostly Harley folk
from up north — I thought it best to peruse the souvenir shelves before I killed
myself. I hadn’t really studied the Dragon; didn’t know any of the curves,
either. I only recalled all those anxious anecdotes, the dread of psychotic,
knee-dragging wack-jobs, hawg straddlers in over their depth, cars crossing lanes,
and law law lawmen! Why would I even consider this place with oh so many
alternative routes. I was warned (Thanks John Rider, you were still right about this place!)
Let’s face it, pretty much ANY stretch of pavement in
Appalachia is going to be a fine ride. But no, we all have to do Deal’s Gap at
least once. God, WHY is this road so popular?
I found out in short order, but back to the trap.
The T-shirts, I thought, would be faded and gone within a couple years, so I
settled on a small patch for my jacket. It's the first participation trophy that
will eventually adorn a sleeve. I tucked it in a pocket and fired up the RT in
front of the babbling chromers, who were quite pleased since they didn’t have
raise their voices over my exhaust. Nothing like a Southie accent echoing
through southern slopes.
First riding impressions?
“Hey, this is narrow!”
“Wow, the asphalt is not so good. Cracks and settlement depressions.”
Indeed, several spots were marked with spray paint as
hazards. Most of those were towards the beginning — or the southern end, I should
say. I soon realized that I hit the road at the perfect moment. Zero traffic…
all clear ahead, and no rocketeers on my tail. The curves were relentless,
demanding precision throttle and braking technique. So many apexes, I started to actually visualize tangent lines for all of them. Many I made, some I missed. None were
totally blown. This was a math exam, after all.
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| Photo Credit: Killboy.com |
Speed Limit 30
Are they kidding? I thought NOBODY was going 30mph
out here, not even the Month-2 HD newbs. It was merely a theory. The truth is
that all those twisty constrictions only felt fast; in actuality, my speedo hovered
right around the 30 mark for most of the run. Now, I won’t incriminate myself
by implying any lawlessness. Truth is, if you’re running The Dragon safely, you
aren’t ogling the dash for even a split second. You’ll know if you’re riding at
an outrageous pace by catching up to a ricer, flying off a curve, or autographing
a piece of Blount County stationary.
As the uninterrupted Archimedean Screw-ish procession begat some semblance of a
rhythm, my face shield filled with the first tent of the Grand Archivists. That
would be one of those famous (infamous?) curve-side Dragon’s Tail photography tents,
and I saw the first of several lens barrels raised in my direction. Great — I’ll have some cool pics for my blog! And
then I started becoming far too conscious of the next photogs. Suck it in. Don’t miss that apex! You weren’t
perfect, damn it! I was being distracted in vanity for those perfect shots,
all well-heeled towards the pavement and sped up for increased bokeh. After a few of those YouTube Dragon crash
videos replayed in my skull, reality provided the necessary slap to consciousness.
Forget them and ride!
As Forest Gump puts it, “And just like that…” I
had reached my targeted turnaround spot — the Deal’s Gap Overlook. Sure, I didn’t
ride every last one of the 318 curves—Klaatu, Barada, Ni…— but I rode the best ones. The overlook is the most obvious spot to
relax for a moment, take another piece of vanity, and ride the Tail back towards
whence I came. Great more photo ops!
Don’t even think about it.
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| Photo Credit: TNT - Deal's Gap Overlook |
Some HD riders took off ahead of me, so I waited several minutes. Nobody
materialized on my side of the road… again. This must be rare. Yet another
shot at this place, uninterrupted. No LEOs, no cars, no fluggety full-dressers,
just me, the road and the pho… no, not them either. Just me and the road.
Now, I get it.
Some say it's not really a workout if you enjoy it. Gain, no pain. I never felt the bike’s 650 pounds; not
even later. Two sets of 300 reps, plus all the reps to and fro. Nothing. It’s a
test. It’s a supreme workout. It’s all it’s supposed to be under those
circumstances: One hell of a curvy-ass mofo. I carved in my sleep for several
days before writing this. I guess it has fully infected me now. I wasn’t in the
slightest bit sure how this mid-life pursuit would go; thought it might fizzle
after a couple good rides in the hills. Not even close.
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| Photo Credit: Killboy.com |
It was time to head home. My tank had enough to
make the beeline so I wasn’t worried about stopping again. 140 miles of
southern Blue Ridge riding as the icing. I’d get to pound Neel’s Gap and enjoy
yet more cool crisp mountain air. A serene vision.
Umm… no.
What I experienced instead was some sort of dog days convection effect.
The valleys were absolutely scorching and stagnant. No amount of airflow into
my modular Shoei Neotec could overcome the heat, and I found myself cracking it open
with no traffic in proximity. The heat mandated that I’d open it completely at stops. This is worse than Florida! The
Olympia air suit was also struggling with the flashes of heat and cool on the
open road, too. Heading south just after noon, it would only get worse. That’s when
I hit Blairsville and that same road resurfacing queue. Who is that moronic navigator of mine, anyway?!
I was so entirely focused on Neel’s Gap that I completely forgot about the
construction. Stifling heat, wearing my clutch, asphalt and tar trucks. 20
minutes of hell before clearing the zone. I kept recalling my preplanning session
where I contemplated a return through Hiawassee or Young Harris, then down to
Suches via another renowned moto byway, GA180. No, I said. Neel’s is Da
Bomb, and besides, you’ll be a wreck by that time anyway. Hindsight…
Indeed the return was torturous, and I had apparently overstayed my welcome at
the gym. Traffic was heavier on this leg, and I was stuck at a 4th
gear pace. Less speed = more heat. My lower back started complaining about
those sudden dips, too. Hmm…age. Had I goofed to eschew the long way? Maybe. All I
knew was that I was burning up, exhausted (but chipper!), and ready for an ice
cold adult beverage.
Neel’s Gap. Finally! I blew past a
trundling gravel hauler at the first passing opportunity, and from there it was
literally all downhill. Downhill skiing at its finest, as I described last
year—shooting over the moguls, and lasering apexes without interruption until
Turner’s Corner and the southward leg descending (not ass-ending!) into Dahlonega
AVA wine country. As the countryside insists, I dropped a gear and made an easy
cruise of it, assessing the current grape crops as I passed. Fruit glistening of
moisture in the summer sun, just a couple months away from harvest. I already
wanted to return before I ever left. I knew I would — just didn’t know when.
The last 15 miles or so was honestly a blur. Familiar roads and biding time. Automatic pilot. Not exactly taken for granted, but I was focused on the end itself. The Tail is done.
Where to next? No idea.
Definitely will be a next, I know that!
GA 180? Blue Ridge Parkway? Ashville's Diamondback
Devil’s Whip sounds dangerously delicious. I've been staring at the map lately. So many options. So many places out west I'd love to tour by bike as well. Time and funds though. For now, I'm content with Dixie.
Any Suggestions?
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| Photo Credit: 129Photos.com |
