VICARIOUS | New Roads: Chasing The Dragon

VICARIOUS | New Roads: Chasing The Dragon

Finding Nirvana In The Great Smokey Mountains

Story and Photography | Matthew Neundorf

We barely had time to doff our helmets when my cousin Jeff and I were greeted by a bearded and boisterous fellow rider. Of the group of seventy-five or so that were parked at the Cherohala Market to grab refreshments and fuel, apparently we stood out. He had spotted that both of our Triumph Tigers had Ontario plates and, having known a few Canucks over the years, figured we were a good natured duo, always happy to chat. He wasn’t wrong. After nearly four hours in the saddle from Nashville to Tellico Plains -- the southern entry to the Cherohala Skyway -- we were in need of some R & R ourselves .

Our new friend wasn’t exactly a local but he was familiar with the area and quick to point out we had some epic riding ahead of us. He said he liked our choice of machinery but touted the benefits of his shaft-driven Honda NT700V (less maintenance), Chattanooga barbecue and Tennessee whiskey. He explained that his Honda was chosen over a used Tiger and was new to him -- the best bike he’s ever owned, sporty but low enough to accommodate his inseam -- and it was clear from his stature and demeanour he was an expert resource for both the meat and the hooch. And why shouldn’t he be. Both are damned fine and damned fine reasons to visit this area. But we didn’t ride to the Great Smoky Mountains to eat and drink… at least not exclusively. We rode here to ride.

For longer than I’ve been on two wheels, a single fused ravelment of asphalt on the border between Tennessee and North Carolina, better known as the Tail of the Dragon, has held mythical status in my imagination. As I’m sure you already know, this is a stretch of tarmac where some threehundred and eighteen turns compress themselves into a mere eleven miles. Having grown up in the right-angled, straight-as-an-arrow, grid patterned streets of Toronto little about those numbers seem possible. Since I first learned of its existence, after swiping a sticker at local motorcycle show, I knew I needed to ride it. But first Jeff and I had to knock off the extraordinary Cherohala.

Our journey to get here took us through six states so far and covered some 1,100 miles (1,770km). And, while I’m eager to notch a seventh state (North Carolina) and finally tip my bars into the first curves of the Dragon, this fortythree mile stretch of undulating, scenic byway is simply incredible. Under construction for nearly forty-years and costing upwards of a PowerBall win ($100M), the Cherohala Skyway rises, falls and winds around the Nantahala National Forest reaching its peak at Huckleberry Knob, some 5,560-ft above sea level before dropping back down into Robbinsville, North Carolina and its junction with U.S. Route 129.

If the Dragon didn’t exist, the Cherohala Skyway would warrant a trip here alone. Packed with wide sweeping turns, gorgeous vistas and enough tight twists to keep concentration focused, I could easily be persuaded into turning around and running it in reverse before doing it

all over again. Sadly we just don’t have the time left in this day, so Jeff and I stop at the Skyway Convenience to hydrate, caffeinate and prepare to battle the Dragon.

A stop at Deal’s Gap Motorcycle Resort -- the official starting line for the Dragon -- is a must. Aside from rubbing clip-ons and bars with some like-minded petrolheads, a visit to the Tree of Shame is obligatory before setting off. Littered with the busted and broken remnants of heroes who have come up short on their quest to slay the next 11-mile stretch, the makeshift shrine serves as a not-so-gentle reminder of what happens to the cocky around here. Jeff and I chat briefly about making sure we ride within our limits, so as not to add any additional decorations to The Tree.

Thanks to the elevation changes my ears have flooded, blocking out all sound other than the 800cc triple whirring beneath me, the beat of my heart and the voices in my head. Voices, plural, because I’m having an internal debate as to how hard I should be pushing right now (never forget The Tree!). But despite everything I’d been told or read before arrival, warning that the Dragon is a heavily policed parade route of riders and drivers who don’t know the first thing about an apex or how to string together more than two kinks in a road, the road ahead of me is completely empty. In the middle of the afternoon. On a Sunday. What bliss.

My Tiger’s freshly spooned set of Pirelli Scorpion Trail II’s feel like race slicks beneath me and after three solid days of riding, I am absolutely at one with my bike. With each twist I dip a little lower, brake a little later and roll on the throttle a little bit sooner. In the course of around a dozen kinks Jeff has completely disappeared from my mirrors. A quick tap on my Sena reveals he’s fine, just enjoying the road at a more comfortable and civilized rate. I think about that damned Tree again and vow to do the same. When he creeps into view I match his pace and almost instantly fall into a hypnotic rhythm with my bike and the road.

The lanes are tight so you need to be on your game, but each curve is banked appropriately and I didn’t spot a spec of dust, gravel or debris littering any of relatively smooth asphalt. Riders and drivers headed in south are courteous and mindful, making sure to stay on their side of centre and the only Police presence was stationed near the end of the eleven mile strip of heaven. With those worries out of the way, there’s nothing left to do but enjoy the ride.

Dan Simmons once wrote:

“The only way we can immortalize anything is by appreciating it when it happens”.

It was a commentary (of Hemingway’s in a novel titled The Crook Factory -- which is a great read, btw) about how a photograph of an event, or even a story about it, simply doesn’t do it justice in comparison to the experience. Those words of sage advice are running through my mind while turns 175 through 280 disappear behind me. The journalist in me knows that I should be stopping to capture some moments along this route -- moments of bikes at full lean, cars approaching nine-tenths -- and that I need to deliver as many descriptors in this tale of the Tail as I can. But this moment, on this road, is simply bigger than any photo I can take or story I can tell. This is truly a road you must experience on your own. If you need directions, hit me up.