Riding the Tail of the Dragon

There I was riding the Tail of the Dragon and I had no idea I was doing so.

The section of forest road high up the Appalachians where I entered the 2 400-kilometre-long mountain range in North Carolina did strike me as extraordinary curvy.

It struck me, too, that the traffic was going ridiculously fast for the conditions. The tight bends were mostly blind and I feared as much for a head-on collision as for getting crashed into by the string of vehicles piling up behind me. At the few places I could, I pulled off to let them through.

The traffic consisted mainly of motorcycles and sports cars, ranging from small jobs to more muscular Porches and the like. At particularly tricky bends, photographers stationed along the roadside were taking pictures of the passing vehicles.

I thought I might have got caught up in some kind of rally until I pulled off at what the Americans call an overlook where a number of sports cars and motorcycles were parked along the road and people were enjoying the spectacular view of a massive dam glistening in the valley far below.

Enthusiasts line up to ride the Tail of the Dragon.

The spectacular view from the top end of the Tail

A greying biker detached himself from a Harley Davidson troop that had just rumbled up and ambled over to ask how I had enjoyed riding the tail. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. Realising I was serious, he called over his friends and they all shook their heads in disbelief.

Bikers come from all over for the ride.

Bikers in particular, but sports-car enthusiasts, too, I learned, came from all over America and many parts of the world to ride the Tail of the Dragon, as the road is called that curves high along the mountain between North Carolina and Tennessee. I learned, too, that the 17.6-kilometre section of road has a total of 318 curves.

The sign announcing the start of the Tail.

I had traveled the route merely as a shortcut skirting the Great Smoky Mountains National Park to the Tennessee town of Gatlinburg from which we were intending to enter and explore the park over the next few days. But my biker informant told me the road ahead was closed due to a rockfall. He seemed almost pleased to be telling me the news. It meant I’d have a second chance at ridin’ de tail and this time to know what it was about. I would be undoing my sacrilege.

A resort where the Tail riders tell their tales.

I noticed the sports car drivers and cyclists kept standing around, obviously giving me a good head start as I pulled off in my little Ford Focus. I assumed they didn’t fancy having their ride spoiled by getting held up behind me. But they need not have worried. I felt my spine push against the backrest as I took the well-banked curves, and I thought I saw the photographers snapping away as I roared past.

Riding out ...

We eventually got to Gatlinburg via the public road that passes through the beautiful park. We met many more motorcycles along the way, some two-wheelers, others three-wheelers, and a good many in the most gaudy shades of gold, red, green and blue. Travelling mostly in groups, they stuck to the speed limit and showed remarkable care and consideration.

I noticed just about every inn along the way had large notices saying bikers welcome.