Issue:
Spring 2001

Text:
Beatrix Keckeis

Photography:
Christian Neuhauser

Geographic Region:
NC, USA

Pages:
34 - 38

Tankbag Maps:
Download Map 1

Visit the gallery for more pictures

Sometimes things turn out differently than you expect. For example: You sing the September song while preparing for the end of the season, packing away the leathers and helmet and explaining to your throttle hand that it will have a break for five to six months. And then suddenly excitement breaks out, because things have changed. You’ve got an invitation to go motorcycling. You pack the suitcase with your gear and take off for the airport saying adieu to the gray, cloudy European fall rain.

Ten hours later: Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 85° Fahrenheit at 6 p.m. A day later, a bright yellow Triumph Sprint ST is standing in front of the door. For real, and with a US license plate (from the Triumph importer in Atlanta, Georgia) and a speedometer in miles!

And so, we take off west towards the Appalachian Mountains. The beginning of the tour took us on an endlessly long highway, at a maximum speed of 75 mph, and with the eyes of the law just everywhere, either with blinking lights or secret radar. You know how it is.

The nine-person group of Austrian, German, Swiss, Belgian and Dutch are tossed together for the next 10 days. They are preparing themselves mentally for a long cruise. Matthias and Coen (with Corry) make themselves comfortable on their K1200 LT’s (cruise-control is a fine thing). Peter and Chris goof around on their R1100 RTs like they’re on a school bench. Toni and Harald settle themselves comfortably on their R1150 GS. Christian plays around on his good old Tiger, and I practice riding economically on the Sprint RS – sixth gear in and then straight ahead. It’s a fun game trying to keep the speed at a constant (still tolerated) 85 mph without a cruise-control device, and that for an hour.

The warm-up phase then gets serious—tight curves, wide turns, slow and then fast curves—and who has time to look at the speedometer, at the picturesque cliffs, or deep into the forests? Full from the first barbecue sandwiches, coke and weak coffee when the fun really starts, especially up on the first ridge of our southern states tour. There is an unexpected construction site, but a very friendly policewoman escorts us through. She considerately didn’t stick to the 25 mph speed limit, probably because we previously had explained that we Europeans are spoiled driving on curvy roads. But her colleague on Grandfather Mountain didn’t show quite the same tolerance. He had something against Matthias standing up on his bike while crossing the parking lot, and threatened to get the handcuffs immediately.

That’s how it went the first two days. Then we discover that there is the 800-mile long Blue Ridge Parkway, and that is the meeting place for cyclists on the east coast, at least between New Jersey and Florida. The road is very inviting—great curve radius, excellent asphalt, most desirable for any racetrack, and wide enough for the biggest pickup truck. What more could you desire? No speed limits, no police. It seems that the whole bunch of American crotch-rocket riders could care less. The knee sliders whizz by us in a swarm. From the sportbike category almost every bike is represented. In between, the heavy metal bikes and Gold Wings leisurely cruise along.

But we still don’t have our Christmas gift. Christian is torturing us. Another day full of driving curves of all categories until the shadows get long, without any lunch, just coffee and cigarette breaks. It turns out there was a good reason for this, as we realize later. Actually, we know the meaning of the wise expression: you can’t give power on a full stomach.

Just at a point where we don’t think much more is going to happen, Christian shifts back into first gear and screeches to a stop. At first, we think he wants to show us the beauty of Tellico Lake. But no, he’s going to give us a speech. “Guys, it is just starting now. Be smart, don’t push it too hard, here the police are very alert,” preaches the master of the tour, “and stay behind me, I know what I’m doing.”

Okay, off on US 129. Already by the ascent, we can see colorful figures standing along the roadside with their cameras, videos, and walkie-talkies. In the first curve we hear loud scraping noises. And immediately the chase is on: left knee, right knee, so fast that even Kenny, Jr. & Co. would get dizzy. After that, we have no time to pay attention to anything else. You are hardly out of the curve with your front wheel when you have to lean right into the next one. Most of the turns surprise you right at the vertex with a risky depression, which requires a lot of strength. Left and right, close to the curb of the road the trees are waiting to greet you, and steep cliffs jut up on the one side as they drop off to the other. In between there is a change of rhythm. Just when you think you can’t make it…don’t think, just give gas, and reduce, because there is no time for changing gears. Most of the time second gear is sufficient, because in the next moment you’re rounding the next turn.

But stop, darn, a cop. He pulls up in a flash, squeals to a dusty stop, and takes his position. Ten curves further the next one is waiting, getting his radar out, and aims—at those behind us. A quick look in the rearview mirror reveals racing headlights. And then there is that scratching of pavement again. It’s the LT and RT knights. While my Sprint RS sweeps from one corner to the next, down to the left, then to the right, completely in its element (good thing that I have saddle-bags and not boxes) the touring bikes fight for every inch of the road. Just the GS riders look quite cool, like “Tiger” Christian in front of me.

After the 318th curve we can relax—ignition off, dismount, helmets off, cigarettes lit, and a comfortable seat. “Congratulations, you made it,” is the greeting at CRot’s Diner (bar, which means “Crossroads of Time”) from the proprietor Rod Pemble. Today there were already eight bad accidents. But that still wasn’t reason enough for us to buy our “Body Surfer” T-shirt cheaper.

Each of us buy one or two anyway as an honorary souvenir to prove “I was here, too.” Those on the heavier machines usually choose the motto “I survived Deals Gap,” and those coming from the really flat states, like Florida or Illinois don’t pick T-shirts with “318 turns in 11 miles,” rather “11 turns in 318 miles.” The campsite is bustling with pickup trucks loaded with wild kinds of machines from the weekenders who arrive just to cruise up and down Deals Gap all day. There aren’t just diners, but motels, service stations, club houses, the whole works—ten times more happening than by us. It’s a real communications center; there are even totem poles where fresh remnants from accidents can be displayed, and pictures are hung up in the diners. The Americans show off everything. Especially those who rather turn up precociously in T-shirts under the motto, “To repair the leathers costs a lot more money. To wear gloves? Too hot. Helmets, yes, because you have to according to the law.”

That evening a couple miles up the road at Mountain Brook Inn we sit around the campfire enjoying hot dogs and light beer. Captain Koas is also there and compliments us saying, “I’m proud of you. You conquered the dragon, this time. And so nothing can ever happen in the future, I’ll give you a good tip,” and points to the rear tire of the RS. “Look here, this is rubber. And that,” slapping the asphalt, “is the road. Make sure that the rubber always stays on the road, then nothing can happen.”

The tour through Deals Gap remains for us all an unforgettable experience. Coen has been given the nickname “The Flying Clutchman” without attention paid to the black and blue marks on his back from his wife and by-wagon passenger, Corry, who tried to slow him down by boxing at him wildly. It didn’t help.

Toni just smiles quietly to himself. Peter says nothing at all. Chris has decided to take on a new, more dynamic sitting posture. Harald still paints and polishes his LTs.

But it got to Matthias kind of badly. He talks in his sleep. From the garbled jargon we understood, “The next time I won’t bring such a ‘fridge.’” The next time I just want to mix it up with the crotch-rocket riders on something totally different.

FACTS AND INFORMATION
In General
Deals Gap is the meeting point for enthusiastic motorcyclists on Highway 129 in North Carolina. Only six people live in this little village presenting one gas station, one grocery store, one campground and one motel. Most of this famous road is located in Tennessee and the special dragon has 311 curves in 17 miles. This road is on the southwest boundary of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. After stopping you have to decide which way you ride your motorcycle, either 129 or 28, both roads bring you to Robbinsville.

Ways to go there
From Knoxville, TN on 321; from Atlanta, GA, on 64 or 129; from Asheville, NC, on I-40 then 441 to Franklin and later on 28.

Climate
Because of the mild climate you are able to ride your motorcycle all year through.

Board & Lodging
You are between the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Nantahala National Forest. There is a huge recreation area located there and plenty of nice motels and bed and breakfast houses. Mountain cabins and resorts are also available. In this case we recommend the Mountain Brook Inn, near Franklin, Colonial Pines Inn and the Chandler Inn.

Money and prices
For overnights you have to pay between $65.00 and $95.00 in hotels and motels. Bed and breakfast houses start around $95.00. During the fall foliage season the prices are fairly high and you have to book at least two months in advance.

Roads & Biking
Other than Deals Gap you have a lot of opportunities for nice rides, especially the Blue Ridge Parkway, Hwy 28, Hwy 64 and Hwy 215. Another beautiful ride is the national scenic byway called the Cherohala Skyway.

Maps
The best map is the North Carolina and Tennessee Atlas & Gazetter from Delorme.

Addresses & Phone Numbers

• MOUNTAIN BROOK—Michelle and Gus Mc Mahon, 208 Mountain Brook Rd., Sylva, NC 28779, Phone (828) 586-4329
• COLONIAL PINES INN—Chris and Donna, 541 Hickory St, Highlands, NC 28741, Phone (828) 526-2060
• THE CHANDLER INN—Randy Power, PO Box 2156, Hwy. 64 & Martha´s Lane, Highlands, NC 28741, Phone (828) 526-5992.