It’s not often that you get a chance as a married man with kids to disappear for three days. Let alone disappear and do nothing but ride your motorcycle around one of the most coveted recreational areas in the country.
I had this unique opportunity last week, and let me tell you, if you get the chance, take it. I rode from Indianapolis, Indiana, down to the historic Tapoco Lodge in Robbinsville, North Carolina—hitting the Tail of the Dragon and other beautiful roads along the way—and I loved every minute of it.
I’d planned to do a trip down south this year, but I wasn’t sure where. Tapoco reached out and offered a room. That offer made up my mind. I was riding the Tail of the Dragon. We set up some time for me to come down and stay at the lodge.
Day 1: The Long Way Down
At 5:30 in the morning, much of the world hadn’t started yet. I rolled the Honda Rebel 300 out of my shed quietly, like a polite burglar, and eased onto the empty streets of Northern Indianapolis. The sky was that soft early gray that it gets minutes before the orange glow of sunrise peeks over the land in the east. The kind of light that makes you feel like you’re sneaking out on the day.
I-465 hummed under me like a tired old conveyor belt, slinging me around the city and pointing me toward I-65 South. The traffic on the interstate wasn’t too crazy yet, and it moved. I wasn’t in a rush. I had all day.
The plan—if you could call it that—was to avoid interstates wherever I could, and after Columbus, I kept that promise. I veered off the big road and started threading the country together one two-lane ribbon at a time. The Rebel 300 doesn’t mind a slower pace. I’ve seen upwards of 80 mph on this bike, but it’s happiest at 55-60 mph. The Rebel is a lightweight little workhorse with good manners for city riding, just enough grunt for highways, and some soul to shine when the road forgets to be straight.
I stopped in Madison, Indiana, for breakfast. I should have done my homework and picked a place I would truly love, but my plans were loose, and I didn’t have a restaurant in mind.
Madison is right by the Ohio River. Full of red bricks and happy midwestern folks. It’s the kind of town that feels like it grew up on postcards and steam whistles. I didn’t linger too long. I stopped at Horst’s Little Bakery Haus, home of the man known as the Donut Daddy, Horst Moehlman—according to the side of the delivery truck parked outside. It’s right on Main St. I ate scrambled eggs with a biscuit and some bacon. Simple and cheap.
The old men in the place bickered with each other, gossiped about their neighbors, and razzed the waitress. She gave it right back to them. On the way out, I bought a dinosaur-shaped cookie and ate it as I walked back to my bike.
Somewhere in Kentucky, the sky turned uncertain. Not a full-blown downpour, just one of those sulking rains that seems to follow you like an ex with questions.
The BYKR Gear Jacket I’d worn is mesh—great for airflow, but not rain. I slipped on my rain jacket, squinted into the drizzle, and kept moving. No big drama, just another texture to the ride. I didn’t even get wet. The BYKR Gear Rain Jacket I’d put on kept me dry, and the BYKR Gear pants were waterproof too.
By the time I hit Tennessee, the miles were stacking up, and the mountains started leaning in. There were some fun roads through Tennessee, but the real prize of the day was waiting near the end: the Tail of the Dragon. Eleven miles, three hundred and eighteen curves, drops in elevation like a roller coaster, and drop-offs to the side of the road that would make you disappear entirely.
On the map, it looks like someone dropped a spaghetti dinner in the Smokies. On a bike, it’s poetry written in asphalt, lean angles, and elevation changes.
The Rebel 300 didn’t just handle it—it grinned through it. No roar, no swagger, just clean riding. Sometimes it’s not the horsepower that counts—it’s whether the bike makes you feel like a better rider than you are. I’m no Valentino Rossi, but I did my best impression.
I reached Tapoco Lodge with daylight to spare. Behind me, about half a dozen sports cars and sports sedans pulled in and parked. They must have chased me down the mountain.
I nodded to a couple of weathered bikers parked out front and walked inside like a man who’d just stepped out of a good dream. I grabbed some wings, a burger, and fries at the outdoor bar.
Four hundred and twenty miles, give or take. Mostly backroads, a touch of rain, and a dragon slain at the end. Not bad for day one.
Day 2: Bagels, Big Trees, and Bees
I was up early—when you’re used to getting up early with a 4-year-old every day, it’s tough to shake the habit. Tapoco is one of those places where the wood floors feel older than you can ever imagine being, and the fog on the river seems to whisper good morning, whether you’re ready for it or not. I was ready, and I didn’t have much planned. Just more riding.
By 7:00 a.m., I was out on the bike, the rushing air brushing away the dew. It was cool and soft, like it hadn’t quite committed to being day yet. I took things easy those first dozen miles.
I had it in my head to find breakfast somewhere down the road, maybe see what Robbinsville had to say for itself. It’s a quiet little town, tucked into the mountains like it’s trying not to be found. There’s a slew of fast food places and gas stations on the main drag, but get off that and you’ll find some good stuff.
I had two spots in mind—both closed. Of course. But that’s the sort of thing that doesn’t bother you on a bike. The journey has a way of providing. And sure enough, a little coffee shop called Kin Cafe opened its arms. I sat with a toasted bagel and a latte and watched the town come alive, slow and sleepy, like Sunday morning on a Thursday.
Back on the bike, the fog lifted as the sun went up, and I watched steam rise from the road on some of the curves. I pointed the Rebel toward the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. Kilmer was a poet, and the forest is a poem itself—deep woods, cathedral trees, and the rush of water over rocks as you trek down the trail. I hiked the lower loop to the stone that bears Kilmer’s name and epitaph. He wrote that only God can make a tree, and walking among those giants, you believe him.
I returned sweating from the hike, so I stripped a layer off and sat at one of the picnic tables near the parking area. I took a moment to read his poem “Trees” before going back to the bike.
Once back in the Rebel’s firm saddle, I turned towards the Cherohala Skyway, a portion of which rides the spine between North Carolina and Tennessee like a streamer flung by a joyful hand. It’s the kind of road that invites you to slow down just so you can stretch the ride out another hour—43 miles of curves and mountain views. The Rebel didn’t bark or boast, it just hummed along, content and sure-footed.
I didn’t make a loop. I rode the skyway and then turned around and rode it right back. Then rode around until I spotted a place called Wehrloom Honey. I pulled in, parked, and opened the door to the most amazing smells. Lavender, cinnamon, vanilla, and many others I couldn’t quite place. It was like entering an olfactory portal to another dimension. I wandered through the jars, and soaps, and balms and picked out some honey for my wife. A sweet little peace offering for leaving her home with the boys while I chased mountains.
I made it back to Tapoco Lodge in time for lunch, then spent the afternoon exploring the grounds. They’ve got 120 acres of quiet back there—hills and trails, streams and stones—and stories. I wonder what stories have been made here since 1930, when the place opened as a house for Tallassee Power Company workers to stay while they worked at the dams and other hydroelectric power projects in the area.
I walked a bit of the Bear Creek Falls Trail. The overgrown bushes and muddy trail from the recent rains had me turning back. I was somewhat tuckered out from the day’s riding and hiking and yesterday’s long trek. Sometimes, just hearing your boots on the path is enough.
After my short bout of wandering the grounds. I got back on the bike and rode the Tail of the Dragon up through the mountains and then back down. Traffic on the route had picked up, and the racers were out now. I decided to call it a day.
Dinner was at the Tapoco Tavern, which serves food as good as the roads around the lodge. I ordered the Campfire Mountain Trout and some coleslaw and mac and cheese. The Campfire Mountain Trout was grilled trout topped with caramelized onions, bacon, and glazed pecans. The trout didn’t need the fixings to go with it—it was good enough on its own—but it made for a nice combo nonetheless. The mac and cheese was good enough to make you want more, and the same could be said for the coleslaw.
After dinner, I sat by the Cheoah River and watched the water rush over and between the rocks. By the time I got back to my room, the sun was going down, and the river was still talking.
No dramatic mileage today. Just bagels, big trees, good food, honey, and a skyway that curved like a thought half-remembered. A thunderstorm rolled in around 9 p.m., and I fell asleep to the rumbling thunder.
Day 3: The Quick Way Up
Morning came with a quiet kind of finality. The river murmured low, next to the Tapoco Lodge terrace, as if it too knew the trip was winding down.
I had breakfast at the Cheoah Dining Room. I ordered scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, and hashbrown casserole and watched a few cars and motorcycles ride along US-129 as I ate, sipped coffee, and chatted with the waitress. Then I checked out, packed up the Rebel, zipped the honey safely away in my saddlebags, and took one last look around.
There’s always a small sorrow in leaving a place like that—a kind of ache that says, stay a little longer. But this morning, the compass pointed north, and I had to follow.
I couldn’t resist one last dance with the Tail of the Dragon, though. Those 318 curves in 11 miles—tight, relentless, rhythmic—felt different this time. Less about thrill, more about farewell. I leaned through them like I was tracing my name on the road one last time.
To be honest, I didn’t have much of a choice. The Dragon was the most direct route, a happy accident, but once the Dragon was behind me, the fun was done. No more wandering. No backroads, no scenic stops, no bagels, or bees. Just a man on a more than 400-mile mission, headed north to his wife and two boys.
The Rebel found the interstate, and we got to work. Miles clicked off like clock hands. I had the GPS on my phone, but I didn’t need it. Interstates are simple enough. I hit some construction, which slowed me down, and some traffic around Knoxville and again around Cincinnati. All told, the ride home on the big roads took just as long as the ride down.
The road out is all about discovery, and the road back is all about returning with something new, something different—a different perspective, a different feeling. You’re the same, but you’re all new. Same machine, different heartbeat. But every twist, every mile, leads somewhere. And on day three, all of it led me home.
