Before leaving Franklin though I came upon this piece of direct consumer action. One unhappy farmer:
Just in case its not clear that is a junked Mahindra tractor. On the left hand side s/he has written, 'less than 300 hours'.
I made an error thinking I'd missed a photo of Nantahala lake and stopped at a track where a sign advertised 'Best views of the lake and mountains'. It was a tad too stony for me to feel safe taking the blue monster down it so I walked. And walked, and walked until I eventually nearly got there, hot and bothered, and took this view:
It turned out the sign I had seen was in fact marketing for real estate. A whole pile of plots are available for sale. Stake out your escape house in the lakes and mountains. Because I was still wearing my hi-viz jerkin an estate agent lady stopped her massive pick-up truck to talk as she imagined I was some kind or worker and she wanted to make sure the track was clear ahead. When she realised I was not a slave she immediately tried to sell me a plot. They start at $135,000. Then you've got to build a house. I gather the really rich Americans are buying up nice bits of New Zealand for when the ordure hits the air displacement machinery.
Best part of an hour later, ok I got some exercise but it wasn't a very exciting walk, I returned to the bike and 5 minutes down the road it descended to the lakeside and I could have taken the photo there.
Then on along great riding roads until I hit Highway 19 which travelled alongside a river whose name I cannot find. (Both Bing Maps and Google Earth seem to think no-one's interested in the names of rivers). Much white water rafting activity and the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad running alongside. Obviously a big tourist attraction but they didn't have a steam locomotive like we would have back home. That would have made it real cute. Notice the americanisms starting to creep in; oh dear.
Road on one side of the river, railroad on the other.
Here's the cheap seats:
Plenty of other riders around, these roads are clearly a Mecca for bikers. None more so than the 'Tail of the Dragon' an incredibly twisty 318 curves in 11 miles. Got my feet with the cornering, which means I got my feet scraping the tarmac as I leant left and right. Not only were there scores of other bikes around, I'd guess I saw the best part of 100 other machines, but at 4 or 5 strategic locations with especially tight turns and a place to park, photographers were camped out photographing everyone going past. Or at least photographing the ones who were trying a bit, like me. There is a nominal 30 mph limit but unlike the Natchez Trace no hint of enforcement. I suspect there'd be a riot if they tried it. Both main types of bikers in abundance. Touring types, like me, on touring machines including the ubiquitous Harley Davidsons (pimp bikes I've decided); and the flashy speed machines with names like Fireblade and Phaser with go-faster exhausts right up underneath the back of the seat. Extremely worrying for any passengers I would have thought, but then none of them had passengers.
Towards the end this view of the lake whose hillsides we had traversed:
That's the dam on the right hand side, forming the lake. This was at a viewpoint where a dozen or so, almost, but not quite exclusively, males riders had stopped; though all the women there were pillion passengers. I think, but cannot be certain, that one female rider flashed past me during the day.
I am now in Knoxville where I am headed downtown to see if I can catch up with a bit of a character I met at the Tourist info shop. Name of Lincoln, he's owned several BMWs and extolled Knoxville's music scene. We shall see. He recommended I tried to stay close to Downtown, at this cheap hotel where, somewhat bizzarely, two women knocked on my door 15 minutes after I had checked in to ask if I wanted some company; oh and could I lend the younger prettier one $5 to get some gas. Taxi into town, but its not too far. Better make my escape quick.
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