On a steep and dusty gravel road in North Carolina, I do my best to keep the heavy Harley-Davidson Road Glide upright. This can’t be the right route. But it is. With some effort and a lot of hope, I swing into the driveway of Dave and Darlene’s bed and breakfast. 'The GPS does that all the time,' Darlene laughs in a thick Southern drawl. 'The paved road comes in from the other side.'
It had been a glorious day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Sweeping curves, scenic overlooks, barely any traffic, and charming towns like Staunton and Floyd, all wooden storefronts, a handful of shops, and weak coffee at the most beloved place in town: the Floyd Country Store — a hybrid of general store, coffeehouse, diner, music school, and live music venue.
That evening, on Darlene’s advice, I take the paved road to Mount Airy to find some food. 'Watch out for the bear on your way back,' my host warns me as I head out.
'The what?'
'The bear. Sometimes it shows up at night.'
Right. Black bears are faster than humans, excellent climbers, and strong swimmers. Not exactly comforting. Advice: keep your distance. Usually that’s enough. And if one heads your way, back away slowly, maintaining or increasing the distance.
It all ends well. The next morning, as I step outside, another guest is eyeing the Harley. Pete, from Alabama, is a Shriner — a sort of Freemason — and tells me that besides running hospitals, the group also has its own motorcycle club. We chat, we laugh.
'When I’m on the road, people always ask about my Southern accent,' Pete says. 'But I don’t have one. Everyone talks like this where I come from, ha!'
The Blue Ridge Parkway is the perfect warm-up for my search for small-town America. The villages and towns here are quaint and charming, though the popularity of the parkway means they still get a decent flow of visitors. That won’t be the case for much of my planned route through Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia. There, I’ll follow backroads and byways to nowhere.
Leaving the Parkway behind, the road winds lazily through the Appalachian Mountains. The radio crackles. Occasionally it picks up a local station. Usually country music: tear-in-the-beer songs about first loves, hard work, regret, family, and the place you were born and hope to be buried. Home.
For most of the Americans I meet along the way — in diners, at petrol stations, in motel lobbies — this is home. Not many outsiders venture here. I’m just a passing visitor. The road leads me to Bristol, a town unlikely to appear on most people’s bucket list. Unless you’re a country music fan: this is where the very first country recordings were made, in 1927. Of the 19 artists who recorded 76 tracks, only one was African American: El Watson. The South was still deeply segregated.
The main street of Bristol is bustling, lined with brick buildings and anchored by its iconic 1950s-style Burger Bar. I follow the crowd to a free concert by the town’s most famous local band: 49 Winchester. They’re touring nationally now but have come home to celebrate their success with fans in Bristol and nearby Russell County. It turns into a long, sultry summer night. The next day, as I ride out of town, I pass under a historic arch from 1921 that reads, modestly and perfectly: Bristol, A Good Place to Live.
I skirt through a corner of Tennessee and point the bike toward Kentucky. The landscape softens from rugged to rolling. Narrow roads wind through endless hills. Signs warn of slow-moving tractors. This is the America of everyday people: mobile homes, timber houses, and oversized pickup trucks.
It feels like riding through a movie set. I stop for coffee in lovely Barbourville, grab a window seat, and watch everyday life unfold outside. Later, I ride a scenic stretch through the vast Daniel Boone National Forest. It resists Kentucky’s gentle image: this is raw nature, with lakes, rivers, waterfalls and towering cliffs. Nearly 1,000 kilometres of trails have been laid out for hikers, bikers and horseback riders.
My endpoint is Bardstown, the bourbon capital of the world, home to 16 distilleries. A beautiful scenic byway — the Old Kentucky Turnpike — leads me to the Old Kentucky Home Motel. It’s the kind of roadside motel I love: park at the door, clean room, good bed, hot shower, and a bit of porch chat with whoever’s staying next door — a retired couple, a young pair in love, a travelling salesman, or some eccentric character.
Tonight it’s George, a retired trucker who dreams of showing his son the Rocky Mountains. When it starts raining, he insists I roll the Harley onto the porch. With three of us pushing, we lift the 250-kilo beast over the threshold to a dry patch. Then we sit and admire it, beers in hand.
Bardstown is fun that evening. As I walk into a bar, I’m nearly knocked over by a granddad twirling his granddaughter around the dance floor. It’s unclear who’s leading whom, but the pace is faster than the old man can handle. The music’s loud, conversation is near impossible. Waitress Jane hears I’m from the Netherlands and yells into my ear that she wants to come with me — not for me, windmills or weed, but for free healthcare and amazing social security.
Kentucky agrees with me. The roads through the hills are made for cruising. Backroads and byways reveal charming towns, unspoilt nature, and very little traffic. I pass beneath Lexington, the horse capital of America, then ride a long stretch to New River Gorge National Park — the country’s newest national park.
Route 60 follows the river upstream. The Harley glides easily through the curves that echo the river’s flow. Houses and businesses give way to cliffs and sweeping views. Then suddenly: The Mystery Hole. A classic 1970s roadside attraction. No spoilers — just go see it.
I veer off Route 60 onto a smaller road, closer to the canyon. There are occasional viewpoints. From one visitor centre, a short trail leads to the most stunning view of the day: the New River Bridge, a steel arch span from the 1970s that cut travel time between the two banks by 45 minutes. A marvel of engineering. Think Eiffel Tower on its side.
The route passes by ghost towns like Thurmond — once a booming mining centre — and Nuttallburg, where you can still find the remnants of the village and industrial sites like an old coal conveyor belt. Beckley survived the fall of the coal boom. Its mining museum shares the sobering stats. Between 1880 and 1917, the number of miners in the region exploded from 3,701 to 90,000. In that final year alone, they pulled 90 million tonnes of coal from the ground. At a cost. Explosions and collapses claimed hundreds of lives. That was the price of growth — and pride.
Leaving the New River behind, the road curls through bright green hills. Mining memories fade. I let the Harley do its thing. A relaxed cruise, ending with a perfect coffee at the Wild Bean Café in Lewisburg, a lovely little town with a bloody past. In a cemetery, 95 unknown soldiers are buried — casualties of one of the many Civil War battles fought here.
Before I leave Lewisburg, I stop by Jim’s Drive-In — an iconic eatery that’s been serving burgers and shakes for over sixty years, and since the 1990s has been run by the Massie family. Grandma Kathy is in her seventies but still regularly puts in 14-hour shifts in the kitchen. Despite the rise of big chains, Jim’s remains popular.
'Jim’s Drive-In is part of Lewisburg,' Kathy says, working steadily. 'Everyone has a story here. Some came with their parents for ice cream. Others had their first date here.’
GOOD PEOPLE
Slowly, Lewisburg lets me go. The bike hums contentedly through increasingly open land. Now and then a crumbling house, now and then a restored farmhouse with horses. I follow the Seneca Skyway, a nearly 500-kilometre route through the Potomac Highlands. It’s a feast for the senses: forests, rivers, the jagged rocks of Seneca, the smooth ride of the Harley-Davidson Road Glide, and the easy encounters with locals — like Fred Whitelaw, a former racing driver – 'I've also had 37 motorcycles.'
In a garage, Fred and his friend Dave are prepping a Chevrolet for vintage oval track races. 'Ha, yeah,' he laughs. 'This is just America. You meet rednecks like us. We’re not so bad. We’re good people, right?'
It’s not far now to my bed for the night at The Billy Motel in the town of Davis. The sun dips behind the Potomac Highlands, bathing the sky in soft pink. I shift up for the final stretch.
There’s no better way to explore the American South than on a road trip. Choose a ready-made route or work with a destination specialist to create a tailor-made journey. They know the region inside out and are happy to help you on your way!
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