The People we meet between the Mustard and the Mayo

Chasing a 718 through the Tail

“You cannot describe passion; you can only live it.”— Enzo Ferrari

Old man Ferrari was right, This passion we all have for driving is something that’s pretty hard to explain to the folks who don’t have it.

As I sat here this morning trying to think of what to write for this blog, a memory popped into my head. It started like most of my mornings in the Smokies. I’d spent the night in Maggie Valley and woke up with the sun, wondering how much ground I could cover that day. I grabbed a quick breakfast and pointed the car toward Bryson City to hop back on Hellbender and make my way over to Deal’s Gap. The plan was simple: be in North Georgia by the afternoon and run Six Gap before the light faded.

The weather was fair, the car felt strong, and I set off. Not long after getting onto Hellbender, I rolled up behind a base C7 stuck behind a dump truck lumbering through the curves. The guy looked at me in his mirror, and the expression on his face matched mine perfectly—equal parts frustration and “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Hellbender is one of those sections you want to push on. Getting trapped behind a truck is like hitting pause on your whole day. But to our great relief, the dump truck eventually turned off… and it was game on. The C7 dropped the hammer, and I followed suit.

We had a beautifully uninterrupted run up 28, right until the last climb toward the Dragon, where we finally caught up to a group of Harley guys putting along. The C7 driver pulled into the Killboy store, and I followed in behind him. For the next thirty minutes, me and this total stranger—another Corvette guy just out chasing a feeling—shot the shit and became fast friends.

Lost somewhere between Cherohala and Georgia trying to get my bearings.

Little did I know, my day was about to get a lot more interesting. After milling around the store for a bit, I realized I still had a lot of ground to cover if I was going to make it to Georgia that evening. I figured I’d make a quick out-and-back pass on the Dragon. It was technically my first run of the year, and even though I knew I’d be there all weekend, I couldn’t resist the urge—being that close and not running it just wasn’t an option.

I had a clean run over with minimal traffic and got to push pretty hard. I was already warmed up from earlier in the morning, and the car was performing flawlessly on its brand-new Michelin rubber. By the time I reached the end of the turns, I noticed the transmission temps had crept up a bit, so I let the car breathe on the straights along the lake.

Of course, I was on cloud nine. I was back in the Smokies with three full days to kill, the car was performing better than it had in years after all the work we’d put into it over the previous months, and it felt like nothing could ruin my day…
except a concrete expansion gap and that fresh rubber I’d mentioned a minute ago.

I’d eased up a bit and let my attention drift, taking in the view that is Calderwood Lake, completely forgetting about the bridge just before the Foothills Parkway. If you’ve been to the area, you already know the one. That bridge has a gnarly little expansion gap at the end that demands some respect—especially if you’re in a lower car.

I hit it square at about 60 mph.

The suspension compressed harder than normal, and that fresh, sticky set of Michelin 4S tires grabbed a handful of wheel liner—and by a handful, I mean all of it. The liner ripped free from its clips, shot backward, and wedged itself between the tire and the body of the car, immediately filling the cabin with an awful scraping sound.

Just like that, my perfect morning turned into a very real, very pronounced
“oh shit.”

The view from the top of Hogpen Gap Georgia

Once I pulled over at the base of Foothills Parkway, I got out and assessed the situation—and my options. There was no way I was pulling the remains of the wheel liner out without getting the wheel off first. I had no jack, just a bag of basic hand tools, and my friends wouldn’t be there for another two days. Things weren’t looking great.

My only real option was to limp a few miles up the road to 129 Hub and see if they might have a jack. I got back in the car and drove those agonizing minutes, listening to every scrape and praying the liner wouldn’t completely chew through the tire. When I finally pulled in, the place was quiet—almost dead. There was only one employee working, and unfortunately, no jack. The soonest he could get one would be after five that evening.

That would’ve killed any chance I had of making it to Georgia, so I started weighing my options.

I could push on a few more miles into the town of Vonore and almost certainly find a service station with a jack—but that meant putting more unnecessary miles on an already bad situation.
Or… I could turn back and head to Harley-Davidson 129, just a mile up the road, and hope the motorcycle gods decided to show me a little mercy that day.

A well earned beer in Helen after a long day of driving.

Now, if you’ve been around the driving community long enough, you know there’s an unspoken rift between sports cars and our two-wheeled counterparts. That rift tends to grow even wider when those two wheels belong to Harleys. It goes without saying: most Harley guys don’t appreciate sports cars riding their ass any more than we appreciate getting stuck behind them. Most of the time it’s left unsaid, but the reality is, it’s not always the best relationship.

So the thought of some loud, low-slung Corvette rolling into a haven of grizzled bikers, only to have its owner walk in begging for help, didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I dreaded it—but I was officially out of options. Begrudgingly, I walked through the front door and up to the desk.

And that’s where everything flipped.

To my surprise, I was welcomed with open arms. Within minutes, not only did I have a jack and a breaker bar, but they offered to help however they could. They gave me a shaded place to work, handed me water, and even offered a spot to clean up once I was done. Every single person in that building was spectacular—and not one of them asked for a dime in return.

On a random day in the Smokies, through nothing more than circumstance and a bit of humility, I’d made a handful of new friends. Just like that, my preconceptions disappeared, replaced by a new outlook on the people who share these roads with us.

Moments before the bridge incident.

Moments like that are exactly why I believe the road introduces you to the people you’re meant to meet. Not because you planned it, not because you showed up looking for it—but because shared passion has a way of breaking down walls faster than words ever could. Out there, labels don’t matter nearly as much as mindset. Two wheels or four, loud pipes or loud exhausts, we’re all chasing the same thing.

That’s the part of passion Enzo was talking about when he said, “You cannot describe passion; you can only live it.” You don’t explain it in a parking lot or argue it on the internet. You live it at sunrise in the mountains. You live it when things go sideways. And you really live it when complete strangers step in, not because they have to, but because they understand exactly why you’re there in the first place.

The people you meet between the mustard and the mayo aren’t just fellow drivers—they’re reminders. Reminders that the road is bigger than brand loyalty, bigger than stereotypes, and bigger than whatever rift we think exists between us. It’s a shared space where effort, respect, and passion speak louder than anything else.

That day in the Smokies could’ve ended in frustration, missed plans, and a long wait on the side of the road. Instead, it left me with a repaired car, a better outlook, and a renewed appreciation for the kind of people this life tends to attract—the kind of people who show up when it counts. And it wouldn’t be the last time that weekend I’d find out just how true that really was… but that’s a story for another day.

So drive the roads. Take the long way. Say yes to the detours. Because if you’re lucky, you’ll find that the best part of the drive isn’t the corners, the speed, or even the destination—it’s the people you meet along the way.

-Double Yellow Apparel