But for every tragedy, there are a hundred triumphs. On any given Saturday morning, you’ll hear the sound of engines warming up at the Lolly’s Gas & Grub—a one-pump station that sells better brisket than anywhere in three counties. Drivers gather there before dawn. They sip bad coffee, trade tire-pressure tips, and watch the fog lift off the mountain.
The road begins innocently enough at the valley floor: a two-lane ribbon with gentle sweepers and forgiving shoulders. That’s the trap. By the time you hit the first serious bend—a blind, off-camber left known as “The Widow’s Wink”—you’re already committed. The asphalt tightens. The guardrails, dented and scarred, shrink to knee height. The drop-off on the right side vanishes into a ravine choked with oak and kudzu. lolly's killer curves
If you ever find yourself at the foot of Lolly’s Killer Curves, pull over. Check your tires. Breathe. And remember what the old-timers say: Lolly never lifted. But you might want to. Old Route 29, Parson’s Hollow to Blue Summit. Best driven at dawn on weekdays. No trailers. No first-timers in the rain. And for God’s sake, don’t wave at the pink cross unless you’ve earned it. But for every tragedy, there are a hundred triumphs
For the uninitiated, Lolly’s is a 10.7-mile section of Old Route 29, carved into the ridge between Parson’s Hollow and Blue Summit. It’s named after Lolly Taggart, a bootlegger’s wife who, in 1953, supposedly drove a modified Hudson Hornet through this pass at 90 miles an hour with a trunk full of moonshine—and a federal agent hanging off her rear bumper. She lost him in the third hairpin. Legend says she never spilled a drop. They sip bad coffee, trade tire-pressure tips, and
The curves that made her famous are now a proving ground. From above, Lolly’s looks like a tangled rope thrown over a mountain. From the driver’s seat, it feels like a math problem you have to solve in real time—or die trying.
For now, the curves remain. They are killers, yes—but they are also teachers. They remind you that some things aren’t meant to be easy. That speed without respect is just stupidity. And that a road, like a person, earns a reputation one corner at a time.
“It’s a brotherhood,” says Frankie No-Last-Name, a retired trucker who’s run Lolly’s over 4,000 times. “You don’t master these curves. You just get a little less bad at them. And when you hit that last straight—the run down into Blue Summit—and your brakes are hot, and your knuckles are white, and you didn’t die? That’s not a drive. That’s a prayer answered.” There’s talk of straightening the worst sections. The state says it’s a safety issue. Locals say it’s an insult.