The alarm Bob Mueller, my roommate and riding partner, had set was superfluous. I had been awake for at least an hour, and I suspected that Bob had been too. Months of preparation had culminated in this day. We had both been working out, and our bikes had been prepped for weeks. There was little else to do but to arise and meet the challenge of the next six days of riding our Suzuki DR350 dual sport bikes down the length of the Baja peninsula, to the now distant, shimmering goal of Cabo San Lucas.

As we quickly donned our riding gear painstakingly laid out the night before, anticipation raged a battle with the fear of the unknown. Bob and I were both rookies on this invitation only ride. Although I’d talked with Malcolm about the concept over dinner in Monterey during the Laguna Seca ride some three and half years before, I’d been prevented from riding the inaugural Malcolm Smith Six Days of Baja due to my impending wedding. The next year, a mass migration of our four teenagers to Europe and back precluded funding. It did not, however, prevent Bob from signing us both up for the following year’s ride, and it was now upon us.

I pulled open the door to our room at Ranco Santa Veronica and was met by the muted tones of a soft dawn and a slow rain. I was surprised to find it liquid, as the night had been so cold we’d both slept in our long underwear. Our bravado and trail lust quickly vanquished any lingering uncertainties, and we set out into the great unknown.

After passing the much feared 45 pound bag weight limit and dropping our gear/clothes bags at the support trucks we quickly made our way to the restaurant for some hot breakfast. The crackling fire felt great as we pounded down some food and said goodbye to the gracious and friendly staff. As we warmed the bikes and saddled up, the unfamiliar seat reminded me that this would be only the third time I’d been on a dirt bike in a year and a half. As we exited the compound and headed down the trails I was sobered by Malcolm’s warning at last night’s rider’s meeting that "a guy can get killed out here." I prayed that statement would not be prophetic for any of us, and concentrated on finding a comfort zone on my now unfamiliar bike, in this strange new place.

The cold and rain wasn’t bad, as I had come fully prepared for Winter conditions. I was snug in silk long johns, Gortex pants and jacket, face mask, and Cold Pro riding gloves. I was breaking in a new pair of boots and was trying out some anti-fog potion on my goggles, and both were doing great so far. We wound down some nice trails, all clearly marked by small pieces of pink plastic tape or small pink flags. Jimmy Sones, who we would soon come to regard as some sort of demi-god, had made his usual solo trip into the darkness at 3 am to flag the course for the day with the little pink markers of the path to glory. On this day, they would mark the way to a daunting set of challenges.

About 42 miles into the 1,300 miles to Cabo San Lucas, we came to a fairly wide river, about seat deep at the deepest point. As we paused on the bank, a Husky rider set off from the near shore. The rider quickly stalled his bike in the deepest portion, about half way across. Bob set off and quickly motored to the other side, bypassing the stricken bike. Being too impatient to wait for the Husky rider to get his bike going and out of the way, I rolled down into the swiftly flowing current. As I neared the Husky, the current carried me downstream directly into the stricken bike. I clutched the bike and attempted to steer around, but only managed to get mired into the deep sand next to the now soaked rider. I’d never failed to get across any water I’d ever faced, even when I was a stone cold rookie dirt rider a few years before, and I was determined that I wasn’t going to be foiled by the first water of Baja, however unexpectedly deep and fast flowing, fueled by the ongoing El Nino storms. Just at that moment, the Husky fired and the rider, not even knowing I was idling near his rear waiting for him to clear, dumped the clutch and promptly ran into me, knocking me downstream, parallel with the flow of the river. At this point, I was in deep Kimchee. I was up to the rear axle in deep, soft sand. I jumped off the bike, keeping it running, and attempted to push it out of the sand and walk it out of the river. Every time I released the clutch, I just dug it in deeper. After a couple of attempts, the exhaust pipe was starting to disappear and I was getting a steady "glug, glug, glug" from the submerged exhaust. Finally admitting defeat, I called to Bob to wade back out and help me. The bike finally died soon after his arrival, and I feared the worst, as the water was wetting the bottom of the seat and the exhaust was completely flooded. We managed to manhandle the bike out and after a long bout of kicking, she finally fired up. Overwhelming amazed to be riding in rain and fording raging rivers in Baja, which I had always assumed to be one big desert, and greatly chagrined to have suffered failure for the first time ever in a water crossing, we set off down the trail, my bike sputtering occasionally as the water worked its way out of the system.

A few miles later we came to yet another river, with two separate water crossings. This one we got across with no drama, although there were others stalled there who could not say the same thing. It looked more like the Midwest, with verdant green, flush foliage, and enough water to confuse anyone’s arid pre-conceptions of riding in Baja. It was certainly living up to Malcolm’s predictions of an incredibly varied landscape offering everything from pine forest, snow covered mountains, deserts, and warm water beaches.

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At mile 45.2, we met the water, but it wasn’t warm and there was no beach. As we pulled up to the river, the phrase "raging torrent" sprung immediately to mind. Four riders, linked arm in arm, were struggling across the river to reach our near shore. As they climbed out of the waist deep water, they breathlessly recounted the drill: "It takes at least four guys to carry the bike across, at least four to make it back. Don’t try to get out in the water alone, you’ll be swept downstream." We dismounted and joined in. The water was ice cold, but after a few seconds I didn’t even think about it. My mind was immediately consumed with the task at hand. Grab a bike, drag it across the river. Lean into the current about 45 degrees, keep the bike and your feet out of the big rocks about half way across, push it up onto shore, link arms, fight your way back across, repeat. I don’t know how many trips we made, I lost count at eight. After we ran out of bikes, we took a breather and listened to stories of how a couple of guys had tried to ride across.

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One guy had pulled up and asked, "can you ride it?" The assembled crew had screamed "NO, wait for help!" The rider had immediately dumped the clutch and jumped in. As soon as the bike landed in the river it was swept away. All they could see was the headlight and a helmet swiftly disappearing downstream. By running across a bend in the river they had managed to catch the rider and save the bike a few hundred feet downstream. Another intrepid sailor who thought himself immune to the laws of physics repeated the scene a little later. Both were lucky to make it out alive, and would likely have been victims of their own hubris had there not been riders there to pull them out.

We later learned that Jimmy had drowned his bike in an earlier river after making five crossings looking for a good place for the rest of us to cross. He found himself with a dead bike in the middle of a raging river in the dark, utterly alone. He later said "it was life or death," so he physically dragged the bike to the shore, alone, using the current to help him thrust the bike toward the shore in small segments. Exhausted, drenched to the bone and freezing cold, he had spent two and a half hours beside the river, in the dark, draining his bike and getting it running. When he came upon this last torrential river, he’d had the good sense to sit and wait for some other riders to show up and help him across. Jimmy said later that this last river that we’d found waist deep and moving like a freight train was usually about four feet wide and six inches deep. As it turned out, this was just the beginning for Jimmy, and his day was going to get worse before it got better.

Now hours behind, and the entire field of 60 riders nipping at his heels, Jimmy had headed down the trail at light speed, only to find a new fence, replete with new, locked gate, in a place that had been clear only a few weeks before during the pre-run. With no other choice, Jimmy was forced to turn around and strip the trail of markers, rounding up riders and turning them around as he went. We met Jimmy, trailing a gaggle of riders like a mother duck, rocketing down the road towards us about 15 miles later. It was snowing fairly heavily, with a strong wind. We turned around and followed the tire tracks back down to a new road leading west. Now it was sleeting, and the wind was driving it almost horizontally. We decided it was a good time to stop and regroup.

It was 10:30 am on day one. In four hours, we had faced rain, snow and sleet. We had forded three rivers, including one so strong and deep it took at least four men to drag a bike across and return to the shore. We had been lost, found, soaked, drowned, mudded and re-routed. We looked at each other and said "and we paid for this!" Laughing ruefully at this observation I tried in vain to wring out a pair of gloves. I’d started the day with three dry pair. In four hours I’d soaked every one.

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We headed out and followed the route through the fog shrouded pines. We were on the Baja 1000 course, winding our way through the trees, rocks and brush. I developed new-found respect for the Baja 1000 competitors; and for the first time, but certainly not the last time over the next week, marveled at their ability to race full size trophy trucks through this tight and twisting track at triple digit speeds. I just couldn’t see how they could fit the vehicles between some of these boulders and trees. I learned later that Malcolm had once tore off a corner of the suspension of his Baja 1000 race buggy in this section and had to spend the night alone in the bush. It was one of many remarkable stories we’d learn about Malcolm and other riders participating in this adventure.

At our first gas stop, we were introduced to the realities of life in rural Baja. The gas, of dubious octane level, was pumped by hand from 55 gallon drums by the mother of the family. The kids carried the five gallon buckets of indeterminate origin and varying levels of rust content to the father. He poured the fuel into the bike tanks through a large funnel steadied by one of the older children. Prices were negotiated based on estimated quantity, length of the line of waiting riders and remaining gasoline supply. As the line got longer and the drums got emptier, the prices escalated to usurious levels. But, the bottom line was, we had no choice, we’d pay four times just about any amount quoted, and all the players in the bargaining sessions knew it.

We bombed on toward our lunch stop for day one, the orphanage that the Six Day ride had been funding since its inception. Over the three years of the ride, Malcolm and Joyce Smith had contributed over $30,000 toward the building fund. What started as the vision of a small group of dedicated people had turned into a viable complex of buildings and facilities to serve the needs of young orphans from this entire region of Baja. One of the riders had taken up a collection at the rider’s meeting the night before we had started and had raised over $1,000 from the riders for a direct contribution to the kids. In addition to the cash, riders had brought along back pack loads of toys to pass out to the kids. With so many "children’s" charities being revealed to be mere fronts for the enrichment of the executive staffs, it was very gratifying to see our contributions making a direct impact on the kid’s lives.

The lunch was fantastic, with a special treat of being entirely vegetarian. I had come south with some trepidation regarding available foods. Not being a pathologically strict vegetarian, I eat whatever is available when I’m trapped without an alternative, and I do eat seafood, so I figured I’d survive. This was a real treat, with cheese enchiladas and a great selection of tasty dishes, all prepared without meat. It was a great meal, with the high point being a huge kettle of hot chocolate to warm our hypothermic bodies.

Jimmy appeared at lunch to draw out a map to the gas stop in town and a route to the chase truck road. Due to the unforeseen problems with the rivers that morning and the delays in rerouting the entire ride, it was so late in the day that the planned route via Mike’s Sky Ranch was dumped for the direct route to the coast via the chase truck road. But first, we had to get gas in town.

This gas stop featured more 55 gallon drums, more hand filled tanks, and equally dubious octane. However, the wait in line was made more bearable by the variety of cast off vehicles around the lot to examine. My favorite was a Peugeot 504 sedan silently parked around the fringe of the lot. Another abandoned Peugot, stripped of most essentials in a vain attempt to keep the main example running formed bookends around a line of other cast off four wheelers. I marveled at the perseverance required to keep one of these French four doors running in the wilds of Baja. They were ultimate orphan vehicles in the US, much less in the middle of nowhere, in northern Baja. I could just imagine the ordeal required purchasing simple things like shocks and brakes. My guess was it was finally parked with 74 Buick brake rotors and 78 Ford suspension bits grafted onto the undercarriage, but time demands prevented a close inspection.

By this time, the rain had passed and we were finally receiving enough sun to start to warm up. I unzipped the vents in my jacket and we headed west on the long run towards Hiway 1. About 30 miles down the road my ignition suddenly packed up. The bike started to cut out, and refused to run above about 1,500 rpm. At first I assumed it was bad gas, but began to doubt this diagnosis when I discovered that the bike would idle fine, and pull hard, as long as I kept the revs down. I sent Bob on ahead to enjoy the fire roads, and putted along pleasantly at whatever gear the bike would pull, usually fourth, sometimes fifth. I capitalized on the chance to enjoy the scenery instead of burning brain cells by running hard and simultaneously avoiding the deep chasms slicing into the road caused by the El Nino driven erosion.

The landscape was incredible, with amazing diversity. It was during this section that I began to notice that the entire desert, in fact the entire peninsula, was in bloom. If it was capable of creating and sustaining a blossom, it was in bloom during our visit. Entire valleys of cactus were sprouting flowers, and every corner offered new vistas of wide varieties of flowering plants. Once again, Malcolm’s promises of a surprisingly beautiful land were holding true.

We finally made it to Hiway 1, and I stopped to troubleshoot my bike. While I was swapping plugs with a spare that Bob had, a Honda Civic pulled up with a couple of kids from San Francisco. They were anxious to make it to the Bay of Cortez side, and were wondering if the road we had just come down would take them there. We eyed the low ground clearance of the car, and compared it with the boulder strewn river bottom we’d rode through a few miles back. We told the kids they’d better prepare for the long trip back North and around on the pavement, lest they be stranded as vulture bait somewhere in the interior.

After replacing the spark plug, on a whim, I lay down and looked up at the coil tucked under the gas tank. There was a wire dangling off of it. It looked like a connector had come loose somewhere along the trail. I reconnected the wire, kicked the bike, and presto-chango, bike-o! It was great to have the bike back, as I had spent the last 25 miles contemplating what it would take to swap out the ignition with the spare we had shipped down with the chase trucks.

We rode the pavement down to our night’s stop at the Old Mill Resort, hard along a bay on the Pacific. No destination had ever looked sweeter as we pulled into the lot. After our end of day maintenance chores of checking the oil, tightening the spokes, and lubing the chain we celebrated our good fortune of surviving day one with a cold beer and a long, Technicolor sunset.

As the riders trickled in off the trail, boots were drained and soaked socks, pants, gloves and jerseys appeared outside of each room, silent offerings to the evaporation gods. The vets conferred with knowing nods and murmured chuckles of shared moments and rueful predictions of more challenges to come. The rookies looked furtively at these grizzled veterans and exchanged looks of trepidation. If there were five more days of this…

At exactly 4:30am my eyes popped open. A few seconds later I heard the rooster crow again. Deciding it was a waste of time to try to fight it, Bob and I just got up and started to get ready for the day. As I walked outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten in the East. A ¾ moon shone brightly overhead, casting a blue light on the flittering bats in the hotel courtyard. We joined a couple of other early risers waiting outside the restaurant for it to open and spent our time admiring the mirror smooth bay at low tide.

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At breakfast we met Russell Ogilvie, a real estate developer from Shreveport, Louisiana. He was also a rookie, and we shared adventure stories from day one. The rivers were already getting deeper and wider, less than 24 hours later. Malcolm also stopped by and shared his river adventures from the previous day. He tried to wheelie across one of the water crossings, forgetting he was on a bone stock DR350 with a full, extra large gas tank. He told us all they could see disappearing downstream was the headlight and the top of his helmet.

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Malcolm soon departed, choosing to have the famous lobster omelets for breakfast at Mama Espinosa’s café in El Rosario. We gobbled down a quick breakfast and headed South. Our first stop was the scenic overlook at Seal Cave Point. There were beautiful views of the Pacific from the rocks, with the added bonus of my first sighting of migrating whales just offshore.

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From here we connected with a long route up a river wash, including daunting deep sand with boulders. We climbed up out of the valley on a nice fire road and stopped to admire the view back down the valley. We joined a group of riders who were video taping people coming up the road and offering running critiques on form and speed. Soon though, duty called and we charged onward.

I led this stage, and was really starting to feel good on the bike for the first time on the entire trip. Up to then, I’d felt pretty disconnected, and not into any kind of rhythm on the bike at all. This trail was a treat, riding the ridges of the high desert, with nice high speed berms and a perfectly twisting route through the cactus. After about 20 minutes I stopped to take a short break and wait for Bob. It was about 10 am, 21 miles since gas, it was raining again, and Bob wasn’t there. I waited about 10 long minutes before any riders came along. I asked each one passing, but they didn’t report anybody down, having trouble, or changing a flat. This was more troubling than hearing that he was fixing something. Broken in Baja is bad, but livable when there’s chase trucks, sweep riders and radios. AWOL in Baja is just plain bad.

After about 20 minutes Bob finally came down the trail and rolled gingerly to a stop. He related that he’d gotten a little out of shape, had run wide on a corner and T-boned a cactus and done a classic endo over the bars. Once he picked himself up, he walked off the distance and measured it at 35 feet from the bike and crushed cactus to the impact point where he’d come down on his shoulder. He said it felt like something was broken, but he had full range of movement, so we ruled out a collarbone. He said he felt like he could still ride, so I let him lead so I could be around if it got too painful. Bob is really smooth and fast on fire roads, and it wasn’t long before he was cruising pretty well. I pronounced his chances of living good, his chances of making the end of the day reasonable, and settled in to enjoy the trail and the scenery.

When we reached the next gas stop, a pair of riders pulled in behind us. Before long, Bob noticed that one of the riders had a rip in their brand new Gortex pack-jack. Upon further inspection, we discovered that every piece of fabric on both rider’s bodies was torn, scraped or shredded. We quickly learned that the pair, Jack and Darton Zink, father and son from Oklahoma, had just been run off the road by a semi they were passing. Just as they had gotten alongside, the truck had moved over into the oncoming lane to avoid some of the ubiquitous crater sized potholes in the right lane. Darton braked and swerved, and in doing so ran into his dad who was to his left and outside. Both went down at about 65 mph, and both miraculously got up and walked away. The truck stopped, but as soon as he saw they were ambulatory, the driver sped away. Amazingly, Darton’s helmet was unscathed, he had simply slid along the pavement until coming to a stop. A more blessed pair would have been hard to find on that morning.

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From gas, we moved on to the lunch stop, which was self serve sandwiches from the back of one of the chase trucks. It was there we learned that the crashing Zinks were none other than the owners of the Zink ranch in Oklahoma, hosts of the 1994 ISDE (International Six Days Enduro) and that Jack Zink had been the owner of the Indy winning Zink specials from the old roadster days at the speedway. I felt pretty stupid for not making the connection when we were talking with them at the gas stop, but you’d never imagine that someone so unassuming, kind and friendly as Jack Zink could carry so much history.

After lunch we rode high speed gravel for a few miles then cut off for a 30 mile run up a beautiful river canyon. Pictures could never capture how enchanting this trip was, winding back and forth through the stream, with the sounds of the bikes echoing off the canyon walls. We climbed out of the canyon onto some deep sand trails that led us back out to the hiway. It was on this stretch that I stood up in sand for the first time in my riding career. Up to then, I’d been a confirmed "back on the seat" rider in deep stuff, but I found the "up on the pegs" approach much easier, especially at high speeds. I had a blast chasing Bob, who has the luxury of living in Southern California and practicing in this kitty litter all the time. While not up to his velocity, I was feeling more and more comfortable in the deep, soft sand.

Once we reached the pavement we had a choice. We could either bail onto the road for the ride into the hotel, or ride another long section of deep sand whoops ending in a long rock section. Bob was in quite a bit of shoulder pain, so we elected to slab it in for the night. The road down into the Bay of Los Angeles was beautiful, especially the overlook just outside the city that offered stunning views of the bay and the many islands that host the world renowned array of sea life.

We pulled in and serviced the bikes quickly, and managed a couple of quick calls on the satellite phone. At $.50 a minute it was a real bargain, and the technology is really amazing. With a unit no bigger than the average laptop computer, you can make a direct call from anywhere to anywhere in the world. The clarity is better than most analog cell phones, and the delay is pretty short, especially considering the distances involved.

Bob and I were initially disappointed to learn we were next door at the Costa del Sol hotel, that is until we saw our room. It was literally brand new, and one of the support guys on the ride told us it was the best in Baja. We were in no place to judge, but it seemed like a reasonable ranking to us. Big beds, plenty of hot water and super clean. Who could ask for more?

While parking the bikes and unloading our bags we met three sport bike riders from San Diego. They knew one of the guys on our ride and had arranged their annual week long ride through Baja to intersect with us at this stop. Remembering some of the beautiful twisties we had been down, I felt a momentary pang of longing for one of their sport bikes. But then I remembered the rugged mountain trails, the desolate beauty of the interior, the entire desert in bloom, and decided that I had the better mode of two wheeled transport for the peninsula.

We had dinner at Guilermos with Don and Ed Mackey from Tucson, Arizona. Don owns the GMC dealership that provides the chase trucks, and we had a good time swapping war stories with he and Ed. Ed had twisted his ankle badly on day one, so was sitting out for the time being, hoping to heal up enough to ride some more later in the week.

As we rode the bikes back to the hotel after dinner, I reflected on the first couple of days. I was beginning to feel more comfortable on the bike, but was still coming to terms with this strange new land, and it’s long list of new and fascinating experiences. I had often wondered what the real Mexico was like, having only been exposed to the parallel universe version of Cancun. The interior of Baja gave me a mainline dose of reality, Baja style. I had found the people warm and friendly, the scenery overwhelming, and the riding full of endless challenges and rewards. There was a discovery around every corner, and so far, Baja was living up to every platitude that Malcolm had ever pronounced. I was looking forward to learning more about the land, the people, and the other riders. Up to now, it had been an experience centered around my struggles trying to get back up to speed after such a long layoff, my mutual experiences with Bob, and a few peripheral meetings and greetings with other riders. I was intrigued to see what the rest of the trip would bring in the way of personal discovery and social interaction.

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Today’s adventure was to accompany Malcolm as he led a group on a 30 mile trip down a section of the Baja 1000 course used in the 70’s. The route sheets said "ride ability-Medium." What I didn’t know then was that later I would think that Malcolm’s medium translates to somewhere between an A and AA enduro rider.

After a great breakfast on the beach, we joined up with Malcolm and the rest of the 15 or so intrepid souls on the guided tour and headed out. After a blast down some dusty gravel we turned off on the first loop. I was the third rider behind Malcolm and only one rider passed me on the twisting trail through the cactus and rocks. I was standing up in second gear and feeling pretty good. It was finally warm, so I had decided to ride without my Gortex ISDE jacket. The extra freedom of movement was great, but I was soon to regret my decision to put nothing but a jersey and body armor between me and the silent but deadly enemy.

On the second loop, my bike wouldn’t start after we had waited for all the riders to form up. My trusty DR has always been a one or two kick bike (except when you kill it halfway up a steep hill on a six inch trail with a rocky canyon on the right side of course, then it’s about a 25 kick bike), but for some reason, it had not been starting well on this entire trip. Some mornings it had taken me 5 minutes or more to get it going, and it was acting up again now, at the worst possible moment. By the time I got it going, everyone else had disappeared, and it was just me and the two sweep riders, waiting patiently for me to figure out how to start a four stroke single.

You must understand at this point that there is little in life that I hate more than to be backed up against sweep on the trail. I hate holding up other riders, and having someone looking over my shoulder as I struggle down a trail. Trying to make up time and catch the other riders I stormed off down the twisting, deep sand, single track trail peppered with large boulders snaking through the plentiful cactus. I did OK for the first couple of miles, but then ran wide avoiding a boulder and brushed a cactus with my left arm. Immediately, pain shot through my entire left side. I stole a glance down in between dodging rocks and cactus and saw a half dozen or so pear sized cactus grenades stuck to various parts of my left arm, shoulder, arm pit and chest. I desperately tried to grab them off with my throttle hand and throw them away, only to discover that they stuck to my throttle hand. Here I was, mid throttle in second gear, wildly shaking my right hand to rid myself of the cactus while simultaneously avoiding rocks and more cactus. Something had to give, so I promptly hit another cactus on the left side, followed by a limb about the size of a baseball bat directly across my left bicep.

Now, I would agree that the reasonable thing to do would have been to stop the bike, pull off the cactus grenades, get myself situated, and continue down the trail. This thought, however, did not cross my mind, as it would have violated the prime directive, which was to catch the riders in front of me, and avoid any contact with the following sweep riders at all costs.

By now, the pain was excruciating, my concentration was completely blown, and it was only a matter of time before I lost momentum, plowed wide on a corner, and low sided the bike narrowly avoiding yet another cactus. An application of my full repertoire of expletives failed to levitate the bike, so I reverted to picking it up by hand and leaning against it while I tried to pluck a couple of the more egregiously painful cactus bombs out of my armpit. Of course, it was at this moment that sweep arrived. I gamely mounted the bike and of course, it refused to start. In no time, I had used up my energy in a flurry of frantic kicks and sat panting on the seat imagining very special ways I was going to melt if for scrap when I got it back to the states. At this point one of the sweep riders offered to give it a try, and of course it started on the second kick for him. They exchanged knowing glances as I desperately spouted my bona fides of being able to ride the A loops on Malcolm’s dual sport rides. I cursed their mastery of the deep sand as I dog paddled down the trail, desperately trying to levitate the front end of the heavy DR up out of the sand so I could get it going in second gear. Instead, I only managed to low side it again, make it another quarter mile or so and then piled it onto a large bush alongside the trail.

This time, I didn’t even have time to pick it up. Sweep was right there, and just picked it up, started it, and handed it over. There’s nothing simultaneously better and worse in the life of a dirt rider than having sweep riders available to come along and rescue you in the middle of nowhere, and needing it. My confidence and self esteem lay in ruins as I duck waddled the last few hundred feet out to the road. I told Malcolm that I was bailing on the last section, I was just not up to riding it today. After they had pulled out, I told Bob that if there had been a plane right there, I would have gotten on it and flown home. I felt like I hadn’t ridden that poorly, at such a critical moment, since I started riding in the dirt three years earlier.

From there to lunch I was a lost cause. I couldn’t even ride on fire roads. I was running wide, missing apexes, target fixating, in short, doing just about every possible thing wrong there was to do wrong and still keep the bike upright. Fortunately, my long morning of anguish was relieved by a fantastic lunch at San Fransisquito. One of the world’s great hidden treasures this spot on the Sea of Corez features a small airstrip, where we fueled up, some rental cabanas and a small kitchen and outside, open eating area. There we were treated to grilled lobster tails that are worth the trip down, even if you have to hitch hike. While there we learned that on a previous year’s ride, the riders thought that the lunch was included and when Malcolm arrived the owner presented him with a bill for over $800. Quite a shock, since that year it was supposed to be "lunch on your own." We had no such worries, as Malcolm and Joyce had cut a volume deal with the owner, and we reaped the rewards in great food and spectacular views.

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The water was aquamarine, the beach fine white sand, and the relaxation limitless. The cabanas were rented by some folks from California who had fishing gear, dirt bikes and bathing suits. Truly the ideal vacation.

After lunch we were treated to some great roads on the way to El Arco. High speed sand with nice berms allowed me to start to get back into a comfort zone and begin to feel comfortable on the bike again.

We passed through an enchanting abandoned mining town with the usual assortment of perfectly preserved skeletons of 40’s, 50’s and 60’s autos. All through our trip we’d see these abandoned bodies littering the landscape, some in places you had to struggle to get to on a dirt bike. How they ever got a mid 50s sedan there, I’ll never know. Every one of them was tipped on its side, and looked like some type of mutant dung beetle had stripped it. The only things left were the frames and the bodies. There were no drivetrains, suspensions, doors, dashes, guages, headliners, interiors, trim, gas tanks, etc. on anything left in the open for longer than 24 hours, no matter how remote the area. I was filled with visions of giant radioactive beetles, the result of some late 40s weapons experiment gone terribly wrong, gathered in a cave wrenching together wild custom rods from all the pieces they had stripped off of the thousands of bodies littering the desert.

We stopped in the little village of El Arco to take a break and catch a drink. Some of the other riders resting there struck up a conversation with a small boy they recognized from previous rides. Don Mackey gave him a Powerbar, which he spent a long time devouring, savoring every exotic bite.

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From there we rode fire roads to the pavement, then on into San Ignacio to the Hotel La Pinta. This had been the first day without rain, and thus, the first day with the dusty conditions I expected from Baja. I figured it would be a good time to change the oil & filter along with the air filter. Imagine my surprise when I popped off the air filter chamber cover and managed to dig out about a cup of gravel and sand. My guess was that a lot of it had washed in there when the bike had taken its river cruise on day one, but there was no way to know for sure. It had been detonating terribly since then, and was way down on power. I was hoping that the clean air filter and clear air box would cure these ills. The oil looked black as tar, and I was also hoping that a fresh load would keep the motor together for a few more days. That morning before we left for the day, Wayne, one of the support riders and mechanics at Malcolm’s dealership, had heard my motor hammering and stuck his ear up to it. He asked me to put it into gear and let out the clutch slowly, loading up the engine. Wham, wham, wham, the motor responded, just like usual, although it was getting a little louder as the trip went on. Wayne took on that detached professional look that mechanics and doctors share at expensive moments like this and pronounced "sounds like a rod bearing." He added "About all you can do is ride it until it goes at this point." It was not a great way to start the day, and after punctuating this beginning by perforating the left side of my body with a couple of hundred cactus needles later in the morning, I was ready to write off the whole day and flush the memory with a couple of beers.

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After quickly cleaning up we ventured into town toward Reba’s for some seafood. Along the way Bob and I stopped at the old Cathedral on the square and wandered inside. The choir was practicing in another section of the compound, and the hymns they were singing made perfect accompaniment to our meditations as we pondered the generations that had passed through this church; baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals, generation after generation. The sense of community, continuity and permanence were overwhelming. While the architecture reminded both of us of visits to similar cathedrals in Europe, the culture, the paintings, the surroundings and the soundtrack were uniquely Mexico.

Dinner at Reba’s was boisterous, as 35 to 40 riders descended on the unsuspecting owners, all lusting for cold drinks and hot food. We ate dinner with Randy Lewis, and after sharing trail stories for a while (by now the rivers were ¼ mile wide and 12 feet deep) we learned that he was a former F3000 and CART driver. I was very in tune with those motorsports series during his era, so I was very familiar with the names, tracks, owners and incidents that filled his war stories. My favorite involved James Hunt, a well known British Formula One ace who was renowned for his hijinks. It seems that James had the bright idea of spreading a 33 gallon drum of oil around a traffic circle that functioned as the finish line for local Italian hot shoes after they raced down a mountain. Randy and James spent their evening watching the locals spin and slide into the bay on the far side of the roundabout. We got the feeling we were just scratching the surface of the wild times during that period of racing before political correctness took all the characters and spontaneity out of the sport.

On the short ride back to the hotel through the cool night air I pondered the day and the ride. The losses were starting to mount. The rental bikes were going down left and right, with the casualties being cannibalized to keep other bikes running. It was beginning to resemble a WWII fighter base, with stripped chassis lashed to the support trailer, their donor organs transplanted into bikes still in the fight. So far there’d been an assortment of crushed rims, twisted shift shafts, folded bars, disintegrating shocks, smashed bodywork, broken levers, etc. On the human front there was a pretty good assortment of cactus victims like myself, who all looked like we’d been shot up by a nail gun at six paces. More serious injuries included Ed Mackey’s ankle, Bob’s shoulder, probably a dozen other minor bumps and bruises we didn’t know about, and most seriously, John Rockland. Rocky, as he was known to everyone, was 72 years old, and a veteran of this ride. His clothing company had supplied the momento shirts for the ride, featuring a motocycling theme. He had flown in from Hawaii along with his son, for this annual adventure. Earlier in the day, he’d run wide into some rocks and hurt his shoulder and his hip. It didn’t sound extremely serious, but it was enough to end his ride. We were all saddened, for we figured as long as Rocky was in and riding, none of the rest of us had any excuses.

As we neared the hotel, I realized that the biggest challenge of the trip for me wasn’t the riding, it was in simply accepting Baja for what is was, and not to subconsciously overlay American values and norms on it. It was a land of many contradictions: tin shacks and satellite dishes, military checkpoints and overwhelming friendliness, exotic foreignness and comforting familiarity, grinding poverty and an emerging middle class. If I could just get my expectations and projections out of the way, I felt like Baja had a story for me. As we pulled into the hotel, I was hoping that it would be revealed sometime in the next three days.

After another night of restless sleep and wild dreams, Bob and I beat the alarm clock again and got up and around early. By this point, we were both ready to build shrines to the glory of Gold Bond medicated powder and Cortisone creme. Malcolm and Jimmy had recommended these wonder products as ways to ward off the evils of monkey butt on this long ride. I had experienced none of the usual itching, soreness and chafing that I usually got after a simple 500 mile dual sport, and we were well over halfway down the peninsula and our 1,300 mile ride. My recommendation is: if you’re going to put in some serious miles, don’t leave home without them.

After doing our monkey butt rituals and prepping our gear, I stepped out of the room to drag my gear bag up to the front of the hotel. What should greet my eyes but one of the two hand trucks the staff used to move bags around the hotel. I quickly reminded myself that being the first ones up and moving does have its privileges. I quickly liberated it and used it to move our bags out to the chase trucks, then parked it in front of Malcolm’s room next to ours, so he could use it when they got up and around.

We had nice roads out to the Pacific, and rode 40 to 50 miles along the tidal salt flats. This was an area that we were again amazed by our intrepid guide, Jimmy Sones. It is endless tracks of flat, featureless nothing, punctuated by short outcroppings, scrub brush and a million different routes, tracks and trails through it all. Just about the time you were convinced you were lost forever, and they’d never even find your bones picked clean by the ever present vultures, you’d see a wonderful, priceless pink ribbon fluttering in the breeze. By the second day we stopped calling them ribbons and simply referred to them by the same phrase as everyone else: "thank you Jimmies." I can’t tell you how many scores of times I sang the words "Thank You Jimmy!" down the length of Baja, but I can tell you it was a wonderful chorus, with 60 thankful voices repeating the same lyrics, over and over. Jimmy was a very popular guy among the riders, and absolutely revered among the rookies. I’ll never know how he could find his way through this maze in the dark at 3am.

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We rode along the Baja 1000 route that tracked through this bewildering array of roads, trails, tracks and dead ends. Later I learned that they run this section of the race at night, at speeds of up to 145 mph and higher. I have no idea how they stay on course, and I’m not in a big hurry to find out, either.

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We rode out to Scorpion Bay Bar and Grill at Punta Pequena for lunch. This is a dream spot, run by an expatriate named Jim who escaped San Diego about 12 years ago. It took him about 4 years to get the permits and several years to build, but now he’s got a wonderful open air restaurant overlooking the Pacific and the bay. He knew no Spanish when he moved there, yet met and married a local lady and now has a young child. He said he speaks very little English now except when tourists are around. After a quick lunch of shrimp tacos and incredible views, we left Jim to his dream life and hopped down to the beach.

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We rode the beach about 20 miles, frolicking in the surf, stopping for pictures and to soak up the views. Along the way we rode past vultures stripping a huge sea turtle, a shark and a small seal. When we ran out of beach, we had to make the climb up the dunes and back to the roads. The run was through a mud hole, up a steep section about 20’ high, then another 100’ or so to the top. It was all very soft, deep sand and only the very good riders in the group rode the whole way. The rest of us made it up the first steep section and walked our bikes up the rest of the way. By the top, my legs felt like lead weights, but I recovered quickly and said many prayers of thanks for the months of working out I had invested before the ride.

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From there we rode to an incredible oasis valley filled with date palms. Nestled in this greenery was the little town of San Miguel de Comondu. This perfectly preserved 200 year old town was a typical, hidden jewel on this Malcolm Smith trip that only those who had spent half their lives traipsing around Baja would know about. We stopped to take a break and instantly some locals appeared. Although we knew no Spanish and they knew little English, we had a broken conversation about the bikes and the town. It was one of my favorite experiences of the entire trip. The casual history of the town, the openness and friendliness of the people, and the unspoiled beauty of the oasis valley all formed a microcosm of my experiences of the week.

The route then led us down excellent trails and fire roads to Loreto. The last 40 miles or so were especially fun and challenging. The roads twisted through some tight mountain canyons and featured roadside shrines to locals who had perished on the steep cliffs. It wasn’t hard to imagine some additions to the local shrine collection as the road was like riding on greased marbles and was filled with off camber turns, hidden decreasing radius turns and enough four wheeler traffic to keep the pucker factor high. Many curses were muttered over beers that night about this section.

Loreto was the first big town we stayed in, with about 7,000 residents. The feel was very different from the entirely rural areas, and I began to offer up my first mournings for the relatively quiet and unspoiled Northern areas of Baja. Still, it was an inviting destination, with enough retail and middle class resources to sustain mainstream gringos for a typical vacation week. Once we got in, I prepped and washed the bike, dumped my gear and rode to a local grocery store to pick up some film. It was a thoroughly modern place, with a great selection of product and all the modern conveniences. I appreciated the laser scanner at the checkout, but missed the charm of the single room stores we’d seen in the small hamlets.

Bob and I had dinner in town, then stopped by the new home of one of the riders. Cam had just completed his beautiful home on the beach just North of town, and this was his first party. I can’t imagine having sixty Baja Six Day riders as my first guests in my new beachfront home, but Cam seemed to enjoy it, along with everyone else. When we were ready to leave, Bob’s bike refused to fire up. His electric starter had quit after his major endo on day two, so he was using the kick start that he had added to the motor a few days before the trip. Good planning. After he had winded himself with 40 kicks or so trying to get it to turn over, I pulled a "sweep" on him and started it on the second kick. I had the distinct feeling he was tempted to kill me in my sleep for it, but then he’d never learn the secret to how I did it. Knowledge is power.

As we rode back into town, the stars burning millions of holes through the black sky above us, I was beginning to feel at home. I was comfortable on the bike, and was becoming comfortable with myself and with these new and friendly surroundings. Somehow the electric dreams, the desolate beauty, the physical exertion, the camaraderie, the new experiences, the fresh air, the great food, the overwhelming scenery, long periods of intense concentration and the incredible riding were combining into a powerful cathartic experience. I could feel that I was going to come out of this different than I went in, and I was confident it was going to be a positive outcome.

I sat outside our room in Loreto and watched the sky brighten with the sunrise as last night’s load of intense dreams slowly dissipated out of my head. My mood was bittersweet. I looked forward to another day of challenging riding, but knew that the trip was drawing to a close, and that today would be the last day of real riding, with tomorrow being a more scenery oriented cruise down the coast. Although I hadn’t started the subconscious ramp up to the return to reality yet, I could feel the end of a special time approaching. I committed myself to breathing deeply the smell of every sweet flower left in this journey, and concentrated on soaking up the moments of the sunrise over the still bay and the sounds of the awakening songbirds.

After breakfast we dropped our gear bags at the chase trucks and headed for breakfast. We were still trying to figure out how the bags got so much lighter overnight. At the end of the day’s ride, when we pulled in and had to carry them to our rooms, they weighed a ton, but by morning, they seemed to have gotten 10 pounds lighter. It was a mystery we would never solve.

Another mystery soon surfaced to take its place. Bob’s bike was dead. Just like last night, it wouldn’t fire, not even when I applied the magic boot. We enlisted Wayne to do some quick troubleshooting. While I pulled the headlight cover off and reseated all the connectors, he traced down the wiring loom. He quickly located a broken terminal on the battery cable. After a quick crimp of a new connector we were off and running. The serendipity of the cable failing at the exact place where we could fix it easily was typical of our luck throughout the trip. It could just as easily have gone south in the middle of nowhere, miles from a road where we could access a chase truck. Bob’s good fortune with bike failure location would follow him throughout the remainder of the trip.

I led us back out of town and managed to miss the turnoff back out the greasy marble fire road. It’s not a great way to start the day by losing half an hour on a bike fix and another 15 minutes on a blown turn. We felt like we were well behind the pack by the time we headed up the canyons. The road, although still slippery, was a lot more fun this morning. Being well rested and charged up made a huge difference. It was quite a contrast compared to coming down the mountain after over 200 miles of hard riding the day before.

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We worked our way down some fire roads and some trails to our first stop, the old Cathedral at the San Javier Mission. I was cursing myself for being a typical mono-lingual American, as I couldn’t understand a word the lady who gave tours was saying. It didn’t stop me from being impressed with the preserved heritage from the mission’s founding in the 1750s. After too few minutes admiring the interior, I bounded out and we continued on, as always cheered on by the local kids and their pleas of "wheelie, wheelie, wheelie."

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We ran down trails to the pavement and followed hiway 1 to Ciudad Constitution. This was a large, industrial city with a pretty gritty feel. Bob was leading and just about out of town when we finally spotted the taco stand surrounded by bikes. We took this as a solid sign of where to go to enjoy the best lunch around and pulled in. We joined the queue of about 15 riders waiting patiently for a lady to cook every taco to order on a little grill measuring about 24 inches by 18 inches. Russell and I tried for chicken tacos. I managed to get one after about 20 minutes, he finally gave up and ate a powerbar.

After finishing Brian Pietak, Russell’s roommate who we’d been riding with the last couple of days, discovered that he had a flat tire. As the rest of the field pulled away, we stayed and did a quick tube swap. Another pair of riders who had come back when they discovered they too had an airless rear tire quickly joined us. While Bob and Brian worked on the flat, Russell and I concentrated on trying to keep our gear safe from the most precocious, sticky fingered child we encountered on the entire trip. She had been working her way through everyone’s gear all through lunch, trying on goggles, running around with helmets, rifling through jackets, etc. Now she was alternating between unloading and scattering the contents of my tool pack and dispensing the contents of my jacket over the ground. Bob finally displayed some ingenuity and creative thinking by giving her a powerbar to keep her occupied for a few minutes. It was just in time, as I was beginning to think we’d spend the rest of the trip trying to keep Russell from being lynched for murdering this little kid.

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Finally aired up and free of the congestion of the city, we headed south on the hiway. About 32 miles down we met up with Malcolm and the support trucks. Malcolm was leading the final group of riders down to the coast and the beach. Bob decided that his shoulder wasn’t up to another soft sand pounding, and chose discretion over valor. The rest of us headed to the coast with Malcolm. I knew there was deep sand, single track trails ahead. I knew I would have to once again weave through the cactus to get down to and up off the beach. I also knew I was a lot better rider than I had been earlier in the week when I’d become puncture wound poster boy. And above all else, I knew I had to redeem myself for failing to make it through with Malcolm earlier in the week. I didn’t want to get on the plane knowing that I’d not been able to make it down a deep sand trail. Call me stubborn and you’d be right. I was just hoping you wouldn’t need to call me suicidal.

The blast down to the coast went by quickly. We ended up down at the water’s edge, where Malcolm told us a little about the geography of the area. This was to be repeated throughout the afternoon. Every few miles, Malcolm would stop, let the group form up, and share some tidbit he’d learned from his decades of romping around the peninsula. Soon we were on the Baja 1000 course, flying down the trail and banking off the berms for miles and miles. I had Brian ride behind me to give me pointers on riding in the sand. He’s spent years as a desert racer, so it was like having a private coach. It was the first time when having someone right on my tail didn’t bother me. It was fun, and I felt a lot faster and more comfortable at the end of the section. For the last two miles of really tight, twisty single track through the deep sand I had to go pretty slow. My bike’s detonation hadn’t gotten any better, and I was fighting with the narrow rpm range that I could use and not risk blowing the head off out in the middle of no mans land. While watching Malcolm ride through this on his bone stock DR350, I could see how he made it look so effortless. He was instantly up on the pegs, instantly in 2^nd gear, and turned the bike by rotating his hips, and little blips of throttle. Meanwhile, I was dog paddling down the trail, being limited by my confidence. If I went fast enough to plane the front tire above the sand, I exceeded my confidence in being able to make the tight turns. As it turned out, I was able to get through the last section with no falls, and joined the others at the top of the sand cliffs above the beach.

I felt triumphant. I had made it through with no falls, and without holding up the group too much. Next, however, I knew I had to make it down the 100’ high, nearly vertical face of the sand cliff down to the beach. For some reason, I feared this a lot less than the deep sand. Throttle up, back on the pegs, and it was no big deal. The only surprise was that at the bottom of the cliff you had to climb up another short ridge and then get down to the beach. I made it with no problems. Another triumph!

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I celebrated my good fortune with a long run down the beach at high speeds, with periodic stops to admire the scenery and listen to the waves. This beach had small dunes running perpendicular to the water line that formed perfect jumps. The game was to see if you could jump longer than the tracks already in the sand. I did great until I let my concentration wander and was surprised by a much steeper dune than the others. I was in a full scale flying W before I knew it, but luckily came back down more or less on the bike and kept it up. Good thing as it would have been pretty embarrassing to explain how I’d wadded my bike in fourth gear on a deserted beach.

All too soon we ran out of navigable beach and headed back up to the Baja 1000 course. We rode this for many more pleasurable miles until we found ourselves on fire roads back to the chase trucks and hiway one. We topped off with fuel and drinks, and I headed on in to LaPaz.

Just outside of town I passed through a Federales check point. We’d gone through at least one a day all through the trip. Some of them were out in the toolies in the middle of nowhere. I felt sorry for the troops at those stations, with no shade, no diversions, no nothing but scrub desert and mind numbing traffic checks. At one checkpoint earlier in the week, there was a lone soldier, apparently the one who drew the short straw, checking traffic, while everybody else played soccer. At today’s checkpoint, the only one I went through alone, the officer was more interested in checking out my bike than my passport. He quickly waved me through and I proceeded on into town.

I managed to miss the turn, and had to find my way through the city to our bay front hotel. As luck would have it, the street I’d decided to take my chances on, came out right next to the hotel. I located the compound behind the hotel holding the bikes and did my nightly maintenance. Bob soon appeared on the balcony above and I gave him a quick review of the highlights of the afternoon’s 130 mile beach loop ride. Malcolm even yelled up to Bob that I had "done great," thus cementing his position in my personal pantheon of heroes.

I spoke with Malcolm quite a bit during breaks while we were out on the trail and later in the compound with the bikes. He was great about sharing riding tips out on the trail and helping me to become better in the deep sand. Once, when we pulled up and regrouped I commented on how easy he made it look, and how he and the other good riders didn’t work that hard. He replied, "you know, I haven’t sweated once on this whole ride." Just like watching professional golfers on TV, these guys just make it look so easy. If I didn’t like him so much, I’d hate him for being so good!

As we were putting the bikes away for the night, I remarked to Malcolm that I was kind of sorry to see the ride end, and from the riding ability and comfort standpoint, I’d like to be starting the week right now. Malcolm related how during his string of consecutive gold medals people would ask him "how can you do the entire six days?" of the ISDE. He told them that "by the end, you were so in tune with the motorcycle you felt like you could just keep going." Although on a completely different level of riding ability (think light years), I could relate to his story. I was totally in tune with my bike, and felt fine physically. If I had the chance, I would have kept going for another week, if for no other reason, just to see how much better I could get. But we all knew this would be the last time we’d tighten the spokes and lube the chains, the last time we’d swap trail stories with fellow riders over the first cold beer, the last time we’d eat fresh seafood by the ocean, the last time we’d say our good nights and re-ride the day’s course in our dreams, and the last time we’d wake up to the cocks crowing and watch the Baja sun chase the moon from the sky. The six days of Baja was coming to a close, but not before another day of beauty, drama and surprises.

"When you swing your leg over the seat on day five or six, that’s when you find out if you really like riding dirt bikes." Russells words from a few days ago rang in my ears as I saddled up for day six and the scenic cruise to Cabo San Lucas. The hotel compound was already teeming with riders as we kicked our bikes to life for the final time. As I warmed up the thumper, its big single piston providing a reassuring pulse to my thoughts, I was taken by how strange the next days would be without the rhythm that we had fallen into: pull in, oil the chain while the bike is still running to turn the wheel, check the oil before it drains into the crankcase, check and change the air filter, check and tighten the spokes, pick up the gear bag from the trailer, check in, shower, change into civilian clothes, toast to the days ride, swap lies, hit the sack early, rise with the chickens (literally), put on the gear, watch the sunrise, eat breakfast, ride, repeat.

I knew I would miss this daily routine, and I would miss the direct connection I had with my bike. I was torn between wishing I could start over, and feeling like this was the right time to end this adventure, celebrate it, and move on to the next chapter. I must have been pondering this pretty heavily as I led the group out of town since I blew past our turn and ended up way out of town. Once again I had managed to waste 20 minutes just getting us started in the morning. The word is now out, Hackney doesn’t drink caffeine, under no circumstances let him lead in the mornings, lest you wander the outback of Baja for hours searching in vain for "thank you Jimmies".

We finally found our way back onto the route and headed south along the coast road. This day had been billed as one filled with spectacular scenery and it did not disappoint. We were soon on a narrow dirt road clinging to the cliffs along the Sea of Cortez. You had two choices: go fast, enjoy playing with the dirt and miss the view, or go slow, spend a lot of time gawking and still risk your life running off a cliff while you stare into the crystal clear aquamarine water. I tended toward the latter and let Russell and Bob run off and play fire road racer.

About 50 miles in we took a little side road down onto a short beach run. On the Pacific side the sand is hard packed and easy to ride on, on the Sea of Cortez side, where we were, the sand is almost universally soft and deep, as was this short one or two mile section. Just before we dropped down onto the sand we met a Honda towing out a CCM. Both riders waved us on to assure us this was the correct way. Perhaps we should have taken the seized CCM as an omen, but we were all still glassy eyed from the views, and were itching to get down into the surf one last time.

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As soon as we dropped into the sand, I stopped to take a couple of pictures while the others rode on ahead. As I put my camera back into the fanny pack and looked down the beach I saw a huge cloud of white smoke. My mind, like most others, tried desperately to fit this unusual site into its entire range of previous experience. The best I could come up with was "maybe someone’s boiling some fish." Pretty lame, I admit. I fired up the bike and plowed on down through the sand to the far end of the beach. At the exit I saw a bunch of riders looking at a broken bike. Aha! I thought, this must be the source of the white cloud. As I got closer, I realized it was Bob’s bike they were examining. "Not so good", my synapses managed to put together.

At first glance, I feared the worst. It looked very expensive. The engine was entirely covered in oil, along with the gas tank, the seat, and everything back of the oil cooler mounted to the frame ahead of the cylinder head. One of the guys had a long nylon strap and had scouted out an easy path to get the bike out to the chase road just off the beach. Bob had to eat sand from the XR600 as it dragged him out, but it was a lot easier than pushing it, and he was only a couple of hundred yards from the road. Again, serendipity shone on Bob’s DR. We could have been in the absolute middle of nowhere with a 35 mile tow staring us in the face with my measly eight foot tow straps. Instead we had a 300 yard tug with a luxurious 35 foot strap and a 600 to do it with.

After a quick examination, I suspected a split oil cooler line or a cracked oil line fitting. (An actual post mortem revealed that the breather tube fitting had simply been blown off by the crankcase pressure. A zip tie would have prevented it, the factory wire clamp proving inadequate for the modified motor. Had we known what to look for, we could have fixed it in 30 seconds.) Bob insisted he was fine waiting for the chase truck alone, so we left him with plenty of water and powerbars and set off down the road. A few miles later I was seized with the realization that I had not left the snakebite kit behind, but assuaged my guilt by assuring myself that Bob could fend off any reptiles with his tire irons.

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Exactly 11 miles later we came around the last tight curve of the coast road to find a collection of 20 or so riders. We quickly learned that a rider on an XR400 had run off the cliff on the outside of the corner and broken his hand. Everybody there had the same thoughts: 1. Better day six than day one. 2. Better him than me 3. The bike is rideable. It’s the same kind of bizzare rationale you find in fighter squadrons in wartime. "Just put me back on my bike" being the official tag line of the event, we all briefly considered strapping him back on with duct tape, but thought better of it when we saw the unique orientation of the bones in the back of his hand.

Fortunately an American passerby (there were distinct advantages to being very close to civilization at this point) knew of a vacationing American orthopedic surgeon. They drove the stricken rider to the doc, piled the doc in the sport utility, drove them both to the local hospital where the doc persuaded the locals to let him work, and he promptly rearranged the broken bones and wrapped up the stricken rider. Life is so cool sometimes.

By this time we were already at lunch at Calafias in Boca del Alamo and Bob had been picked up by the chase truck. When the chase truck arrived at the now lonely XR400 some very simple math solved Bob’s problem. His stricken DR continued on lashed to the bed of the chase truck while the XR became the subject of some impromptu competitive product evaluation. By the time he hit lunch Bob was back in the swing of things, and happy to get the chance to finish out the ride on two wheels.

The lunch at Calafia’s was spectacular. It was hard to decide what was better, the view of the ocean, the cheese and shrimp stuffed peppers, or the company of Mike Quade, a once and present racer currently living in the area and still racing desert buggies. He hadn’t seen Malcolm in over 15 years and was hanging out waiting for him to arrive. I wished we had the time to hang around and listen to them relive the glory years when they were both racing and winning at warp speed on bikes that had 1/10^th the suspension travel of what we took for granted today.

Over lunch we discussed the mysteries of the day. We had all passed a guy walking barefoot through the gravel along the coast road, carefully carrying a pair of cowboy boots. On the run into town we’d passed a bunch of guys blocking the road with a car they were pushing back and forth across the lanes. One of them was standing in his underwear in the left lane with his pants down to his ankles waving a white t-shirt around his head. I was desperately curious to find out what the story was, but lacked the suicidal tendencies to stop and ask.

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After we’d filled our bellies with one last load of spectacular fresh seafood lunch, we headed south on the coast road. We spent the next few hours marveling at the clarity and clearness of the water, the whiteness of the sand and the beautiful expanses of the Sea of Cortez. Once we got into civilization, Bob and Russell stopped to get a cold soda to cut the dust. I decided to soldier onward. I was anxious to get to the hotel and see my wife, who had come down with some of the other ladies to enjoy the fruits of Cabo while we masochists were off testing our mettle in the wilds of Baja. I also felt bored by the increasing levels of civilization, and just wanted to get it over with. I wasn’t physically worn out, or even tired, but the comparatively crowded surroundings left me a little depressed. I missed the rugged beauty and desolation of the unpopulated North.

After finding my way through Cabo San Juan it was only a short hop down the four lane to our hotel, the Los Missiones Del Cabo. The entrance road, the hotel desk, the patio and the sidewalk were all clearly flagged, all the way into the semi trailer that was being used to transport the bikes back to Rancho Santa Veronica, our origin that seemed so many lifetimes and light years away. Jimmy was there sweating away loading bikes along with some other early arrivals. I was happy to see I was among the first ones home, but also anxious to get my gear off and find my wife and a cold beer.

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I located both in short order, the beer in the fridge of our condo and my wife hanging at the pool with some of the other wives. Gabrielle, the wife of one of the Arizona gang, deadpanned "is this one yours?" as I plodded up in my boots and gear, road weary and covered with a fine patina of Baja dust. My wife tipped up her hat and smiled. "Yes, that one’s mine" Stephanie replied. The first kiss was great, the second one much better.

After a long, hot, lingering shower I got cleaned up and we joined the other riders, wives and girlfriends for the awards banquet at the stunning Di Giorgios restaurant at the hotel. This open air restaurant, just down the hill from the hotel, has a commanding view of the long crescent beach leading into Cabo San Lucas as well as the peninsula that marks the southernmost tip of Baja California. As the sun slowly set on this last day of our adventure, we all shared in the glory of a successful finish, embellished each others lies, and provided sober testimony as to the veracity of our partners stories of boiling rivers 75 feet wide and 14 feet deep. As Malcolm finally took the stage and presented the awards I was struck by how little I got to know most of the riders. Russell and Brian were the only two that I came to know in any depth. If I had any regret from the trip, this proved to be it. I resolved that when I returned, I would devote more time to seeking out and coming to know as many other riders as possible over the six days.

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We had all made it. All 1,370 miles down the length of Baja California. 1,370 miles of dirt, rocks, water, snow, mud, beach, low octane, powerbars, fresh seafood, crowing roosters, glowing sunsets, cold cervezas, Federale checkpoints, high speed berms, raging rivers, Thank You Jimmies, get offs, low sides, high sides, endos, flying Ws, bruises, emergency welds, scavenged parts, smiles, laughs, powerbars, camel backs, vultures, shared adventures, cliffs, friendly locals, stunning views, deep sand, cactus, hard starts, sudden stops, tin shacks, rouge semis, white beaches, satellite phones, timeless desert, cactus forests, grilled lobster tails, borrowed bikes and deep satisfaction. All of us shared a common bond, and even as we said our good-byes the next morning, we knew that no one could ever re-create this unique time, or ever take it away.

Douglas Hackney
Hudson, WI
5/98