Thanksgiving in Baja

[wsmc99 0]

LOL! My god, did you tighten anything before you left?

Hair dryer, really? ;-)

So are we combining forces next year? 12 riders, 9 days, lots of dirt, night riding, trail terrors, losts souls and happy to be alive binge drinking? Oh yes, it will be fun!

[OUTERLIMITS 0]

It's back to Highway 3 as we make our way down to San Felipe. There's a military checkpoint at El Chinero so we pull up and wait for a signal. John-Mark is at the front so the soldier insists he takes off his helmet and it sounds to me like he's demanding his "cartera" -- wallet. Perhaps there's some colloquial translation for it that I don't know so I take off my helmet and say "Hola!" The guy turns to me and asks if I speak Spanish. I shrug my shoulders and say "a little" and he asks where we're from. I tell him San Diego and he points at our bikes and says, "On these?" Sensing his mild incredulity, I answer yes and go into a pitiful story of how its been a long, painful ride and how we've lost a bunch of parts from our bikes. Somehow he infers that I've crashed and instead of correcting him I let the fictional tale of woe wrap up our "inspection." Britt wants to take a photo of the checkpoint. I ask the soldier if it's ok but he says no, although another one seems like he's about to say yes. Rather than piss anyone off by pressing for one little harmless piccy, I thank them and we head off for San Felipe.

The Federales are usually better to deal with than the cops, but still worth bypassing wherever possible (dry lake bed!). I've also been poked and prodded there, some might say hassled. It's true that most of the time they will not allow pictures, but as the checkpoints get further from main intersections and such, they will loosen up substantially. There is a story on Thumpertalk of a checkpoint somewhere in the Gonzaga Bay area where a "trade" was made. The trade being, let me ride your bike a little and I'll let you shoot a few rounds from my gun behind the hills. As crazy as it sounds, the guy got pictures of the whole ordeal.

So no wheelies for the troops????

[drknow 0]

Day 4: Gonzaga bay, to Coco's Corner, then back to San Felipe

We woke up to a very consistant wind, blowing some 25+ mph south. We later figured out it was what the Santa Anas feel like in Baja, who knew? Originally, we had planned to head to Calamajue and back, but since we were postponed, decided we'd just head down to Coco's corner and tic that off of our been-there-done-that list. Coco was still in the hospital, so none of the girls donated any panties or anything, but it was still fun to look at the place in real life, read some of the grafitti/inscriptions/memorabilia and have a beer.

Initially, I though the wind might not be a bad idea, as the dust could be pretty nasty when things were calm and four bikes go rippin through. However, once again I was proved wrong. Due to the almost directly south nature of the wind, and our almost directly Northward travel, the wind served to keep the dust in the air longer, allowing all of us to bask in the dusty goodness of the road back. Note to self: take a better dusk mask next time.

One of the decisions we made before the trip was to keep our tires inflated with very high pressures (32 psi) to keep the rim bending and all manner of flats to a minimum. So far it had been successful, but with the obvious consequence of a rather substantial lack of traction and increase in bump transmission.

Due to Britt's light weight and her bikes ultra light weight, this was a dumb idea for her, but she didn't really complain about it until we started back from gonzaga north. At one of our stops, she said the bike was practically unrideable and very uncomfortable, so I offered to switch bikes with her, warning her that my bike was a good 80 lbs heavier.

It became VERY obvious that her bike was not set up well at all. I stopped and took 10 psi out of her tires, which transformed the motorcycle. I then got to rip around on her bike on the whole windy trip back to San Felipe, retracing our steps.

Other than the bead blasting that our faces took on the way back once we hit pavement, the rest of the day was unremarkable, with one exception. I discovered Herradura Tequila. If you have never tried it, I urge you to, as you are simply missing out. It is WAAAY too good to be wasted in mixed drinks, and makes the idea of a sipping tequila something to be relished. I'm sure you can probably buy it here, but I've never seen it.

We went back to the same hotel at San Felipe, and after showers looked for a new restaurant. We lucked out this time, and anyone going to San Felipe should most definitely hit Chuey's. It's one street off the main street one the water, on the north side of the main street in.

dk

[piratemonkey 0]

So are we combining forces next year? 12 riders, 9 days, lots of dirt, night riding, trail terrors, losts souls and happy to be alive binge drinking? Oh yes, it will be fun!

I'll pack the hairdryer and Loctite.

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 3: San Felipe to Bahía San Luis Gonzaga.

After breakfast, John-Mark has an announcement to make to us: He found his phone wadded up in some clothing. Although he didn't like the phone and was prepared to replace it with something sexier, it meant for now he didn't have to spend another few hundred dollars when he got home. Margaritas all around!

We head back south on Highway 3. After about an hour the pavement disappears in Puertecitos and we're staring at a stop sign and "private property" in big handwritten letters. Did we turn somewhere wrong? How could we have when there was absolutely nowhere to turn? There's a bit of traffic passing through so we decide to continue on. If someone wanted us to stop, they were welcome to chase us down.

The road winds along the mountainside and has a nice view of the ocean. There are only two problems with this scenic road: big jagged rocks and smooth-half hidden rocks. The former want to rip your tires up, while the latter want to catch you out at speed and pretzel your rims. John-Mark disappears immediately as he's on a search for a little privacy to deal with a little intestinal mayhem. Britt, Mr. Michigan and I motor along, stopping occasionally to attend to one thing or another. Britt sheds her jacket in the heat, I take a picture here and there, and Mr. Michigan tries to recover a few items that have fallen out of his bag. (He doesn't find his tubes of JB Weld, but he does find the package of Imodium AD, which he lovingly refers to as "Shitstopper 2000.")

I'm behind Britt and as we're rounding an uphill curve my bike stumbles. I'm hoping it's a transient stutter, but it continues to stumble before totally dying. A mild sense of loneliness comes over me as I watch Britt round the corner and disappear. The bike is stalled in the middle of the road, and my consolation is that nobody is likely to come along so I don't have to move it. Still, I try to push the bike into the shade of the mountain, but the incline is too steep for me to succeed. I could've backed it down into the shade but I wasn't thinking particularly straight. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the thought of being far from a shop with my once-reliable rolling barcalounger.

I'm not much of a mechanic but now seems like a good time to pretend to be one. My grand guess is that I have either an electrical or fuel-delivery problem. I squeeze the one fuel line I replaced to accommodate the larger Clark tank, but other than being longer than it needed to be, it seems ok. I pull off the side panel to access the battery and find that the terminal screws are snug. A wire I had spliced for the GPS power supply is now dangling apart, but it doesn't seem to me like something that would kill a bike. The lights and instrument panel are working when I turn on the bike, but there is absolutely no cranking when I press the button. As I poke around, Mr. Michigan comes back and I explain to him the situation. He suggests that maybe some of my electrical additions are causing a problem so I remove the GPS wiring from the terminals and re-tighten the screws. Just as he takes off to inform Britt what has happened, I turn the bike over and fire it up. I don't know enough about electrical paths to understand why that worked, but at the time it didn't matter one bit. The bike ran -- it felt like my birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one.

While I'm taking inventory of the bike, I check the clearance between the tank and the radiator. John-Mark mentioned a problem where the sharp edge of the radiator could start cutting into the tank. Sure enough, there are signs of shaved plastic so I wad up some cloth and jam it between the two, trying to hold it in place with some electrical tape. Given the road conditions it's wishful thinking, but sometimes all you can do is try.

...to be continued...

[bikeslut 1]

to monkey, et al... I am really enjoying reading your report

I also have ADD and am missing some pictures... please post some pictures for the slower ones on this board...

no disrespect intended

[piratemonkey 0]

I also have ADD and am missing some pictures... please post some pictures for the slower ones on this board...

Here are our photos on Flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16862090@N06/...57603305900184/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/drknow/sets/72157603298871962/

ADD is

what was I saying?

[bikeslut 1]

SEE how bad my ADD is? I saw those pictures, and already forgot about them...

See how bad my add is?

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 3, continued...

We catch up with John-Mark at the abandoned cabana where he's found the outhouse of his dreams. After a brief break we continue on to Gonzaga Bay. A few miles down the road my bike seems to be cutting in and out again. I am disturbed. I do not like a broken bike in the United States and I extra especially don't like a broken bike in Mexico. Everyone has taken off on the fast flat stretch, but I fall back as I keep the speed under 40. I don't know what the bike is going to do, but I do know that if the motor seizes, I'll accept anything under 40 as the speed at which I am pitched off the bike.

I catch up again as they take a break around one of Mexico's many car husks. John-Mark mentions that my latest problem might've been caused by the kickstand bouncing up against the kill switch. This seems reasonable, except the bike was acting up on parts that weren't all that bouncy. Perhaps the kickstand kill switch was momentarily half-stuck. Anyways, the bike ran ok for the past few miles so I kept my fingers crossed.

Just as we're nearing Gonzaga Bay and are a few hundred yards from the Pemex station, Britt's bike runs out of gas. She pulls out of one of the Nalgene fuel bottles and pours just enough into her tank to make it over to the station. After that, we buy some booze and ice at the nearby mini-mart before heading over Alfonsina's motel.

When we get to the motel I ask the person who appears to be the proprietor how much it costs per night. He says "$55?" like it's a question. I suppose he expects haggling, which seems kind of strange since he's the only place to stay in a billion mile radius. The price is above the normal $40-ish I've heard from others, but giving an extra $15 tribute to someone making a place function in the middle of nowhere just doesn't bother me. The roughly twelve-room place was also busy so getting any room was good enough for me. Gonzaga Bay consists of a landing strip, a row of non-ostentacious vacation homes, and Alfonsina's. It's a quiet stretch of beach on a calm bay and it would probably be as popular as San Felipe were it not for the bolt-loosening trip across Mars to reach it. Like Mike's Sky Ranch, the generator is on for a few hours during the night.

Before I take my hard-earned shower I go over my bike while there's still light. I pull off the panels and check various bolts to make sure everything's tight. Several of the men who work at Alfonsina's have pulled up chairs on the patio and watch. I must be a freakshow on several levels: 1. Not too many Asians make it out their way; 2. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles make it out their way; 3. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles who diddle with their bikes make it out their way. I loosen the tank and pull it back to address the radiator problem. I'm in need of a file so I go to the proprietor and ask if he has one. He says they're all about to sit down and eat but he'll check later. Rather than squander the daylight I look for the hardest rock I can find and start rubbing it against the aluminum. It's actually working so I keep at it until one of the guys, Cuero, shows up with a file.

Cuero hands me the file and continues to stand inches from me, so rather than pretend this guy with large bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes isn't there, I explain to him my problem. That was an error. He starts chatting away, asking me all sorts of questions I find hard to understand because although he has teeth, he's enunciating like the front dozen are missing. I say "What?" over and over and although he slows it down, that doesn't help remove the slurring and puffing sounds that obscure his words. At some point I have to work so hard to listen that I take over the talking (mostly a bunch of non-sequitors) so he's forced to listen.

Finally the job is done and I hand Cuero back the file and put the bike back together. With maintenance done, I hit the booze, grab a shower, and then we gather for yet another delicious Mexican dinner. The Polaris-sponsored quad couple are there and we spend the next hour hearing about their epic journey from Canada to not-yet-there Cabo, which includes the unexpected adoption of a young dog that was slated to be put down at a Navajo reservation. Their site is at http://www.quadtrek.net/html/accueil_eg.htm and my favorite challenge they have listed is: "WE START THE RIDE AS A COUPLE AND WE'D LIKE TO FINISH IT AS A COUPLE." It's in all caps -- they really must mean it.

[drknow 0]

Day 5: San Felipe to Tecate to San Diego

The Day 2 route was very long on asphalt, so we decided to modify our route back. Initially, I had wanted to head down via Laguna Diablo, but in the interest of making sure the route was beginner friendly, had decided against it based on info that the trip was a bit rocky and sandy. Further discussions with people in the know convinced me this would be a minor issue, and I asked the others if they would like to go back via a different route that used much less pavement. They were all in, so after a good, very cheap (breakfast special 25 pesos), we headed out.

The map we had wasn't very clear on the roads for this route, and I was impressed that everyone in the group was cool with me just sniffing my way along. That's the adventure touring spirit! Shut up J-M!

From San Felipe the road cuts through a dump. It seemed an odd place to put a dump, so close to town, with a road through the middle, but what do I know. I was a little concerned that we might pick up nails in our tires, or other sharp, pointy stuff, and wouldn't be surprised if Clayton got his near-miss nail there.

Past the dump, the road turns to sand whoops, for a few miles. This pointed out the huge inadequacies of my DRZs suspension. I will be making a trip to Precision concepts for modifying and revalving of the shock and forks. Any speed that would allow me to get into a rhythm of jump-one-wheelie-one wouldn't work, as the bike would heavily bottom both ends and bounce off line. It was torturous to go rocking-horse slow over every single whoop.

Once that trail hit the larger, graded dirt road, everything was fine for awhile. We ripped up the road, at a great clip and came to the sign for Arco Del Triunfo, which had a dead cow propped against it. I have searched, and have no idea what that is, maybe a prison? If any of you know, clue me in. The dead cow would suggest it's a wonderful location to visit, but we declined and continued on.

Recent heavy rains had washed out a few of the low lying dirt areas, and this made navigation a little difficult, which caused a few detours. One of said detours resulted in the only two crashes of the entire trip. I fell over in a deep sand corner at 5 mph, laughing and trying to get up before everyone noticed my sand nap. Too late, as Zina had a sympathetic crash of her own. All was well. Say what you will about sand, it's nice to crash in.

The Dry lake bed of Laguna Diablo was amazing. To the west, you have the Sierra San Pedro mountains, which hit their highest point of 10,154 feet direct west of the south corner of the dry lake. The scenery was impressive: Miles of dry, flat clay and then miles of salt baked over the softer clay-dirt at the base of mountains that jut up 6,000 feet from the lake bed.

We made it up to Hwy 3 and headed north. After about 40 miles of pavement (which I'd like to go back to with a sport bike), a gas stop in Valle de la Trinidad, and a warmth-snack stop in the middle of nowhere, we took the dirt path up towards El Hondo. This was another attempt to see new terrain rather than go back through the Parque Nacional and up to El Condor.

We had been assured that as dirt roads go, this one was pretty well travelled, and would be easy to navigate. While mostly true, it still had us end up in a tiny village at the gates of a cemetery asking directions of school kids and being taken to their house for their parents to point the main road out. It also had us taking a spur to a ranch that also had a mexican family in a dilapidated car ASKING US if we knew the way to El Hondo. As I was leading and the others in the group were bemused at my lack of perfect navigation, I found comfort in this.

The road was fairly smooth, the scenery was varied and beautiful, and it was a perfect final stretch of the trip. Once at the libre portion of Hwy 2, we headed back to Tecate with no issues, other than a car almost taking me out with the patented turn-left-in-front-of-you move.

I understand now that we were dumb to wait in line at the border crossing rather than lane split, but we were happy to sit and chat and not make the day end too quickly, even with the sun dipping below the horizen.

And that was how I spent my Thanksgiving break. Thanks for your help in planning and set up. Hopefully the group will be bigger next time. We're already planning.

dk

[piratemonkey 0]

Team Loctite (that's what I've decided to call us so we will never again forget to bring it) definitely needs a vacation to write about the vacation. I have one more day to write about and I can't seem to not turn something into War and Peace. Here's is the fourth Tolstoy-meets-Krakauer entry...

Day 4: Bahía San Luis Gonzaga to San Felipe

We wake up to roaring noises in our room -- the wind has seriously kicked up. I look out at the sheltered bay and there are white caps on the water. I actually didn't mind because it meant the dust from those in front would get cleared out more quickly.

Our original goal was to make it out to Bahía de Calamajué, but seeing how I had packed the wrong pump and how we were scattering bolts across Baja, we decide not to add that stretch of (most likely) rocky road to the trip. However, we didn't want to miss Coco's Corner while we down there so we agree to go south to check it out and then head back north to San Felipe.

On one open stretch that's washboarded, I come across a rectangular black object stark against the tan sand. It's Mr. Michigan's fender pack. I stuff it into my bag and a little ways down the road I find him and John-Mark parked. Mr. Michigan's fender is all ####-eyed -- three of the four bolts holding it on have fallen off and the one remaining bolt is partially backed out. The combination of the fender pack's weight (holding two innertubes) and the constant rhythmic shaking of the washboard road reinforced what we already knew: All ye who enter Mexico without Loctite shall despair.

Despite forgetting Loctite, I did pack extra bolts that I knew would be of use on our DRZs. I have just enough bolts of the right length to secure the fender. The god of n00bs has enjoyed alternating slaps and strokes upon our helmets. We accept this and can only hope for more strokes than slaps in the final tally.

The wind is still howling when we reach Coco's Corner. I'm surprised to see that it's no more than a tiny structure with a couple of walls to create a shelter from the wind. The walls are plastered with photos of people like us who have made the odd pilgrimage. A variety of women's underwear hang from the rafters. Amusingly, the one pair that stand out the most are a pair of men's classic "tighty whiteys." One has a desire to know the story behind it, but one forces oneself to stop thinking about it just as the image of it getting peeled off over a set of hairy thighs to gloriously reveal -- yes, stop. Stop.

Coco, the spot that the place is named after, is in the hospital suffering from complications with diabetes. Someone else is there to watch the place and sell us the beer and water. He's a large guy who follows our every move quietly. I can't tell if he hates us gringos with our freedom to leave this place behind, or if we're just entertaining to watch because he's an existentialist at heart and we're another band of kooks who decided to visit nowhere for no good reason. If nothing else, he likes Britt enough to let her hold a calico kitten he's named Mallorca. When he takes the kitten back he nuzzles it affectionately -- he's a lover and not a fighter after all.

A small sport ute we had passed on the way in eventually arrives. He asks if I've seen a bar in the road. I look at his car and the rear Thule rack is gone. I tell him no. Welcome to the club of lost parts, my friend.

We're back on the dirt road and just north of Alfonsina's we come upon another military checkpoint. The truck they have stopped is from California and an older couple travelling with a dog is getting their stuff picked over. The woman looks back at us and smiles, almost as if she's relieved that there's now someone else to get the invasive attention.

The lead guy asks us where we're going. I tell him we're on our way back to San Felipe. He tells me to open my bags and he starts fishing around. The other soldiers disperse and start poking at the rest of the party's bags. It's clear they don't plan to give us trouble -- they just want to look somewhat officious and are probably curious what kind of crap people travelling on bikes pack. Rather than take off as soon as they're finished, John-Mark needs to do some tweaks to Britt's bike, including letting some air out of the tires. The soldiers watch and to try to be a good foreigner I explain that there's too much air in the tire. They all nod knowingly, "Yes, too much air." I make the same comments I did at the other checkpoint about a long journey, lost bike parts, blah blah blah. Minutes later a soldier picks up a plastic part near me and hands it to me like it came from one of our bikes. I know it didn't but I walk around asking everyone if it came off their bike, holding the piece out like it's a gold nugget. After I get the last no, I study the piece thoughtfully for the benefit of the soldier and put it in my bag so as to not insult him.

The soldiers take a shine to John-Mark's jacket. They've gathered around him, intrigued by the many zippers and pockets and maybe even by H20 stamped on the chest where the Camelbak hose goes. They probably don't see a whole lot of motorcycle jackets up close so now was a great opportunity to squeeze his shoulders and evaluate the armor. The black-and-gray jacket could conceiveably pass as the preferred gear of an elite military branch -- maybe we didn't get shaken down because they thought he was an officer in the Green Seals Ranger Delta Beret branch of the US military and any discomfort exacted on us would result in their being "erased" during the night. At the least, I know it isn't my red or Britt's bright orange jacket (or the pigtails) that's intimidating anyone.

We leave the checkpoint and from there it's an uneventful run back to San Felipe. The wind continues to howl and a few times I am blown into another lattitude. On the paved section of road there are sand drifts in the lane and our faces are getting pelted by large-grain sand. For the pavement stretch I had removed the bandana from around my nose, which at the time didn't seem like a mistake but would later torment my cilia-destroyed sinuses for days.

Back in San Felipe the 250 runs out of gas again in mocking distance of a Pemex. Out comes the fuel bottle. We finish the gas-up routine and then return to George's Motel after that -- we are tired and it would be way too much work to try something new. We clean up and find a great non-touristy place called Chuy's to eat. After that it's back to the motel where we finish up some booze and wind down. We are too tired to even bother rolling the bikes in so I lock Britt's bike (which doesn't require a key) to one of the DRZs. John-Mark actually passes out before 8 and the rest of us are done by 9.

[sandiegoland 0]

Nice write up and some cool photos! Enjoyed it.

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 5: San Felipe to San Diego

We would've headed back up Highway 3 if it hadn't been for a guy staying at George's (quad rider) who assured us that the route past the dry lake bed of Laguna Diablo wasn't evil. This would explain why the soldiers at El Chinero a couple of days back thought our bikes were so strange -- non-n00b dualsporters know to go through Laguna Diablo. When it comes to motorcyclists, they probably only see streetbikes.

So on our final Mexican morning we head out of town and take the first left past the arches on the north end of town. For a while we travel under power lines on a wide whooped-out road with deep sand. Then it's back to hard pack and we roll on until we come upon the option of entering private property or hitting the sand again. We get on the sandy trail which follows alongside a fence but after a while we get the sense we're not in the right place so we turn around. We're almost back to the hard pack again -- just one more 90 degree bend of deep sand -- and the front tucks without notice. I'm on the ground with the bike on my leg. I try moving it but it won't budge. Having melted that very pant to that very leg with that very exhaust once before, I want the pig off me...NOW. Fortunately, Mr. Michigan is already stopped around the corner because John-Mark also had a lowspeed dump (he's gone by the time I come along). I beep the horn a few times to let him know I've got a problem. He sees me and starts to come over but I don't sense enough urgency in his movement so I lay on the horn to try to get a jog out of him. I'm not sure it makes him move any faster, but it at least distracts me from the discomfort. Britt has also stopped and is there to help pick up the bike. My leg is instantly refreshed without a 300 lb bike laying on it! I empty my boot of sand and we continue on.

As I'm bringing up the rear, something shocks the ---- out of me when it flies past. It's John-Mark. He flashes some hand signal and I instantly realize the three of us have gone the wrong way and like a mama duck he's on a mission to get all the baby ducks back in a row. I cruise up to Britt, who's doing a first-gear idle. Eventually John-Mark comes back by with Mr. Michigan in tow. Britt and I take a few minutes to do our standard 18-point tippy-toe turn and then regroup with the guys.

We stop at the dry lack bed to take a bunch of pictures and then finish off the dirt stretch to Highway 3. We get gas again at the Valle de la Trinidad Pemex and then we're on the pavement until the turn-off to the dirt road to El Hongo. It seems like the dirt road we want shouldn't be that hard to find, but we find ourselves in the tiny settlement of La Huerta with no discernible road out. A bunch of kids have been watching us and either Britt or John-Mark says something to them about El Hongo. One kid starts waving for us to follow him. We assume he's leading us to the road out but instead we end up in someone's yard, standing by the washing machine that flanks the front door. The kid runs into the house and out comes a woman. I tell her we're trying to get to El Hongo and show her our map. She starts talking about taking a right here, a left there, and a something or another somewhere. She draws a few lines in the dirt but it's not really helping. Eventually another guy comes out and he starts talking to us in English. It's an ex-pat, and one can only wonder about the story that brought him to this place. He does a better job of pointing out the direction we need to go. We thank him and we do find the golden route to El Hongo.

The road north is fairly obvious until we hit a fork. We go left and as we're bumping along the worsening trail we pass a beat-up green passenger sedan that's crawling. I'm thinking that if he's there then we must be going in the right direction, but we soon arrive at a gated house at the end of that road. John-Mark and Britt make a u-turn and go past the now-stopped car. Mr. Michigan makes his turn and as he goes by the driver is just getting out of his car and waves. I figured he was the owner and maybe wanted to tell us something so I stop. He starts rapping away in Spanish just a little too fast for me so I shout "What?" and give him the hand signal to slow the words down. He's still talking too fast but I do catch "El Hongo," which initially sound like "Blah blah logo." In my best Spamish (Spanish spammed with English construction), I tell him something that probably translates into "We are also conducting our ways towards El Hongo. Back there made a Y of the road -- we are now try to go to the right side of it. There are none other roads; it is the only option." I take off, preferring to be lost than to try to conjugate any more verbs. I'm heartened by the fact that even the natives get lost in their world of unmarked trails -- it's not just a gringo thing.

We've pretty much stopped taking pictures at this point. It's late afternoon, we're a little cold, and we just want to get to Tecate before sundown. When we reach pavement again it's around 3:00. Knowing that it's a straight shot to the border crossing and there's no way for us to get lost now, it pretty much feels like we're home. There is, however, one last spike of adrenaline to be had. Just as we reach Tecate, a car turns right in front of John-Mark. I see either smoke or dirt rising all around him from the hard braking and I wait for the impact. Miraculously, the car slides by and we're not pulling out our bi-national emergency medical cards to look for a phone number so he can get him airlifted out. I know drivers don't see bikers, but a sport ute was to John-Mark's right -- this person either didn't see him <i>and</i> a 5,000 pound vehicle whose headlights were on, or the driver had no depth perception whatsoever. What a crappy end to this adventure that would've made.

The line to get back into the US isn't epically long. We're not sure if we can split lanes to the front so we wait in line. Even if we try, we'd have to roll over several peddlers and a handicapped guy in the narrow gap between the cars. While waiting, Britt notices a nail in one of Mr. Michigan's knobbies. Because all of us spend way more time around tubeless tires, we opt not to pull it out in case it's also acting as a plug. (You dirt vets can insert your snorting here.)

We reach the border agent in about half an hour. He asks if I'm bringing anything back from Mexico. "No," I tell him, but then add "just dirt." He says ok and hands my passport back to me. Welcome home.

[piratemonkey 0]

The problem with a trip like this is that life is boring now. No new places, people, dogs, food, situations, etc. Mexican Calgon, take me away!

By the way, thanks to all of you with your help on this trip. I did have a little bit of stress going into it since we were all virgins and it didn't help that general weird 5h1t was going down in Mexico with Americans. I'm not particularly nervous for my gender, but I can still worry myself into a little lather. It was really reassuring to get so much guidance from people who've been there. (Side note to Outerlimits: We didn't do your route this time, but I still want to do it.)

I've resolved to work on my Spanish so I can tell more outlandish tales to the checkpoint soldiers next time. "So the chupacabra knocks him off his bike, and then I grab it by the horns..."

[OUTERLIMITS 0]

(Side note to Outerlimits: We didn't do your route this time, but I still want to do it.)

No worries, at least you guys took a route that you couldn't get lost on and I'm glad you had fun. I'm going to let Baja settle down a bit before I go there any time soon for anything other than a day ride. Some time, hopefully sooner rather than later though, I'll be planning about a 6 day ride that will be:

Tecate-San Quintin-Catavina-LA Bay-Gonzaga Bay-Mikes-Tecate. Will be right around 1000 miles.

Will post it here beforehand for anyone interested.

[Crawdaddy 96]

Some time, hopefully sooner rather than later though, I'll be planning about a 6 day ride that will be:

Tecate-San Quintin-Catavina-LA Bay-Gonzaga Bay-Mikes-Tecate. Will be right around 1000 miles.

Will post it here beforehand for anyone interested.

"in" (provided I can get the time off from work )