The Vagabond Chronicles

At 4am, Wednesday morning, I embarked on yet another great adventure to the 2006 Baja 1000. A short ten hour drive to Ensenada, Mexico introduced me to the infamous craziness of the grand-daddy of all off-road racing. This is a thousand mile race in the untamed wasteland of the Baja. There are many classes of vehicles, which all race on the same course at the same time. There are motorcycles, quads, buggies, truck, trophy trucks and my favorite, the Class 11, STOCK Volkswagen Bug. Not the new bug, but the original, roll, flip and drive ‘em VW Bugs. Sure, the Trophy trucks with their million dollar budgets are fun to watch. Something about watching a purpose-built for the Baja 1000 race truck that can do 100mph on some of the toughest, unforgiving terrain. Sunrise One.

Arriving in Ensenada, the excitement in the air grew. Today was tech inspection day, where the race officials ensure that the vehicle is properly setup and safe to race. The center of the town was carnival-like with the streets filled with locals, vendors of all types and race teams, who were relaxing the day before the race. I realized that I knew an incredible amount of nothing about Spanish. I managed to order a couple of tamales. Good tamales, though, they couldn’t hold a candle to Our Lady of Tamale, the Tamale Lady of San Francisco. I mixed with the crowd, bought the requisite souvenir t-shirt to immortalize my first Baja 1000 experience, then headed to camp to meet up with the team, the Northwest Baja Racers.

I arrived at the Estero Beach Resort after an almost crash course in driving in Mexico. Think LA, but almost completely lawless. The stop signs are, well we’ll call them suggestions or a good idea. The map that I purchased for the trip was completely useless. When I bought the map, I thought to myself, I bet there are more roads than what they are showing. I lucked out when I decided to follow signs for the Walmart (Grand Opening was Saturday), and stumbled upon some random signs leading me to the resort.

The campground was filled with race teams preparing for the race. Teams, ranging from the privateers to the sponsored teams shared the campground, hands, tools, stories and anything else that met your needs. I have been to many races and always felt that the teams were inaccessible, but the Baja is different. There is a sense of community here. Such an obscure sport, but it has a devote following. They know that this is a grueling and dangerous event, and they will rely on others in times of need, albeit a breakdown, a wreck or a push to keep you going.

My buddy’s team is a privateer Sportsman-class Motorcycle team, which means that they have no sponsorship and are funding the entire adventure themselves, which includes the bike, entry fees, pit fees, fuel, time and support from family and friends. Tim, one of the riders, asked me in January if I wanted to lend a hand with the team. There was no way I was going to miss this opportunity. Later in the trip, I asked Tim why he thought of me and asked me. “I know you are a rider, and you have a great sense of adventure.” I met what was left of the team, since I arrived so late and they needed to head south to have the other riders close to the exchange points later in the race the next day. I met Paul, Tim’s older brother who planted the seed in his family’s head to try to succeed where many fail, the Baja 1000. I arrived with enough time to misread the where to camp sign, setup camp and head into town for the Driver’s meeting.

The race officials brief the racers during the drivers’ meeting. Across the room, Robby Gordon, famed NASCAR driver who started his career racing off-road SCORE events, sat with no difference to any of the other racers. It didn’t matter if you were a superstar or some garage race team, everyone respected one another. The meeting was more of a formality and you could tell that the most of the people were eager to finish last minute checks and to get some sleep before two long days. The racers would have 44 hours from the time they start to finish the race. We grabbed a quick meal at a local restaurant, and Paul, Tim and I reviewed the next day’s plan. Up at 5:45, start-line by 6:30, watch the start, head back to camp and hit the road to meet for the first rider exchange. Tim would be riding the first 180 mile leg to MAG7 Pit 3. The MAG7 are a hired pit stop crew. Every 60 miles, the MAG7 would setup a pit, where racers could refuel, get help fixing a problem, change tires, drink water, rider exchanges or rescued from an emergency on the course. The MAG7 started as a seven-man crew who started during the early days of the Baja 1000. MAG7 stands for Magnificent Seven.

We returned to camp and I quickly headed for bed. I couldn’t sleep right away, because the team camped next to us, was using my tent as a target in order to adjust their headlights. These aren’t ordinary headlights. These are turn-the-desert-night-into-day lights, times three. Once night became night again, I soon drifted off to sleep while enjoying the sounds of the Pacific Oceans and last minute engine adjustments. “Where is my mind? Where is my mind?” (The Pixies) played on my cell phone alarm clock. It was race day. A quick shower and we escorted Tim to the start-line from base camp. The experience was becoming more real. No more waiting. It was no longer, “I am going to the Baja 1000″; I was IN the Baja 1000.

Sunrise two. With the first motorcycle to hit the track at 6:30am, the crowd of spectators was light. As the race grew near, the riders lined up and waited for their start. A thirty second window separated each rider, and time was close to the last rider. Close to an hour and half later, Tim would start. I positioned myself at the end of the first straight-away, at the outside of the first turn’s apex. I had a clear shot of the start-line and the first corner. It didn’t take long for a rider to drop the bike. The rider was looking down at something on the bike, looked up and saw that he was entering the corner a little sooner than expected. He grabbed a fistful of front brake, the front end washed out from under him and the bike went sliding towards the barriers, where I was standing. Literally, I jumped out of the way as the rider chased the bike. The engine flooded and after a few kicks with no response from the engine, he yelled, “I need a push!” At that moment fix spectators jumped to action, pushed the bike and got the rider on his way. Most riders started slowly, easing themselves into the long day ahead of them. Others, stormed off the line, popped a wheelie and were already pushing themselves.

My responsibility for the team was to drive the second rider, Paul, to the team’s predetermined exchange point. Close to 200 miles on the course, I would have to drive many more miles to get to that point. Another long day behind the wheel was starting, but it was just the beginning. Chase vehicles try to shadow their racer. They are ready to feed, water, perform minor repairs or even extract the vehicle from the race in case of breakdown. There are actually two races, one for the actual racers and the other for the support crew in the chase truck. It was difficult to follow posted speed limits, for it was imperative that the chase vehicle be at the pit and ready for their rider.

Paul and I drove the 200+ miles to the rider exchange area at MAG7. We would meet Tim there, exchange riders, fuel the bike and watch the race as the next Rider would ride off. The only way Paul knew how to get to the checkpoint was to drive on some gravel roads to the race course, drive 12 miles down the active race course. Ironically, the first time either one of us had cell phone coverage was during the drive down the course. The rutted, whooped out track was a challenge to drive. You couldn’t drive too fast (in a stock 4×4 truck mind you), but you had to keep your speed up so you wouldn’t get stuck in the soft desert sand. As we bounced down the track, with random spectators cheering us on, getting passed by race vehicles, Paul was on the phone with the race committee. They were relaying the message to us that the bike broke down, but was running again, and most importantly, Tim was done. The first fifteen miles of the track, unbeknownst us, was the toughest part of the track. Close to fifty percent of the riders dropped out in that section alone!

Paul and I soon arrived at the pit stop. Paul was still receiving messages. He was handed a Sat-phone almost immediately upon arrival. We were the action. Spectators recognized that we were racing and moved out of our way. The pit was buzzed with activity. Bikes were coming in for fuel. The race-fueled energy was abundant. We dropped off some lights for another team, received directions to get back to the highway quickly and where we would meet Tim to do the rider exchange. The reality of it was, we were 2 hours from Tim, approximately 125 miles. There was no question in my mind that I would be driving back and the day just got at least 4 hours longer for me. It was just the beginning.

Fortunately, the access road from the pits to the highway was a fast gravel road that literally dumped us on the highway. Driving back to checkpoint one where Tim was waiting for us, meant that we would be driving against race traffic. When we approached the long road section of the race, buggies, trucks, chase vehicles, and spectators were all racing down the opposite side of the highway. More than a few pucker experiences were encountered. The race vehicles had a 60mph speed limit when on public roads, everyone else did not. Just under two hours later, we arrived at our destination. I tried to get Paul to take some naps to prepare for the long night ahead of him, but he was already riding high on adrenaline. Tim looked beat and excited to see us pulling into the pit. Paul hopped out of the truck and started to throw on his gear. After the jolting ride down the course, the gear was a little more spread out in the back of the truck than when we had left. I grabbed everything and laid it out on the tailgate to ease Paul’s transition from passenger to rider. A minor repair on the bike and Paul was on the course. We decided to meet him along the way at a couple of points on the course to make sure that he was alright. The late-afternoon sun was quickly dropping behind the mountains. Paul would be riding through the night.

Tim and I raced to the second pit-stop. We arrived as they were just shutting down for the race, but as soon as Tim and I said we have a rider coming down the course, we didn’t have to ask to reopen the pit. Within minutes, the lights were on, the fuel canisters were filled and readied. Tim and I watched intently down the course to see the lone headlight of a bike. Paul rolled in thirty minutes later after making great time on the technical goat trail part of the race course. This was an efficient pit-stop, and we were soon on our way to the next meeting point and my last leg of driving for the day. We managed to get an hour ahead of the rider by the time we arrived at the next pit stop, which included a fifteen minute, “I know it is around here. Where is that turn?” Luckily, we had GPS and could retrace our steps back to the next pit stop. We were worried that the stop was going to shutdown, and we arrived, the earlier information was incorrect and we wouldn’t have to ask for another pit to reopen for us.

Our rider arrived soon after we settled down a bit at MAG7 Pit 3. A small crowd of spectators gathered and watched as we ran around - check the bike, rider ok, fuel… complaints? “The clutch is making some noise.” We started the bike and it sounded like ball bearings in a blender. Not the noise you want to hear out of a clutch, and certainly not this early in the race. After we shut the bike down, the pit crew asked if we had an extra clutch, which we did not. I turned to the spectators who were sitting on their bikes if we could ‘borrow’ a clutch from one of their bikes. No answer, but the sound of a dozen dirt bikes starting up and they scurried into the desert night like roaches on the kitchen floor when the light is turned on in the middle of the night. A few turns of the clutch adjustment cable, the clutch sounded much better, but its longevity was in question. The bike felt good enough to ride, and we decided to send our rider off.

One of the pit crew offered Tim and I some cookies. Our last meal was sixteen hours earlier, and we were famished. The original plan was to do the rider exchange in the middle of the afternoon, head to town for some grub and find a place to camp. With the change in plans, we were without food and camping would be where we passed out. As we scarfed down the couple of cookies, we were offered some sandwiches. As we hastily prepared the sandwiches, we were given plates. Well, the bread touched my plate for milliseconds before being devoured. It was the end of the day for us. Now, time to drink beer, make new friends, watch the race and chillout. The MAG7 crew wouldn’t shutdown for the night until 2a.m., and we were still amped from the day. I offered to help anyway that I could - felt that I owed them since they took such good care of us earlier in the evening. We exchanged loads of stories and beers as we waited for the next racers to come into the pit. Through the course of the night, only a couple of trucks stopped at the pit stop. I even got to assist a race team in replacing a torsion bar on their truck after the brutish whoops snapped the piece of one inch steal. Mind you, this would have taken me days to do myself, time that wasn’t available. We swapped out the torsion bar in less than an hour. Astonishing!

As the beers took effect, the day caught up to me quickly. I wondered into the cab of my truck to warm-up a bit and take a short nap - at 1am. I quickly learned that my truck gets extremely cold. I woke up multiple times shivering, but out of sheer exhaustion, I would slowly doze back to sleep. At some point in the night, Tim had the unfortunate experience of having to sleep at the wheel.

Sunrise 3. KABOOM! The toothless redneck, who was camping near the pit stop, had placed a M-1000 in the carcass of a rotting cow. Why? We never found out. He didn’t make many friends that morning. The MAG7 crew who was camped next to the cow carcass nearly had to be restrained from stringing up the old geezer. He quickly bribed them with some Mexican bottle rockets and shots from his rifle of tequilla. The soon to be empty rifle was a present for his girlfriend. He was a strange bird to say the least. Tim and I cleaned up the site a bit, collected the empty cans and gave them to the local can-collectors. The brisk night and morning was quickly heating up. We were hungry and wanted to relax on the beach.

We drove a short distance to Pete’s Beach to find a campsite for day. We ran into the grumpy proprietor, Paul - go figure, who quickly turned us away. “We’re full.” Tim and I decided to use the bathrooms and possibly take a shower before we would head out searching for a campsite for the night. After relieving ourselves, Tim decided to ask again. This time, we got a different answer. We would have a site for the night on the beach. A quick stop to the local store, we refilled our beer reserves and snacked up. We arrived back at the site, set up camp, and proceeded to lounge the rest of the day away. I am not someone who sits on the beach. Ever. I cannot sit still for that long. I get bored. The beach isn’t my venue, but the Sea of Cortez, exhaustion, a warm breeze and a cooler full of beer changed my ideals quickly. Do nothing. Relax. I rarely slowdown, and this was something I needed to learn how to do. Over the last 9 months, I have learned how to take time for myself. Think. Reflect. Plan. I couldn’t think of better place than the beach.

As Tim napped, one of the other campers was jet skiing in the water. After he and his son took turns showing off their tricks, the father asked me - first in Spanish with my puzzled “Huh?” look, then in English, if I wanted a turn. You bet! This was the first time I would try a jet ski. The first task was to see how fast this thing goes. The second, turning. Stopping should have been in the plan, but wide open water, I didn’t see a need. After a few exhilarating moments on the jet ski, I returned it shouting the extent of my Spanish, “Mucho Gracias Senor! Mucho Gracias!”

After beach naps and a brief thought of taking a shower, we decided to head to the bar for some lunch. Starved. The sandwich had left the body. The waiter misunderstood us and we ended up with two mountains of cheese covered nachos and a couple of plates of burritos. Two hours and two Tecates later, we almost finished our lunch. The food coma was setting in quickly and decided that it was time to shower.

After the shower which felt like you were standing under a firehose, we ran into the MAG7 crew. They were camped close to us on the beach. We made plans to meet up with them after they headed for town for dinner. After a couple more cold ones, we headed back to the beach just in time for the ‘fireworks’ show. Fireworks are easy to come by in Mexico. I don’t know if I want to call them fireworks, but more like sticks of dynamite. We watched burning patterns in the sand, exploding toy trucks and a California approved, “safe”, five gallon gas can – complete with 2 gallons of gas. The self-appointed pyrotechnician devised a fuse with a cigarette to ignite the gas can, which ultimately didn’t work. As he ran out there to check his bomb, people were yelling, “Don’t do it!” “You’re crazy!” We thought that we would be splattered with drunken American body parts. If you haven’t seen the exploding whale on the beach video… He resorted to the old-fashioned ignite and run method.

At a predetermined minimum safe distance (100 yards away – standing behind my truck), the erupting gas can’s fire ball’s heat could be felt. The beach audience applauded and cheered loudly. Success. I won’t share who donated the fuel can, and I am not an instigator. For the remainder of the night, we hung around the campfire, swapping stories and beers. A brief foray to the bar for some quick drunken-munchies, we wrapped up the evening with more campfire, stories and beer. It felt like the last night of summer camp. We would have to say good-bye to our new friends. Another long drive was on the next day’s plan. Fortunately, beach camping provided some of the best sleep I have ever experienced.

Sunrise 4. Tim had to catch a plan in San Diego. We were two hours in Mexico. Long day was headed my way. After traffic at the border, and briefly insulting the border guard, we were back in the USSR – oops, USA. Prior to the trip, I ran around visiting the Mexican Consultant to get the necessary paperwork, spent countless hours on websites trying to figure out what I needed to get back. I only needed one thing, the ability to answer one question…

“Are you a US Citizen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Its Ma’am.”
“Huh?”
“Its Ma’am.”

Oops. I was trying to respectful, and after living in LA for three years with the whole actor/actress thing – I figured that officers followed the same rule. The next trip to the Baja is going to require a passport. The trip home was uneventful. I stopped in LA for an hour to pick up my decks and to briefly hang with a friend. Hour backup outside of San Diego. Typical LA traffic and a long drive up the 5. sixteen hours later, I was home. Dirty. Dusty. Hung-over. Exhausted. The neighbors had a party raging downstairs. I found the beats soothing and I had no problem drifting off to sleep.

After 42 hours of driving in four days, a bunch of pictures, and some new friends, I am ready to make journey back to the Baja in February. After all, the Baja 250 is in February and my new friends, MAG7 need some pit crew. I’ll need some high-octane fuel vapors, beach camping, a reload on sunrises and a break from the ordinary. I learned that I need to get away. Relax. Maintain that work/life balance thing. Find what you enjoy doing. Find people that enjoy it as much as you. Do it often.

More Pictures.