San Ignacio ‘99
December 3 – 6, 1999
The Fun Chronicles
Copyright 1999 FUNction 1 Solutions, all rights reserved
(This is an installment of the Fun Chronicles, a continuing saga of the Baja adventures of Sr. Divertido and the Fun Bunch/Bad Boys)
Back in September I approached Bob and Steve, official East Cape Bad Boy members, to organize a multi-day quad trip later in the year, as this has become a tradition for our group. For our first trip two years ago to Gypsy’s By The Sea, near Todos Santos, we had five riders. Last year’s trip, also to Gypsy’s via the northern route over San Antonio, attracted a dozen riders. This year the group has swelled to fifteen riders and a chase vehicle – we have become legends in our own minds.
We’ve decided on the first weekend in December, mostly because that’s the only time Steve & I can take the time off from our respective responsibilities at Buena Vista Beach Resort and Rancho Leonero. On this past Monday, we had an organizational meeting at Pat’s restaurant, Otra Vez, where we discussed the itinerary, what to bring, and the travel arrangements. The plan is to leave from the local Pemex station on Friday the 3rd, at 8am, trailer the quads to La Purisima, and leave there at about 2-3 in the afternoon for a short leg of 34 miles to San Juanico on the Pacific coast area known as Scorpion Bay, where we’ll camp out the first night. Bob has sent word ahead that we’re coming, so the local restaurant will be ready to feed 17 hungry riders dinner and then breakfast the next morning. On the second day we’re scheduled to make a 115-mile run to San Ignacio via the beach road, stopping along the way at San Ignacio Lagoon, a world-famous spot for visiting the migrating California gray whales. It’s a bit early in the season for whale-watching, however, we’re going to see if they’re around, in which case we’ll make arrangements to see the whales the next day on our way back. On Sunday, we’ll return all the way to La Purisima, a distance of 142 miles, using a 50-mile stretch of interior road through the foothills, where we’ll spend the night before driving back home on Monday.
Bob has made t-shirts for everyone to commemorate the trip, and as he passes them out we discuss the travel pairings. My next-door neighbor, Gary and his son Arturo, are going to join us for the first time, and we’re going to take his flatbed truck for the three of us. Chuck is going to drive his Expedition as the chase car, so I volunteer the satellite phone for him to bring in case of emergency, as there is no cellular service where we’re going. He’s also agreed to carry some spare wheels I’ll bring along. Having the travel arrangements set, it’s time to get the gear ready.
Amid the excitement and the anticipation of the ride, there’s a cloud on the horizon affecting the charter members of the group. Back in June one of the founding members of the Bad Boys, Jim Bly, died in a freak quad accident on a day ride to Ensenada de Muertos. Although nobody speaks his name, I overhear a number of the guys talking about how they plan on wearing helmets this trip. Wish you were with us, Jimmy.
Yesterday, Wednesday, I spent part of the day prepping the quad, in-between getting payroll ready for Leonero’s 70 employees. After cleaning the air filter, changing oil, and packing the tools and first aid supplies, my thoughts turned to the gear I’ll carry with me. It’s not just the fun we’re going to have on the ride, you have to look good while doing it. I’ve decided to carry three packs on the quad, the tools in a small pack on the rear grab bar, a fanny pack carrying the CD player, camera, money and documents, and a pack on the front of the bike with my clothes. Since we have a big chase car I’ll put my sleeping bag there. I thought about bringing a computer for doing this travel log, but I’ve settled on just the micro recorder to make notes during the trip, and will complete the log upon returning.
Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m known as being a detail guy, as well as the world’s best boy scout – I’m always prepared. In addition to the normal stuff for the trip, I’ll also bring the little things no one thinks about, lip balm, eye drops, small bills for change, toilet paper, Lomotil, extra batteries, etc. I’ve packed several Sr. Divertido t-shirts to use as mordidas in case we run afoul of the local authorities. As a last resort, I’ve also got the governor’s cell phone number as well as Bobby Van Wormer’s (Secretary of Tourism for Baja Sur) in case we get unreasonably harassed (this has never happened, everyone we meet has always been friendly and courteous, but it pays to be prepared for any eventuality).
Had breakfast with Rudy Vargas, it so happens he was the SCT engineer who cut the first road from San Ignacio to Laguna San Ignacio back in 1980. As we went over the planned route, he showed me some interesting options not shown on any map. I’m eager to show this to Bob, and plan on seeing him at noon today.
Soon I wrap up my chores at Leonero, and work on detailing out the bike. After a wash, lube and inspection, I pronounce ol’ 400 ready to rock n’ roll. Heading on in to Barriles, I stop to see Bob and discuss what Rudy told me earlier. We decide on waiting until we get to Laguna San Ignacio and ask the locals about the road options before making any decision on changing our planned course. On the way home I stop at the local market and pick up the last of my supplies, some beef jerky and canned nuts for snacking on the ride.
It’s now about 5pm, and we’ve loaded all the bikes and gear on Gary’s flatbed truck – now all I have to do is figure out what clothes to bring. Space is limited, and we could run into every situation from 85deg balmy at the beach to sub-freezing at San Ignacio. I opt for the layered approach, packing a tank top, a couple of tees, a long sleeved shirt, a sweatshirt and a light jacket. I figure I’ll wear as much as needed to stay comfortable. I’ve thought about wearing long pants as I always seem to burn my right leg on the bike’s exhaust, but long pants just isn’t my style, so I pack a couple pairs of shorts, and will wear on my riding boots to protect my legs. Almost as an afterthought I pack some swim trunks, in case we have outside showers at San Juanico. Experience has shown that the dirt and dust kicked up on these rides gets into everything, so I pack the clothes in zip lock bags to keep them clean. I check in with Gary and we decide to head on out at about 7:15 in the morning. Earlier I had given him a copy of the first few pages of this log, and we have a discussion about the circumstances surrounding Jim Bly’s accident. I told him I was planning on wearing my helmet, and he’s wisely decided he and Arturo will also wear theirs.
There’s not much left to do now except get some rest before the big day.
Day 1
Meeting Gary and Arturo promptly at 7:15 we jump into his truck and head on over to the starting point, the gas station in Los Barriles. Everybody rolls on in and gasses up and we’re off by 8:02 – not a bad start. The final tally for the trip turns out to be 12 quads, 1 3-wheeler, 2 bikes, and a chase vehicle, the soon-to-be-infamous Ford Expedition. The participants are (first names only to protect the guilty) Roy, Gary, Arturo, Bob B., Bob H., Cliff, Jerry, Don, Les, Greg, John, D.C., Howard, Pat, Steve, Chuck and Kate.
As soon as we leave, an overpowering stench of raw gasoline permeates the cab of the truck – I look over to Gary and he cheerfully explains there’s a break in the fuel filler hose that sometimes leaks when he overfills the tank. The smell is so bad I’m wondering if there’s a pool of sloshing gasoline under the seat. I can’t help but ask myself what kind of "Nightmare on Elm Street" situation have I gotten myself into. We drive all the way to La Paz with the windows down. It’s immediately apparent there’s little organization to the trip north, as everyone soon splits up.
As we pull into the new Pemex station on the edge of La Paz, Gary tops off the truck while Arturo and I get snacks, gum and water. Gary wants to get Premium gas for the ATV’s in Constitution, but I suggest he get it here in case there’s no Premium further up the road. He agrees and we fill the bikes and extra fuel cans as well. He takes a few minutes to duct tape the filler hose, which seems to stop the fuel smell.
We pull out and quickly resume the trek northward, making small talk as we cruise northbound in a now odor free truck. As we pass El Cien we notice the Pemex station there has no line, so we quickly pull up for a 100 peso insurance top off. About a half-hour later we’re casually cruising down the road, with Arturo listening to Santana on his Walkman, while I’m thinking about getting 40 winks, when all of a sudden Gary pulls off the road and turns around. It appears we’ve lost one of the coolers.
Back on the road, we pull into the new Pemex station at Cuidad Constitucion. While Gary fills up, I check the auto supply next door looking for some cans of flat fix for him – he wasn’t able to find any before we left. Success, I grab the last 2 cans off the shelf and we’re on our way. We’re getting hungry and start looking for a good place to grab something for lunch as we hit Insurgentes. As we get up to the Pemex station there, I spot Chuck waiting. We pull up and he tells us everyone is ahead except for D.C., and he asks us if we’ve seen him – just as we tell him we haven’t seen anyone, here comes D.C. We all take off, with them going ahead while we look for someplace to grab a taco. Nothing looks good, so we put the pedal to the metal and follow the pack. Pretty soon we see some of the group pulled over so we stop to see what’s up. We’re pleasantly surprised to find out why D.C. was behind – he had stopped at the Ley’s store in La Paz and had bought fried chicken for everyone. I never had pollo that tasted so good!
As we get back to Gary’s truck we notice he’s got a flat tire – a
calamity! We tell the guys to go ahead while we backtrack to the nearest
llantera to get it fixed. We go back to the edge of town and find a small tire
shop. Pulling in we see this guy’s really set up well – he’s got air
tools, a rarity for a place like this. He makes quick work of the tire repair,
and as we get back on the road I calculate we’re no more than a half hour
behind the last group.
Pulling into La Purisima, we’re greeted by an oasis in the desert, with palm trees and a river running through it, reminding me a bit of Mulege. However, we’ve got no idea where everybody is. I’m assuming they’re within sight of the main road, so we slowly cruise through town watching for them. We go all the way to the next town, San Isidro, before turning around for another pass through town. For the next half hour we cruise all the side streets of La Purisima and are about to give up when we come across the guys on the quads starting the ride. They give us directions on where they’re parked – about 50 feet past where we turned around. I give them a bad time for not giving us clear instructions ahead of time, and start for the parking area. On the way I flag down Chuck in the chase vehicle to make sure he turns around and gets our bags – I sure don’t want to carry them on the quads to San Juanico.
Quickly unloading, I decide to go on ahead to try to catch some of the guys and wait for Gary and Arturo, wanting to restore some unity to this expedition. With the security offered by wearing helmet and riding boots, I dash off into the sunset, stress testing the limits of the throttle on my 400. Reminiscent of the time I raced in the Rosarito Beach Grand Prix (placed 4th out of 20 riders in my class), I’m power sliding through the corners in reckless abandon, trying to catch the stragglers. Rounding a sharp turn, my heart sinks as the engine sputters and the bike slows to a crashing halt, 15 miles from nowhere. I’m convinced I’ve fried the Honda, and while I’m desperately thinking of a way to avoid the embarrassment of breaking down before even seeing the other guys, I notice the ignition switch is turned off. Turning it back on, I cross my fingers as I try the starter button – voila! She fires back up. I quickly determined that the strap on the handlebar-mounted backpack was too close to the key, while making the sharp turn, the key rubbed against it and killed the motor. Revitalized with the knowledge I’m still Mr. Fun, I resume my breakneck efforts to reach the guys before they get to San Juanico.
Heading towards the ocean, there’s a strong headwind buffeting me, and I find it difficult to hold 6th gear unless I crouch way down, lowering my wind profile. I figure I must be doing around 60 to 65 mph, and it’s not too long before I see a faint speck in the distance. Whoever it is, he must be stopped, as I’m closing the distance fast! Moments later I pull up in a cloud of dust to Steve, who’s stopped for a cigarette break. He tells me that most of the other guys took a turnoff earlier and were heading in on a beach route. We decide to head on in to San Juanico on the main road, in case Gary and Arturo manage to catch us. Pretty soon the road winds down next to the beach in front of the town, and we’re greeted with the familiar smell associated with fish camps in Mexico. Neither of us knows where we’re supposed to camp, but I remember Bob saying we’re under a large palapa, I see one at the point overlooking town, and manage to snap off a couple of photos while we cruise on over to check it out.
The now-calm bay in front of us is known as Scorpion Bay, a spot legendary in the surfing world. When conditions are right, there’s a series of breaking points where the surf can reach 20 ft in height. When the surf is up, expect private planes from all over the world to converge on the dirt strip outside of town, bringing pros, amateurs, writers, and photographers.
On the far point overlooking the bay sits our destination, the Scorpion Bay Cantina (www.scorpionbay.net). Owners Dave & Laurie, ex-East Capers, have set up a campground in a pristine setting, with restaurant/bar, baths with hot showers, and two rustic palapa-roofed lodge buildings set up with cots and sleeping bags for those visitors arriving without their own gear. Pulling up we find only D.C. and Howard have arrived in front of us, so we take the opportunity to stake out our sleeping spots. About two beers later Gary and Arturo arrive, mixed in with some of the other guys, with Chuck in the Expedition close behind. After cleaning up, drinks and dinner are in order, and we’re pleased to see hamburgers, shrimp, tacos, and fish all on the menu.
After a great dinner, while the hard-core drinkers are trying to deplete the cantina’s liquor supply, us mere mortals were attempting some shut-eye. A head count suggests we’re about 4 beds short, as our group is larger than originally planned. Gary and Arturo have brought chaise lounges and will sleep on them, while the ever-gracious Bob B. offers to sleep on the bike trailer. Pat has staked out the one doublewide cot with a mattress, leaving Don the odd man out. Nobody but me sees the obvious solution, so I make an executive decision and suggest one gets the cot, while the other gets the mattress on the floor. With this crisis passed, we try to settle in, while the John Belushi Fan Club is busy at the bar. "Comfortable bed" is an oxymoron here. The cots are built out of bamboo nailed onto a frame of two-by-fours, with no padding under the sleeping bags. After a couple of hours of tossing and turning trying to get comfortable, I decide that if I ever get romantically entangled with another Mexican girl, I want to build some of these miserable bamboo cots for when her family wants to visit – a night on one of these would break the spirit of the mightiest mother-in-law. Finally I fall into a fitful sleep, lulled by the incessant snoring of my bunkmates, when Cliff screaming at Steve suddenly awakens us. In his alcohol-induced stupor, Steve can’t find the door and has decided to urinate on the wall next to Cliff’s head. We finally get Steve pointed in the right direction, but the damage is already done. By this time the generator has been shut down, closing the bar, sending the rest of the group finally to bed, dreaming of margaritas and shooters (and in Jerry’s case, the girls of Kaoz in Guadalajara – but that’s another story).
Day 2
We awake to a beautiful Baja morning, and patiently await the morning crew to arrive to jump-start us with some fresh coffee and breakfast. Despite last night’s excesses, most everyone seems bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We discuss our failure to make accommodation reservations in La Purisima for night 3, and decide to change the planned itinerary and will return here instead. Making sure Dave’s got room for us; we get packed, preparing for our first full day of riding.
Everybody takes off as they’re ready, with the understanding we’ll all meet at the gas station to begin the ride. Regrouping there, the faster 2-wheelers go off ahead of the rest of us. Steve seems ready to go, so I motion to him to go with me, and we take off riding side-by-side to avoid each other’s dust. The rest of the group follows, spaced far enough apart to not become engulfed in the cloud of dirt and dust emanating from behind each machine. After about 10 miles, we come up to the ejido of Cadeje, where all the water for San Juanico comes from. Vargas told me that these two villages are embroiled in a "Milagro Beanfield War" existence, with Cadeje having water but little food or jobs, while San Juanico has commercial fishing but no fresh water supply.
Continuing on, soon the road gets narrower, so I motion Steve to drop back while I jump ahead. The road surface is badly washboarded, and I can feel my hands getting numb from the vibration. Thankfully we finally get to the turnoff for the beach road, and find a stash of whalebones there.
This is where we’ll come out on the return ride tomorrow. Heading on down towards the beach, we get into some nice turns, and wind up on endless miles of salt flats on which we can fly. We take off, and the long legs of the 400 kick in and I soon pull away from the other ATV’s. After about 20 miles I come across D.C. and Howard backtracking looking for us. We stop and regroup with everyone commenting on how much fun going balls to the walls on the flats is. D.C. tells us about center-punching a dog and going down while going through a nearby fish camp, he then wants to check out the 400, and he rips it up, estimating the top end to be about 70mph. Gary also wants to try out the 400, and I warn him if he gets on it he won’t be happy until he gets one, which is exactly what happens, with him guessing the bike might be doing closer to 80 with him on it. D.C. says we’re about 30 miles from the fish camp at San Ignacio Lagoon, and the bikes soon take off. I follow about a minute later and try to catch the bikes. They’re doing about 70 and I can see I’m getting closer inch by inch. About 10 miles up the road I finally catch up to D.C., and we both laugh as I pull up next to him. The three of us are far ahead of the others, so we take a scenic detour around a couple of other camps on the lagoon.
We cut back in and rejoin the main road at the last salt flat crossing, which looks a little soft. D.C. goes ahead to see if we can cross – he comes back saying it’s soft, but we can make it. Howard goes on and about halfway through hits a soft spot and drops like a rock. D.C. and I rush on over to see if he’s alright, but only his pride and handlebars are out of whack. We bend the bars back to usable condition and decide to push on through to the fish camp where we have a planned rendezvous with the others. We no sooner than reach the fish camp and D.C. is on a mission for beer, while Howard works on cleaning the mud off his bike.
About a six-pack later, D.C. and I figure we’ll sample the local cuisine, and check on the fare at the local eatery. We’re surprised to find there’s no fish on the menu today, and settle on some pretty tasty beef tacos. We’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour and a half, and decide we’ll try to buy some gas for me so we can look for the others. We’re told the nearest gas is at the next fish camp, a couple of miles away. On the way there, we stop at the crossroad while D.C. scrawls some arrows in the dirt pointing out where we’re going. As we’re about to go, I notice some movement out of the corner of my eye, which soon becomes a string of riders – reunited at last! Over a couple more beers we listen to the saga of John, who almost got stuck going through the middle of one of the salt flats, and whose quad is a barely discernable under a thick coating of mud.
We continue on, with D.C. leading the way to the edge of the lagoon. We stop at an abandoned camp at the water’s edge, and are surprised by finding the better part of a whale skeleton laying on the beach – I can’t wait for Bob to see this.
After watching Bob go nuts over our discovery, we gotta go – we still have nearly 40 miles before we get to our destination for the day, San Ignacio. The bikes go ahead, with Jerry right on their butts, seeing if he can stay with them. He probably could have, except for the slight problem of running out of gas because he hadn’t fueled up at the crossroads like everyone else. Steve stops to put some gas in Jerry’s machine, and they wave me on. This stretch of road seems endless, as it is boring and there are few interesting sights. I concentrate on getting it over with and am ultimately rewarded when I turn a corner and see the outskirts of San Ignacio. I’m not exactly sure where our hotel (the Posada) is, but it’s not a big town and I soon find it. Our group is bigger than the hotel’s capacity (6 rooms, 12 beds), and the manager has booked our overflow in another hotel up the way. Getting here before the others, I quickly stake out a room to share with Gary and Arturo. Soon Gary shows up, and while we’re waiting on the others, the group runs up to the Pemex station at the highway to fuel up.
The sun’s getting low in the sky and Arturo and the chase vehicle haven’t shown up yet; Gary and I share worried glances with each other and hope against hope they aren’t delayed because Arturo had a problem. Finally one of the guys says he saw Arturo at the gas station with the others, and we breathe a sign of relief. However, Arturo still hasn’t shown up, maybe he’s lost trying to find us. While Gary searches for him around the town square, I check out the gas station to see if there’s any sign of him. He’s disappeared, and we’re clueless to figure out what to do next. Just as we’re about to hit the panic button, here comes Arturo, all showered and changed into clean clothes – he’d followed the overflow to the other hotel and cleaned up there. With this mystery solved, I head into town to get a couple of pictures before it gets dark.
On the way back from taking photos, I check out the front of the La Pinta hotel to see if the Sr. Divertido sticker I put up there several years ago is still there. Pulling up to the front, I’m happy to see it’s still there.
Getting back to the hotel, I find out Chuck is still missing in action, and as we’re lining up a search party, he pulls up in a borrowed truck, saying he’s had two flats and the Expedition is about 6 miles back up the trail. Now begins the part of the story I call Chuck’s Saga. His Ford Expedition came with 17-inch wheels, with a new bolt pattern unlike anything else. The odds are 1000-to-1 that we’ll find anything here that will work on his truck. I had the same problem with my 1997 F-150, but Baja-ized it by replacing the wheels with 16.5 inchers, which uses a standard tire size found in any llantera in Mexico. Unfortunately, Chuck didn’t have this foresight, and is now paying the price.
It’s evident this won’t be an easy fix. A couple of the guys run out on their quads to give Kate moral support while waiting for Chuck to get back, while Gary goes with Chuck to search for the Holy Grail, a 17 inch tire in San Ignacio. After enough of this exercise in futility, they search for other options, and soon come up with a car dolly and decide to tow the truck in. While all this is going on, the rest of us can’t do much and decide to get dinner. Taking Arturo under my wing, we join the others for dinner down the street. Afterwards, we pass out at the hotel, with Arturo falling asleep listening to his Walkman (still playing the only tape he brought along, Santana), while waiting for Gary to get back. He finally shows up about 10:30 and relays the trials and tribulations of Chuck and the tow from hell. They had managed to get the Expedition to the local trailer park (after coming off the car dolly three times), where Chuck knows the owner, and all had gone out for dinner. The evening ended on a high note, as somehow two 17-inch tires had been located and would be there in the morning. After all this fun, there was nothing left to do but pass out.
Day 3
We had made arrangements for coffee to be ready at 6:30 this morning, but strangely enough, the restaurant was running on Mexican time, and was locked up tighter than a drum when we got there. Ever resourceful, we go back to last night’s restaurant and sure enough, he’s got plenty of java ready. By the time we down several cups of liquid energy, the other place is ready to serve us breakfast. Heading on over, the proprietor is pushing the lobster omelet, and several of us go for it. Should have opted for the chorizo, as the lobster was pretty skimpy. Of note, the pond behind the restaurant is the original pila for the old mission here.
Reasonably filled up, we decide to regroup at the town square, across from the church. In the meantime, since we’re only going to San Juanico today, instead of the planned return all the way to La Purisima, we have a bit of time to see if we can get Chuck back on the road. Getting over to the trailer park, Chuck tells us the replacement tires are the exact matches for his truck, and the tire shop was mounting the new tires as we spoke. We’re eager to get on the road, and are a bit antsy while waiting for the tires to get here. We’re debating on whether or not Chuck should continue with the trip or return via the highway, but he’s insistent on continuing. The tires arrive, and as promised, they’re undistinguishable from new tires from the showroom. We all forget that discretion is the better part of valor, as well as the basic rules concerning off-road travel in the Baja, and decide to let Chuck continue.
While Chuck runs up to the hotel to get his stuff, the rest of us gather at the town square for some group photos.
It’s getting late, nearly 10:30, and we need to get going. The bikes went ahead nearly an hour ago, and we gotta ride. Chuck finally shows up and we leave San Ignacio behind. We’re concerned about the Expedition, as our route goes right back to where he got the two flats the day before. Chuck knows to be careful, as aren’t many options left if he ruins any more tires – his spare is barely usable, with a large bubble in it – I wouldn’t drive it down the street, much less than relying on it as a spare for 150 miles of the Baja 1000 course.
The bikes are long gone, so I jump out in front to try to set a pace fast enough to be interesting, but also safe enough for Chuck and the now crippled Ford from Hell. After what I guess is about halfway to our planned turnoff from yesterday’s route, I stop to have the guys regroup. We’re holding our collective breath, waiting for Chuck to show up, and you can feel the tension release when we see him in the distance. However, our joy was premature, as Chuck stops about a mile behind us and starts to flash his lights. It looks like the Evil God of Flat Tires has paid us yet another visit. Some of us return to Chuck to see if we can help him out. Another tire has split completely across the cord, and despite the fact there’s probably a manufacturing defect, I can’t help but think that Chuck’s aggressive driving is part of the problem.
We try to talk Chuck into turning around and limping back into San Ignacio, but he’s determined to press on. Moving forward, we stop to help a Mexican truck change a tire – in the driver’s infinite wisdom, he had a good spare, but no jack to lift the truck. After this interlude, we’re only a couple of miles from the turn to the interior road to San Juanico, as well as the now-thirsty D.C. and Howard, who have been waiting for us for over a hour and a half. Chuck still wants to go on, despite the fact he now obviously has defective tires and no spare. Last night we talked about the Darwin Awards, the annual parody award given to the people who removed themselves from the gene pool in the most spectacular or unusual fashion, and cross my fingers that Chuck won’t make this year’s list with this insane death wish. In an effort to try to get him through, we decide to return using yesterday’s route, which we think will be easier on the Expedition.
A bit disappointed that we’ve abandoned the original plan, the bikes lead off, leading us back through the now-familiar fish camps, and we’re soon zipping along on the salt flats. We soon wind up with Howard in the lead, followed by Gary, then Chuck. The pace starts getting faster and faster, and the scene would be funny if it was a movie and not real life – Chuck is a million miles from civilization, driving 70 mph on three defective tires and a fourth with a large bubble in it, with no spare. If the bad tire lets go at this speed there won’t be enough left of Chuck to need more than a matchbox to bury him in. I pass the others in a vain effort to reach him to get him to slow down, but he’s going so fast I can’t catch him. Finally he gets to some rough ground and slows down enough for me to catch him, and I pull him over for a beer break.
We resume the ride, again with the bikes in the lead, all of a sudden there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. For an instant it looks like a dog is chasing me, but it quickly comes into focus as a frightened coyote hell-bent on getting away from us – however its path is on a collision course with me, I have to slow down to keep from center-punching it as it crosses the trail no more than a meter in front of me. Jerry is behind me and later tells me the last he saw of the coyote it was going flat out, heading for the relative safety of the foothills. After passing the last fish camp the bikes let us by, and it soon winds up being Jerry, John and me in a game of tag on the salt flats, with Jerry cutting the corners to catch me, with me pulling away on the straight sections. Turning inland, the three of us trade off the lead on the way back to the next rendezvous, the intersection with the interior road where we stopped yesterday.
After awhile some of the others join us there, and we’re patiently waiting for the rest of the group – it’s taking too long, Chuck must have broke down. Pretty soon Gary decides to go back to where he last saw Chuck, and takes off – the wrong way! We all start screaming and waving at him, but he can’t hear us as he merrily rips up the road to nowhere. The other guys figure he’ll realize his mistake and be back in a minute, but I know better and try to chase him down. I go about 5 miles up the road after him, but there’s not even a dust cloud in the distance. I can’t believe it – the terrain is so different here he’s gotta know something’s not right. We’ve gone much farther than the distance he said Chuck was behind us. I cruise on back to the others, hoping he figures it out before running out of gas or breaking down.
Getting back to the turnoff and the others, we decide on giving Gary a "Wrong Way Gary" moniker, and I nervously laugh hoping he hasn’t joined Chuck as a Darwin Awards candidate. Some of the others have drifted in, confirming the worst – Chuck’s had another flat, now with no spare he’s vulture food. It’s now been about 45 minutes since Gary took off, he should have been back long ago. I’m afraid he’s crashed or run out of gas. I’ve got no choice but to go after him. Envisioning a long night in the desert, I grab my jacket, top off my bike with fuel, and am about to borrow another gas can from Jerry, when off in the distance a faint sound of a four-stoke exhaust comes drifting in on the wind; after a few moments it returns a bit louder – it’s Wrong Way for sure. A bit chagrined and red-faced with his mistake, he tells me he went all the way to the intersection with the road to San Jose de Garcia before realizing he’s on the wrong road.
D.C. and Howard are pretty disgusted by now and have gone on ahead to San Juanico. Pretty soon everyone else shows up, with the offending tire strapped to the back of one of the quads. Bob can’t resist taking one of the whalebones, and as he’s packing it on his quad I sure hope he’s not creating any bad karma for himself by doing this. Chuck and Kate stay with the truck, with plenty of sleeping bags and liquor to keep them warm. The rest of us continue on in to San Juanico to see if the local llantera can perform a miracle on the bad tire. Regrouping at the tire shop, we convince the not-very-confident proprietor to boot the tire, and drill out the wheel to accept an inner tube. While waiting for all this to go on, we top off the bikes, while Jerry tries to figure out what’s wrong with his.
His quad sounds pretty bad, so Steve winds up towing him back to camp. Later on we discover that in a display of great intelligence, Jerry had been riding most of the day with the choke on, and the bike was just loaded up.
We all get back to the Scorpion Bay Cantina, where Dave has promised us fresh lobster for dinner. Cliff gets Chuck-babysitting duty for the second night in a row, and Jerry borrows John’s quad to go with him back to return the hopefully-fixed tire back to Chuck. Gary goes back to the llantera with them to make sure things are ok. The tire guy doesn’t want to boot the tire, but they convince him somehow. Gary’s bought a bottle of tequila, and proceeds to put a good part of it into Jerry. They may not like having to ride back to Chuck, but they’ll have fun doing it.
Returning to the scene of the now-familiar Bamboo Bed Torture, we stake out our spots and make bets on the likelihood of Chuck ever getting back. At that time I would have bet a month’s pay the booted tire would never hold long enough to get them back here.
Dinner is as promised, with fresh lobster and lots of margaritas – this could be a tv commercial, but we’re lucky enough to actually be living it! The stress of dealing with the God of Flat Tires has taken its toll on just about everyone, and most of the guys deal with the resultant frayed tempers by engaging in extreme alcohol therapy – big mistake! A few of the smarter guys crash out early, while the party gets rolling. Gary stays up to make sure the kitchen holds dinner for the Flat from Hell group, while I go down for the count.
I would have never believed it – Chuck actually rolls on in about 9:30 on the booted tire, with Jerry and Cliff right behind. With everybody accounted for, the party gets going in earnest. However, as the evening wears on, the alcohol-enhanced tempers flare, with Steve taking on D.C., earning him a spot on the Darwin Awards list, with D.C. getting a gash on his head in the process. Jerry gets upset about something and we hear him ranting in a drunken roar all the way down at the bunkhouse. At about 1:30 in the morning Dave wisely decides to pull the plug on this one, and the last thing I hear is D.C. complaining as the generator shuts down, dowsing the lights and sending everyone to bed.
We’re all woken up suddenly as Cliff starts screaming at Steve – it’s a repeat of two nights ago, and Steve is again trying to take a leak inside the bunkhouse - right next to Cliff’s head. Cliff’s spent the last two nights bailing out Chuck, and his patience is gone. He jumps out of bed, grabs Steve in a headlock and sends him on his way. Steve then tries to climb into bed with Pat. Somehow, they finally get Steve back in his own bunk and everybody passes out until morning.
Day 4
Another beautiful morning at Scorpion Bay greets us. However, there’s a lot of wear and tear left over from last night. Aspirin is being eaten like candy. Steve is so dysfunctional he can’t ride, so they pack his quad on the bike trailer. As usual, Team Fun is 100%, and we start packing while waiting for life-nourishing coffee.
Another great breakfast awaits those of us still able to hold anything in our stomachs, and Gary, Arturo and I are looking forward to today’s ride as we are going back via the beach, some new terrain for us. Packing up, we’re the last ones out of camp, except for Chuck, and as we pass him by I can’t help but wonder if we’ll ever see him again.
The tide’s going out, so the plan is to cruise the beach for shells and artifacts. There’s about a 20-mile stretch of beach we can cover, and it’s not long before we’re finding lots of shells.
After about an hour of this we start getting bored and pick up the pace. The sand is soft, and I see a water trail behind each of the tire tracks in front of me. My tires are too hard for the sand, and I have a difficult time getting past 4th gear. We continue on like this for an eternity, and the hairs on the back of my neck are starting to stand up, as it looks to me like the tide is actually coming in, and we’re trapped between the onrushing surf and the near-vertical cliffs.
Les is in front of me, and soon we get to a rocky point with no beach between the melon-sized rocks and the surf. I turn around and retreat to the relative safety of the beach, while John and I watch Les disappear around the corner. A minute later John spots Les on the bluff above the cliff, and explains there’s a trail up to the top just beyond our view. Armed with this new information, I make another run at it, and am bouncing off the rocks, beginning to wonder what the hell am I doing here, when the trail suddenly appears off on the left. I quickly scoot up the rocks and cruise on up to the top of the bluff, looking down in wonderment at the breathtaking scene in front of me, with this beautiful point overlooking the beach in the middle of nowhere.
John goes back down to spot the trail for the rest of the group, and pretty soon here comes "Wrong Way Gary", and he drives right past John and continues on bouncing down the rocky shore. To his credit this time, he doesn’t go 15 miles before figuring out he’s missed the turn again, and soon he’s back. Arturo is so light, and his quad has little suspension, so he has a hard time getting momentum enough to get over the rocks and up the trail. Gary goes back and rides Arturo’s quad up, while Arturo hoofs it up to the top.
We’re finally all regrouped at the top, with Bob brandishing a couple of whale ribs he found. We all start inland on the last run back to San Isidro and the vehicles. We’re starting to spread out as we encounter an area with a lot of throat-choking dirt. I pass Gary and Arturo as they stop to pick up a cow skull they’ve spotted on the side of the road. We all stop at the pavement outside of La Purisima and cruise on back to the vehicles in formation, waving to all the wide-eyed kids we pass on the way, finally getting back to the truck at about 1 in the afternoon.
Most of the guys are anxious to get going, as they don’t want to be driving after dark, and we have a hard 5-hour drive ahead of us. We borrow John’s ramps to load the bikes, and we almost have our first casualty as Gary decides to ride the quad up the ramp, when the ramp almost kicks out from under him. The God of Good Fortune was smiling on him, and the ramp held while he rode the quad up into the bed. We wisely decided to push the other bikes up the ramp and completed loading and we’re on our way.
On the way out of town we stop so I can take a photo of the valley behind us. At this point I’m thinking our adventure is over, but we still have a couple of chapters left to go.
We’ve gassed up from barrels in La Purisima and are ready for the run home. I check my watch and figure we might be home in time for me to catch Monday Night Football from my Jacuzzi – it turns out this is purely wishful thinking, as about 25 miles north of Insurgentes we come across Chuck, sitting in the shade with Kate, with another flat tire. Everyone converges at the site of this latest disaster, while Chuck says they’ve been there for over an hour. I do some mental calcs, and figure for him to be in front of us for that amount of time, he had to be doing at least 60-65mph on the pavement on a split tire with a boot and an inner tube in it. He must really want that Darwin Award.
We throw the wheel into one of the trailers, and continue on to what we feel must be a futile mission to find another 17inch tire to get Chuck home. We’re all pretty disgusted by now and nobody really wants to do this. However, we diligently stop at each llantera we get to, and of course, nobody has a tire that’ll fit.
We stop at every new and used tire shop until we get all the way to Cuidad Constitucion, where we stop at a little hole-in-the-wall llantera, where the guy says he might have a buddy with a tire that’ll fit, so we wait for the rest of the guys to get there so he can look at the wheel and see for sure. The offending wheel finally gets there, and everybody has a pow-wow discussing our options. The guy measures the bolt pattern on the wheel and realizes he doesn’t have one that will fit, so replacing the wheel with one of a more readily available tire size is out of the question. He suggests buying a 15inch wheel and tire that will fit the Mexican version of the Ford, but I quickly squash this idea, as the US version uses a larger brake unit and a 15inch wheel won’t work. Nobody says anything, but the underlying issue is that no one wants to drive all the way back to where Chuck is. The tire shop owner offers a solution. For 40 bucks he’ll drive out to Chuck and deliver the incoming tire once it gets to him, in a couple of hours. We give the guy 20 bucks and leave a note for him to give to Chuck to pay the other 20 bucks upon delivery. Having this problem solved, we all happily wash our hands of the affair and look for a good place to eat before continuing home.
There’s a particular taco shop Gary wants to stop at, and on the way there, "Wrong Way Gary" makes an illegal left turn, earning us the attention of the local law enforcement officials. The ensuing dialogue reminds me of Arlo Guthrie’s song, Alice’s Restaurant, where Officer Obie takes "27 8x10 color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used against us in a court of law", for the crime of littering. The cop really wants to bust our chops, for he not only writes us up for the illegal left turn, but now claims we’ve lied to him, and that it’s illegal to carry the quads in the truck without a special permit. By this time I’ve had enough, and pull out my phone book to make a call to the Governor’s office and use my juice to put this guy in his place, when he finally figures he’s pushed too far and backs off. We agree to go to his office where we pay the 100-peso fine for the wrong turn, and return to the scene of the crime, where we drop off the cop and he now becomes all smiles, is our best buddy, and agrees to watch the truck while we get something to eat. Two cheeseburgers later, we’re finally out of Constitucion and heading in the right direction – home!
We top off fuel again in El Cien, and Gary grabs a cup of coffee to get us home on. We roll on into La Ribera about 9pm, unload the bikes, and get today’s salt water off them before turning in, grateful to have gotten through this adventure alive and to be in the security of our own beds. I drift off to sleep wondering whatever happened to Chuck.
EPILOGUE
It’s now Thursday, three days after the group got back. I’ve been going by Chuck’s place daily looking to see if he’s returned yet. Yesterday I spoke with his neighbor, who said that Chuck was planning to spend a night in La Paz first. I made the decision to wait to today before hitting the panic button. To my relief, as I round the corner, there sits the green Expedition, now suitably treaded with brand new Goodrich TA Radials, the same brand I’ve used for years without incident. Banging on the door, Chuck emerges and relates his return saga. The Mexican with the tire did make it, with Chuck wisely spending that night in Constitucion. He made it to La Paz on Tuesday and in a miracle rivaling the second coming of Christ, found some good 17-inch radials there. Spending the night there, he got back yesterday afternoon without further incident.
I’m going for a cheeseburger at Manana’s and then off to bed.
Sr. Divertido
December 9, 1999
WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED