Joined Nov 2013
1K Posts | 1+
Inland SoCal
Hi All,
This is a story I wrote for my Velocette club newsletter some years ago. It refers to our annual Summer Ride, where we ride these old beasts 1000 miles over 5 days, and finish up with our annual general meeting and party. We've ridden all over the western US and Canada, and this year will be our 31st Ride. I tell you this so you will understand the Ride references. And I apologize in advance for using the present tense, but I'm not editing it right now. And the offer at the end is no longer valid as Mexico is not the same place these days.
I should have some pics of this trip somewhere, but I have boxes and boxes of old prints and negatives waiting to be scanned. Someday...
A Baja Adventure
The phone rang at work. “Want to go to Baja? ...paved highway; curves, great motorcycle road, whale watching...”
A hundred excuses went through my mind. “Count me in,” I said, “you only live once, and the Passenger will dig the grays.” Thus began an adventure, a memory, a Ride.
Eleven bikes leave Irvine around 3 in the afternoon. Corollary 13 of Murphy’s Law states that each additional member of a group larger than three will double the time it takes to get said group moving. We stop for insurance and pesos, slip through the border and half of us get lost in the first minute. After regrouping, Highway One takes us past slum, city, suburb, and resort. Soon the beautiful views of the beach are obscured by darkness. The toll road ends in steel “tiger teeth” speed bumps as we enter Ensenada. Hard parts go crunch; I hope it’s nothing critical. The ride through town feels like riding through a carnival; lights, crowds, noise. End of day one: Estero Beach motel, where we change rooms after plumbing goes “mañana” in first. The heated tile floor is a nice touch, though.
The next morning a chase vehicle needs a tire change, inside rear dual of course. Handy “Andy” assists driver “Chip” with the repair while the Passenger and I sample a cactus omelet beachside. As I was warned that the pace will be ..er...brisk, the Velo stays home this time. Ride roster includes five new Triumphs (two Trophy 4’s, a pair of Thunderbirds, plus my overloaded Trophy 3 - rule Britannia!), four Hondas, a Yamaha and a Harley. Since all but our leader “El Jefe” and Andy are Baja virgins, we stay more-or-less together on the road. Soon we roll up to our first fuel stop. Pemex, the national fuel company, supplies Magna Sin. This is unleaded semi-premium, heavily laced with ethanol. It is OK even for my 12:1 pistons except for a bit of water and dirt. My Spanish vocabulary is improving rapidly (previously limited to “cervesa, por favor”).
Traffic thins out south of Ensenada. In the many small towns, the road is flanked by broad dirt shoulders that are used for parking and pedestrians. Crosswalks at stops often feature speed bumps, and more mayhem occurs to the undercarriage. After a half hour of slow-and-go we reach a stretch of smooth new pavement as twisty as Highway 36. I can just barely keep El Jefe on his ST1100 in sight; the others lag behind. The fun ends at a road construction zone; no sneaking up to the front allowed.
After this the countryside looks a lot like Watsonville - or Walla Walla - except poorer, warmer, and friendlier. More of the signs are in Spanish, too. Little kids smile and wave as we pass by. Houses have birds in cages on their front porches. We soon recognize the dominant architectural style in this anarchic society: a cinderblock shack with a thatched roof and a Tecate sign out front. If they have a generator, the sign is lit; otherwise it’s just painted on the side of the building.
By now the potholes are becoming deeper and more numerous. I worry about my expensive Italian wheels. Away from town, we adopt a “keep the speed up to float over the holes” philosophy. Traffic enforcement seems nonexistent; we saw only one Federale (black-and-white) on the entire 1000 mile trip. Watch out for the army guys, though. They are mostly 17-year-olds with assault rifles looking for guns and drugs. Anything not typically turista sets them off; we watched them search a ****’s purse and then let a motor home with enclosed trailer through with a wave.
Contrary to what you might think, the drivers are courteous and competent, especially considering the quality of their equipment. They are a lot more alert than the average American driver. Some are a bit competitive, though...one of our chase vehicles was following a slow bus into a blind uphill corner when a loaded semi passed them both! The road marking system warrants comment, as well. The corners have only three basic markings - gentle, tight, and squiggle. You judge entrance speed by other factors: a roadside memorial (crosses, candles, etc.) means slow down; a spilled load from a truck means slow down some more and stay to the right! Guard rails seem randomly placed; maybe they don’t put them back up after they get knocked down.
At El Rosario the road turns inland. The Pemex station is packed, so I choose to continue, reasonably secure in my fuel supply. Unfortunately, several of the group are not so lucky... it is 75 miles to the next station. The drill in Baja goes like this: Wave down passing local motorist, offer pesos, get verbal abuse if they speak English, buy fuel. Works every time. Five klicks short of Cataviña I go onto reserve, but break the petcock knob trying to switch over. The Passenger grabs the camera and disappears into the desert while I fiddle with pliers. This area is strewn with large boulders and has the most bizarre vegetation I’ve ever seen. It could be Mars. Andy stops to lend a hand, and after we round up the Passenger we make it to the motel/bar/restaurant in Cataviña. This is our lunch stop... too bad it’s three PM already and we’re the first arrivals...
It was dusk by the time we left to run the last 150 miles to Guerrero *****, our destination. Driving at night in Baja is foolish, riding a motorcycle at night is stupid, riding a motorcycle at night with impaired vision from recent eye surgery is totally idiotic. I followed the light show adorning the back of “DD’s” Honda Aspencar until I realized that he was not bothering to dodge the potholes - “Soaks ’em right up, hyuk, hyuk”. At speed, the cattle and mules that are on the roadway don’t have time to react before you go by. They obey the horn, too... evolution in action?
The motel in Guerrero ***** is full, so we pitch tents in the parking lot. Next morning we get a Latin reveille on cornet from the soldiers camped nearby. After breakfast, we cruise into town for supplies, then head for Scammon’s Lagoon. This is nine miles off the highway on a dirt road through land owned by a salt company. The first couple of miles includes some deep, soft sand - time to turn up the wick. “Hans,” who is lagging behind again, drops his Harley, can’t pick it up, gets help from passers by. Gotta keep it over fifty!
The lagoon is an official wildlife preserve, managed by the Mexican Government. There are 1300 gray whale mothers and calves here, and they can easily be seen from the shore as they jump and spout. This is good, since there is an equal number of tourists waiting for a boat ride to see them “up close”, and there are by regulation only four small boats, holding 10 people each. No reservations, we are told. We make camp and prepare to be first in line next morning. Amenities are limited to a pair of pit toilets, a shack where tickets are sold and life jackets are kept, and another shack on a nearby hill where bottles appear out of a cooler and mamacita cooks fish tacos in the back. No fresh water, no power, very primitive.
I will spare you, gentle reader, from a graphic description of the evening’s festivities. It will suffice to say that the Summer Ride traditions are upheld, and then some. The Passenger is urged out of her warm sleeping bag at dawn to wait in line for the ticket shack to open. Two hours later, we are first in line, but there are five “reserved” boatloads of local university students ahead of us, and only three boats. Most of the Ride participants have flights to catch to various parts of the world and beat a hasty retreat, but the Real Riders (you know who we are) hang in there.
By now there are a couple of hundred onlookers as the first trio of boats heads for the closest pod of whales. Suddenly the crowd is buzzing; binoculars come out, only two boats are visible. Apparently a whale surfaced under a boat, was cut by the propeller, and put all hands into the briny. It takes forty minutes to bring in the other boats, unload them, and go back out to rescue the swimmers; all the while the “excited” injured whale is circling them!!! It’s a good thing gray whales don’t have teeth. The American **** who sells tickets (the only local that speaks English) is so upset that she retreats to her teepee (I am not making this up!!) for an hour to meditate. The swimmers make it back to shore, crossing themselves and kissing the sand. I am jealous.
We finally make it out onto the bay around eleven. The skipper heads out to a different pod, but the word is out; no whale comes closer than 30 feet or so. This is still an impressive sight, as mothers and calves surface, eye us nervously, then continue. I am told that the calves gain 500 pounds per day. Next year, maybe they’ll be calmer. Back ashore we hear that the skipper of the overturned boat checked out okay at the hospital after having been struck by a fluke. The students from the three boats donate their refunded fares ($300) to cover his doctor bill. Would this happen in California?
The trip home holds more adventures, including a maniac 100 mile dash to a motel in San Quintin. I am trying to beat the sunset, so I jettison the Passenger and the baggage into the bowels of the chase vehicle and put my head down. My speed is limited by the roughness of the pavement; I get lost in the dark and a helpful local leads me to my destination in his pickup. The chase vehicle arrives over an hour later. Breakfast at the Old Mill is a lobster omelet - fabulous. We meet Andy again in the twisties before Ensenada and have a crazy cherry coke and a Cohiba for lunch at Hussong’s Cantina.
All in all, this trip had all the earmarks of a great Velo Ride, only sans Velos. An adventure every hour; friendly locals; inexpensive food, drink, and fuel; no illnesses, no accidents, just too much fun. The laid-back attitude is addictive. Any takers for next February? I’ll lead...
Postscript: "Andy" is really Charlie from my other, later Baja adventure. For this article I changed names to protect the guilty. I think the statute of limitations has run out by now. His FZ750 had the vanity plate "FOANDY"...three guesses what it stood for.
This is a story I wrote for my Velocette club newsletter some years ago. It refers to our annual Summer Ride, where we ride these old beasts 1000 miles over 5 days, and finish up with our annual general meeting and party. We've ridden all over the western US and Canada, and this year will be our 31st Ride. I tell you this so you will understand the Ride references. And I apologize in advance for using the present tense, but I'm not editing it right now. And the offer at the end is no longer valid as Mexico is not the same place these days.
I should have some pics of this trip somewhere, but I have boxes and boxes of old prints and negatives waiting to be scanned. Someday...
A Baja Adventure
The phone rang at work. “Want to go to Baja? ...paved highway; curves, great motorcycle road, whale watching...”
A hundred excuses went through my mind. “Count me in,” I said, “you only live once, and the Passenger will dig the grays.” Thus began an adventure, a memory, a Ride.
Eleven bikes leave Irvine around 3 in the afternoon. Corollary 13 of Murphy’s Law states that each additional member of a group larger than three will double the time it takes to get said group moving. We stop for insurance and pesos, slip through the border and half of us get lost in the first minute. After regrouping, Highway One takes us past slum, city, suburb, and resort. Soon the beautiful views of the beach are obscured by darkness. The toll road ends in steel “tiger teeth” speed bumps as we enter Ensenada. Hard parts go crunch; I hope it’s nothing critical. The ride through town feels like riding through a carnival; lights, crowds, noise. End of day one: Estero Beach motel, where we change rooms after plumbing goes “mañana” in first. The heated tile floor is a nice touch, though.
The next morning a chase vehicle needs a tire change, inside rear dual of course. Handy “Andy” assists driver “Chip” with the repair while the Passenger and I sample a cactus omelet beachside. As I was warned that the pace will be ..er...brisk, the Velo stays home this time. Ride roster includes five new Triumphs (two Trophy 4’s, a pair of Thunderbirds, plus my overloaded Trophy 3 - rule Britannia!), four Hondas, a Yamaha and a Harley. Since all but our leader “El Jefe” and Andy are Baja virgins, we stay more-or-less together on the road. Soon we roll up to our first fuel stop. Pemex, the national fuel company, supplies Magna Sin. This is unleaded semi-premium, heavily laced with ethanol. It is OK even for my 12:1 pistons except for a bit of water and dirt. My Spanish vocabulary is improving rapidly (previously limited to “cervesa, por favor”).
Traffic thins out south of Ensenada. In the many small towns, the road is flanked by broad dirt shoulders that are used for parking and pedestrians. Crosswalks at stops often feature speed bumps, and more mayhem occurs to the undercarriage. After a half hour of slow-and-go we reach a stretch of smooth new pavement as twisty as Highway 36. I can just barely keep El Jefe on his ST1100 in sight; the others lag behind. The fun ends at a road construction zone; no sneaking up to the front allowed.
After this the countryside looks a lot like Watsonville - or Walla Walla - except poorer, warmer, and friendlier. More of the signs are in Spanish, too. Little kids smile and wave as we pass by. Houses have birds in cages on their front porches. We soon recognize the dominant architectural style in this anarchic society: a cinderblock shack with a thatched roof and a Tecate sign out front. If they have a generator, the sign is lit; otherwise it’s just painted on the side of the building.
By now the potholes are becoming deeper and more numerous. I worry about my expensive Italian wheels. Away from town, we adopt a “keep the speed up to float over the holes” philosophy. Traffic enforcement seems nonexistent; we saw only one Federale (black-and-white) on the entire 1000 mile trip. Watch out for the army guys, though. They are mostly 17-year-olds with assault rifles looking for guns and drugs. Anything not typically turista sets them off; we watched them search a ****’s purse and then let a motor home with enclosed trailer through with a wave.
Contrary to what you might think, the drivers are courteous and competent, especially considering the quality of their equipment. They are a lot more alert than the average American driver. Some are a bit competitive, though...one of our chase vehicles was following a slow bus into a blind uphill corner when a loaded semi passed them both! The road marking system warrants comment, as well. The corners have only three basic markings - gentle, tight, and squiggle. You judge entrance speed by other factors: a roadside memorial (crosses, candles, etc.) means slow down; a spilled load from a truck means slow down some more and stay to the right! Guard rails seem randomly placed; maybe they don’t put them back up after they get knocked down.
At El Rosario the road turns inland. The Pemex station is packed, so I choose to continue, reasonably secure in my fuel supply. Unfortunately, several of the group are not so lucky... it is 75 miles to the next station. The drill in Baja goes like this: Wave down passing local motorist, offer pesos, get verbal abuse if they speak English, buy fuel. Works every time. Five klicks short of Cataviña I go onto reserve, but break the petcock knob trying to switch over. The Passenger grabs the camera and disappears into the desert while I fiddle with pliers. This area is strewn with large boulders and has the most bizarre vegetation I’ve ever seen. It could be Mars. Andy stops to lend a hand, and after we round up the Passenger we make it to the motel/bar/restaurant in Cataviña. This is our lunch stop... too bad it’s three PM already and we’re the first arrivals...
It was dusk by the time we left to run the last 150 miles to Guerrero *****, our destination. Driving at night in Baja is foolish, riding a motorcycle at night is stupid, riding a motorcycle at night with impaired vision from recent eye surgery is totally idiotic. I followed the light show adorning the back of “DD’s” Honda Aspencar until I realized that he was not bothering to dodge the potholes - “Soaks ’em right up, hyuk, hyuk”. At speed, the cattle and mules that are on the roadway don’t have time to react before you go by. They obey the horn, too... evolution in action?
The motel in Guerrero ***** is full, so we pitch tents in the parking lot. Next morning we get a Latin reveille on cornet from the soldiers camped nearby. After breakfast, we cruise into town for supplies, then head for Scammon’s Lagoon. This is nine miles off the highway on a dirt road through land owned by a salt company. The first couple of miles includes some deep, soft sand - time to turn up the wick. “Hans,” who is lagging behind again, drops his Harley, can’t pick it up, gets help from passers by. Gotta keep it over fifty!
The lagoon is an official wildlife preserve, managed by the Mexican Government. There are 1300 gray whale mothers and calves here, and they can easily be seen from the shore as they jump and spout. This is good, since there is an equal number of tourists waiting for a boat ride to see them “up close”, and there are by regulation only four small boats, holding 10 people each. No reservations, we are told. We make camp and prepare to be first in line next morning. Amenities are limited to a pair of pit toilets, a shack where tickets are sold and life jackets are kept, and another shack on a nearby hill where bottles appear out of a cooler and mamacita cooks fish tacos in the back. No fresh water, no power, very primitive.
I will spare you, gentle reader, from a graphic description of the evening’s festivities. It will suffice to say that the Summer Ride traditions are upheld, and then some. The Passenger is urged out of her warm sleeping bag at dawn to wait in line for the ticket shack to open. Two hours later, we are first in line, but there are five “reserved” boatloads of local university students ahead of us, and only three boats. Most of the Ride participants have flights to catch to various parts of the world and beat a hasty retreat, but the Real Riders (you know who we are) hang in there.
By now there are a couple of hundred onlookers as the first trio of boats heads for the closest pod of whales. Suddenly the crowd is buzzing; binoculars come out, only two boats are visible. Apparently a whale surfaced under a boat, was cut by the propeller, and put all hands into the briny. It takes forty minutes to bring in the other boats, unload them, and go back out to rescue the swimmers; all the while the “excited” injured whale is circling them!!! It’s a good thing gray whales don’t have teeth. The American **** who sells tickets (the only local that speaks English) is so upset that she retreats to her teepee (I am not making this up!!) for an hour to meditate. The swimmers make it back to shore, crossing themselves and kissing the sand. I am jealous.
We finally make it out onto the bay around eleven. The skipper heads out to a different pod, but the word is out; no whale comes closer than 30 feet or so. This is still an impressive sight, as mothers and calves surface, eye us nervously, then continue. I am told that the calves gain 500 pounds per day. Next year, maybe they’ll be calmer. Back ashore we hear that the skipper of the overturned boat checked out okay at the hospital after having been struck by a fluke. The students from the three boats donate their refunded fares ($300) to cover his doctor bill. Would this happen in California?
The trip home holds more adventures, including a maniac 100 mile dash to a motel in San Quintin. I am trying to beat the sunset, so I jettison the Passenger and the baggage into the bowels of the chase vehicle and put my head down. My speed is limited by the roughness of the pavement; I get lost in the dark and a helpful local leads me to my destination in his pickup. The chase vehicle arrives over an hour later. Breakfast at the Old Mill is a lobster omelet - fabulous. We meet Andy again in the twisties before Ensenada and have a crazy cherry coke and a Cohiba for lunch at Hussong’s Cantina.
All in all, this trip had all the earmarks of a great Velo Ride, only sans Velos. An adventure every hour; friendly locals; inexpensive food, drink, and fuel; no illnesses, no accidents, just too much fun. The laid-back attitude is addictive. Any takers for next February? I’ll lead...
Postscript: "Andy" is really Charlie from my other, later Baja adventure. For this article I changed names to protect the guilty. I think the statute of limitations has run out by now. His FZ750 had the vanity plate "FOANDY"...three guesses what it stood for.
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I was amazed that the DMV gave him that plate. Happy Easter, everyone.
