Bobby and I awoke from our Margarita induced stupors to find snow and rain falling and our room as cold as ice. Not wanting to get out of our cozy, warm beds (remember, we slept with our clothes on), we stayed bundled up until we were sure the fire was going in the restaurant, coffee was on and everything was ready for us to take off. We quickly got our gear on and rushed over to the restaurant only to find no one there. Then it dawned on us that we were three hours ahead of everyone else (and we thought we were late). We were ready to boogie, snow or no snow! Eventually everyone showed up (funny how quickly everyone adapts to the Mexican manana way of life…

After a leisurely Mexican breakfast (our third Mexican meal in succession), Tim went over the ground rules with us. Rule number one (other than you had to do whatever Tim said do) was never, ever ride backwards on the trail, even if lost. Tim told us two or three horror stories about guys that had ridden backwards and ended up with broken legs and arms and whatever, miles from any possible help, and when help did arrive, it meant going to a Mexican hospital (most riders, it seemed, if conscious, opted to endure the pain and go back to the States).

Next Tim tried to put some fear in us about taking care of his motorcycles and offered to sell us bike insurance in case we crashed. No one took him up on the insurance, but some of us that are crash prone should have.

Finally, about ten o’clock, we were ready to leave Rancho Veronica. There was still mixed rain and snow falling. Tim said this only happened rarely, so I look on the snow as just another one of my “lucky” off-road adventures.

Finally on our way…..

By the time we left it had started to rain pretty good. As it turned out, Bobby and I faired pretty well for a bunch of easterners expecting 70-degree weather. I had my KTM winter coat (not an enduro jacket) with me and Bobby, since he didn’t have an enduro jacket, had bought a cheap fleece-lined jacket at K-Mart before we left Richmond. Tim passed out plastic ponchos to everyone and we wore these over our clothes. We “layered-up” and I actually started sweating on some of the trails early on. Everyone else had enduro jackets with varying degrees of layering-up under them and Tim had a rain suit on over his gear. (Tip: If you do this trip this time of the year, bring a rain suit).

Chills and spills in the Baja…

Mostly what we rode the first day were roads that back east we would have called “fire” roads, except there were no trees around. Which are fun, but not necessarily challenging. Marc, Bobby and myself had been lobbying for “single-track” from the time Tim picked us up, claiming that Jennifer (Tim’s wife and business partner) had said we would only be riding single track, but to little avail. Tim had rightly chosen to get everyone, with our mixed skilled levels, acclimated to Baja before tackling the tough stuff. He did take us down one ravine early on that left me gasping for air until I figure how to ride the “stuff” in the ravine. The “stuff” turned out to be decomposed granite, which in some sections was pretty deep. The granules were much larger than sand, but very loosely packed, and required running “wfo”, keeping the front end light, but kind of plowing ahead. Kinda like riding in deep sugar sand. Weird! Anyway, I quickly decided that if Baja single track was like this (it isn’t), I wanted no part of it for any extended periods.

Remember what I said about the “crash-prone” should have bought insurance? Naturally, I was talking about myself.

If you will recall, I had staked out the brand new XR400 for myself, rightly assuming that no one else would want a new, light, state-of-the-art-but-stock motorcycle when they could ride one of Tim’s older, heavier, but more broken-in bikes.

We got back on the “fire” roads and everyone was having a good time. It was still raining but the roads were holding up. We were gaining altitude (we started off at about 3000 feet). Tim, Bobby and Marc were way out in front. As the rest of us rounded a right-hand off-camber corner (I was in the lead of the second pack), my bike did a serious swap. I still don’t know what happened, but I suspect the rear end slid out on the loose but slick stuff (Tim runs 17 lbs. for flat protection) caught traction and started swapping. Man, I haven’t swapped like that since I did it on my ’88 CR250, which was infamous for headshake. Randall Parker was behind me in back then, we were flying down a fire road, and he still talks about how I saved it. Then ‘till now is a long time between “headshakes”. I still don’t know how I saved it then, and I don’t know how I saved it now—well, almost saved it now.

The bike swapped two or three times (you really don’t expect these play bikes to do tank slappers, do you?). I got it under control (probably with the death grip I had on the tank with my thighs, knees, legs and feet). Got it straightened out, but, unfortunately, I was headed straight off the side of a gnarly, rock and bolder infested hill to the left of the road.

I locked up the binders and got the 400 slowed down, and just when I thought I had saved it (don’t you always think you’re going to save it?)—I hit the loose sand and dirt on the edge of the road—the front end knifes under and down I go—over the bars on my right side, again. I always fall on my right side. Always. The only time I fall on my left side is when I’m going down, on my right side, and I hit something (like a tree), which sends me back to hit something on my left (like a tree) which either puts me down on my left or sends me on my merry way to my right (which sometimes starts the whole process over again).

Just as I hitting the ground, I’m thinking this isn’t going to be so bad (after so many crashes I can tell when it’s going to be a bad one). I hit the ground, and I’m thinking all these positive crash thoughts, when I hear a tremendous crash behind and on top of me.

Jondy (remember, pronounced John-dee) comes somersaulting over me (he’s run into my downed bike), and we’re laying in the mud, the blood and the beer looking at each other. Just as I ask, “are you OK?”, I see his eyes go wide (he’s looking behind me at the road we just came down. My first thought is that it’s going to be Chris, the Pro-Motocrosser, and he’s going to really slam into us; or maybe it’s Randy or Jeremy or maybe all of them. Lord, will this ever end? I’m trying to get into a “tucked” (ok, ok, a fetal) position, but I’ve got two bikes laying over parts of my body and no time to get into any kind of position.

No one hits us and I have my head turned just enough to see Jeremy doing his own somersault behind and down the hill from us. He missed us but went straight down the hill, hit a big loose rock and endoed big time.

As it turns out, Jeremy is the only one to suffer any kind of injury. He hurt his hand and Dr. Jondy surmised he either had a sprained or broken little finger. It swelled up and knocked him out of riding the next day, but he managed to ride the last day.

Our bikes didn’t fair so well. My bike was all right except for a tweaked front end, but Dr. J’s had a busted headlight and brake lever and a badly dented tank (ever see a dented plastic tank?). Jeremy’s bike is all right, too. (Should of got that bike insurance, Dr. J.)

I ride on ahead to find Tim (who, by now is riding back) so he can help with the repairs and then ride on to catch up to Bobby and Marc. We wait and we wait and we wait. By now, it’s turned colder and started to snow along with the rain. None of us dare ride back since Tim has put the fear of God into us about horrible Mexican hospitals and broken bones and lots of pain. Finally, everyone shows up. Turns out Jondy has crashed again. This time his glasses fogged up with rain and snow and he did a proper Baja crash. He has a “hip-pointer” (like the football players get) and from now on his riding slows way down. He has to be in surgery early Monday morning (probably on a football player with a hip pointer) and he decides discretion is the better part of valor.

No spills, just chills…

Bobby and I are still in good shape. My KTM coat is keeping me toasty and Bobby’s K-Mart special is doing the same. The other riders (except for Tim, who has a rain suit on) are not fairing so well. Their enduro jackets are not warm enough. As long as we are on dirt roads and working the bikes we stay warm(er).

Eventually though, we have to ride some paved roads to get to the lunch stop. The pavement does us all in. It’s snowing and raining in earnest now. Everyone is really cold and miserable. We blow through the place we were suppose to meet Tom with the truck, for lunch. We’re early. Our goggles are covered with slush and we can only see by holding our heads down and looking through the very top edge of the goggles. Marc, Dr. J. and myself are having a time with our glasses also fogging up. We slosh on to a small gas station, which is the alternative stop for lunch. This time we have Mexican-made junk food since all the real food is in the truck.

Tom shows up with the truck shortly after we get there. He has all our gear and a six-bike trailer. We’ve ridden 77 miles and everyone opts to change clothes and pile in the truck. Luckily it’s a crew cab but there’s seven of us, including Tom, and we are packed in like sardines. Tim and Chris have to ride their bikes on up to Mike’s Sky Rancho, since there is only room for us “wimps” in the truck. They have their rain suits, and say later the ride up wasn’t bad, but my guess is that they are putting up a brave front.

Next installment: Mike’s Sky Rancho