Date: May, 1997
Location: Baja, Mexico
Riders: Pinhead, Conehead, Ev’, and The Rookie
Guides: Richard & Howard (sort of)
Editor’s Note:
This story was originally published on All-OffRoad in 1997 and was long thought to be lost to time (and maybe a margarita-fueled hard drive crash). Recently rediscovered, it’s been dusted off, updated, and republished so a new generation of riders can enjoy the chaos, crashes, and cactus close calls of Baja ’97.
The Plan (Or So We Thought)
This wasn’t your typical Baja trip. No cushy basecamp, no backtracking to the trucks at sundown. Nope—we were going full commit: leave the trucks behind, ride until we couldn’t, then crash wherever the desert deemed worthy. Wild West style, but with four-strokes and sunscreen.
We spent months planning. And by planning, I mean arguing over dates until we realized—too late—we’d all committed to different weeks. That got sorted out with a mix of stubbornness and passive-aggressive voicemail messages. From now on, dates would be confirmed with notarized documents and blood oaths.
I was breaking in a brand-new bike. We’d start in Tecate, make a run to Mike’s Sky Ranch, then head toward the coast before circling back. My genius idea? Pre-run last year’s Baja 500 course. I called SCORE for maps, expecting a tourist brochure. Instead, they told me this year’s route would be marked and we should pre-run that. Hell yes.
Meanwhile, Pinhead and Conehead had met a guy named Howard at Mike’s the year before. He’d promised to guide us. But when it came time to ride, Howard suddenly remembered he had a job. So he handed us off to his buddy, Richard—a “seasoned” rider we’d never met. Spoiler alert: Richard was more Ironman than retirement home. But more on that later.
We made reservations at Rancho Santa Veronica for the first and last night, because apparently “winging it” still has its limits.
Day One (Technically Still in California)
The big departure day arrived! Which, naturally, meant we didn’t leave until after dark. (Never plan anything with Pinhead unless you’re flexible with time. Like, quantum physics flexible.)
We crashed at my sister-in-law’s place in Mission Viejo, a strategic move to knock out the boring freeway miles before crossing the border. Think of it as basecamp… with throw pillows.
Day Two: Rookie Trouble at the Border
The next morning, we split into two trucks. Pinhead rode with Conehead. I got paired with The Rookie. Now, here’s the thing about The Rookie: the man is a cop magnet. I’ve seen him get pulled over in places where cops shouldn’t exist.
True to form, we cross into Mexico, and within seconds, I hear whistles—not the friendly kind. I look back, and sure enough, the border patrol is in full sprint behind us. I politely (read: frantically) tell The Rookie to pull over. He acts surprised, like the flashing lights and armed guards might be for someone else.
Turns out, The Rookie had just bought Pinhead’s spare XR500. But Pinhead, being the detail-oriented planner he is (cough), still had the paperwork. In the other truck. Miles away.
We were detained for a solid 45 minutes while the border guards demanded we turn over our guns and drugs—which we didn’t have, but that didn’t seem to matter. The language barrier didn’t help, and things weren’t exactly trending in our favor. The breakthrough finally came when the guy in charge figured out we lived near San Francisco—home of his all-time hero, Joe Montana. That connection cut through the tension like a well-placed screen pass. After some awkward miming, a few hopeful nods, and a whole lot of praying no one popped a glove, we were waved through—only slightly traumatized and a lot less confident in our Spanish.
Meanwhile, Conehead realized we were missing and pulled every illegal U-turn south of the border to find us.
Checkpoint Tango
Just when we thought we were clear, we hit a military checkpoint. And guess what? We were stopped. Again. At this point, we were wondering if we’d ever see dirt that wasn’t in a parking lot.
This time, the language barrier worked in our favor. They asked questions we didn’t understand. We answered with nervous grins. They searched a few bags, found nothing interesting, and waved us on. No fuss. No Joe Montana required.
First Night at Rancho Santa Veronica
We rolled into Rancho Santa Veronica in the early evening. Huge rooms. Two queen beds each. This might’ve been the last comfortable mattress we’d see for a while, so we soaked it in.
The plan was to do a little warm-up riding that evening, then meet our mysterious guide, Richard, the next morning over breakfast.
Instead, we ended up watching The Rookie and Conehead get into a pepper-eating contest. It ended with pepper juice in Conehead’s eye and a lot of laughter—most of it from us, not him. Nothing says “ready for Baja” like partially blinding a team member on night one.
Day Three: Enter Richard
Next morning, breakfast time. Richard shows up right on schedule. We’d been told he was “an older guy,” which, to us, meant a lot of breaks and slow riding. He showed up looking every bit his mid-sixties, with an XR250 and a seat pad thick enough to qualify as a flotation device.
We were skeptical.
We shouldn’t have been.
The man could ride. Not fast in the “hold my beer” way, but smooth, efficient, and relentless. By the end of the first ten minutes, we were all trying to copy his line choices.
Turns out, you don’t survive this many Baja trips without learning a few tricks. This was going to be fun.
Coming in Part 2…
- Richard drops his brand-new XR250 in the first turn
- Conehead flattens out, and the patch kits betray us
- The Rookie nearly causes a checkpoint pileup
- And we end the day beered up, locked out, and dining on cookies
