Date: May, 1997
Location: Still somehow Baja
Riders: Pinhead, Conehead, Ev’, The Rookie
Guides: Richard & (finally) Howard
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.
Day Four: A Goat Trail to Glory and a Dirt Nap at 65mph
We woke up to the glorious smell of bacon. That’s not a metaphor—there was actual bacon. The caretaker had arrived, the griddles were hot, and the world suddenly made sense again. We feasted like kings, threw a leg over the bikes, and Richard laid out the plan: “We’re going to the Pacific. Just turn at the airport.”
That’s it. That was the whole plan.
The ride to Rancho Meling (a.k.a. San Jose) was a total stunner—open terrain, killer scenery, and just enough rocks to keep you from thinking this was a vacation. The ranch was as beautiful as ever, but they weren’t serving lunch. Luckily, they were serving beer. Close enough.
After some shade and suds, we saddled up and climbed into the mountains. This was the kind of riding people dream about. Narrow goat trails, loose rock, and just enough sketch to remind you you’re alive. We hit the coast just before sundown. Richard—clearly proud of his rusty mental GPS—told us the airport had grown over. As for the road? That was apparently the goat trail we just conquered.
No time to reflect. We were cliffside, daylight was fading, and there wasn’t a building in sight. Richard’s solution? “Head to the highway. We’ll find a motel.” That’s Baja optimism at its finest.
Filtering Water and Refilling CamelBaks
High-Speed Flat + Over-the-Bars = Baja Bingo
Now, I usually trail behind The Rookie to keep him alive and in one piece. But I noticed my front tire was going soft, and I made the brilliant decision to go faster. Because clearly, nothing bad ever happens at 80mph with a failing front tire.
I caught up to The Rookie and told him my tire was going. Then I hammered down, hoping to catch the others before disaster struck. That worked almost until the tire gave out, the bike got twitchy, and I supermanned over the bars at 65mph. I don’t remember much, except hearing the telltale wub-wub-wub of rim on dirt, then sky-ground-sky-ground-ouch.
The Rookie, in a rare role reversal, came screaming up: “ARE YOU OKAY?” I couldn’t speak, so I gave him the thumbs-up. (Either that or I was trying to wave down a rescue chopper.)
He took off to find help, crashed a bit, found Richard, then came back to check on me again. Good man. Eventually, the crew returned, and Conehead got to work on my flat. Yes, he’s still the fastest tire changer in the West—and he still works for beer.
Limping Into Town, Limping Into Bed
Surprisingly, the XR survived the crash with just a few scratches. Me? I wasn’t as lucky. Minor nerve damage, busted nose, facial cuts, both hips bruised, shoulder wrecked. But hey, no broken bones. Win.
We rolled into town after dark and found a sketchy motel with a restaurant. Dinner hit the spot. The beers hit harder. We ended up splitting two rooms—Conehead, Pinhead, and Richard scored the suite with a “bonus room.” The Rookie and I got stuck in a twin-bed shoebox.
The smell in our room? Unspeakable. Our riding gear had turned into something sentient and evil. We tossed it all in the bathroom, sealed it like a biohazard chamber, and cracked the window.
Just as we started to drift off, the town woke up: live band, barking dogs, shouting locals. A full festival outside our window. We eventually passed out from exhaustion, if not peace.
Day Five: Hill Climbs, Helmet Scars, and Heroic Welders
We woke sore, stiff, and starving. Breakfast was a multi-plate affair. Even The Rookie was eating like a man who’d seen things.
The plan was to meet Howard on a trail somewhere between 11:15 and 11:30, give or take a siesta. To make it there in time, Richard led us off the highway… and straight up a nasty, loose hill climb.
Conehead bailed halfway. The Rookie lost momentum. I waited just long enough to plow into him like a dirt bike bowling ball. Pinhead, the only smart one, stayed behind and took pictures of the carnage.
I tumbled 20 yards down the slope, bruising the other shoulder and scuffing up my new helmet. That’s right, both shoulders now hurt. Perfect symmetry.
Turns out that hill wasn’t even on the route. Richard just wanted to try it because—new bike. Makes sense.
Back on the highway, Pinhead’s XR suddenly went full volume. The exhaust tab had snapped off, and his pipe was hanging loose. We tried finding a clamp in the next town. No dice. Then a local stepped up, busted out his welder, and fixed it for $3. We gave him $20 and walked away believers.
Howard, Waterfalls, and One Last Margarita Bender
Right on schedule, Howard appeared on the exact trail mile marker they had planned. Color us shocked. We followed him and Richard to some jaw-dropping scenery, including a hidden waterfall we’d never have found without them.
We made it back to Rancho Santa Veronica just before dark and kicked off a full-blown margarita marathon—$110 worth of tequila-fueled storytelling. Which, in Baja currency, is a lot of regret in a glass.
Day Six: Crossing Back, Smelling Like Victory (and Socks)
We packed up and headed home. The Rookie insisted I drive across the border. We hit one last checkpoint, where a stunning female soldier asked if I spoke Spanish. I shook my head, she smiled and waved us through. That was the smoothest part of the whole trip.
Just like that, the best Baja trip of our lives was over.
Coming in Part 4…
Just kidding. This was the end.
Unless you count the post-trip gear fumigation and medical bills.
