“Our being is in our becoming. Man is not born perfect. He is born incomplete. He is born as a process. He is born on the way, as a pilgrim. That is his agony and his ecstasy too. Agony because he cannot rest. He has to go ahead – seek, search and explore. He has to become. Because his being arises only through becoming. Becoming is his being. He can only be if he is on the move.” – Osho
We had six hours before dark to go 240 miles to San Ignacio. We’d only see our truck one time today, 180 miles from Bay of LA where we started late because of the engine failure.
I was happy the course was fast. The terrain makes all the difference. You could lay out a 500-mile course in Baja that would take you longer and suck more energy from you than an easy 1000-mile course on graded dirt roads. I was hoping for the mercy of more easy stuff for this 1134-mile race. We wound over the mountain switchbacks, with the terrain falling near vertical to one side of the road, then the other.
As we were nearing the paved road crossing where we would meet the truck 180 miles in, the dirt road got so smooth and fast, I tucked in and opened the throttle fully to see what the maximum speed was. 88 – at least how it was geared right now. I backed it off to 80 and held the tuck for ten minutes or more.
I saw dust in front of me. Another vehicle. As I approached I could see it was a trophy truck – the most awesome desert racing vehicle on planet earth, just trolling along at 60 mph. Something must have been wrong because they can go 140 mph.
I am only a few miles from the paved road by my calculation and suddenly, blughhhhhhhh – the engine quit. Not again! I coast to a stop and investigate. The translucent fuel tank was empty. Dang!
We were debating how long the pre-run bikes, with their oversized fuel tanks, would go on a full tank. Now we know. 177 miles.
Rick pulled up. I told him but there was nothing he could do except go on to the paved road, find Andrew and get him to drive down here to me on this smooth road. Then Santana pulls up. I told him I was out of fuel. He looked at me sternly. “Yea, dat’s because you ride on the gas all the time. I see your tracks – up on the berms at the corners and gassing out. You no ride right.” He was serious as could be.
I look at his tank and he has 2/3 of a tank left. I said, “How do you have that much gas left?” “I know how to ride the bike,” lifting his hands up and giving me smartass attitude. I shook my head and tried to figure it out.
He couldn’t hold it anymore and started smiling. That’s when I learned that Santana was a prankster. You gotta love this guy. “Where did you get that gas?” I said when I knew I had been duped. “I know a rancher out here.”
Santana knew that we’d be on fumes by the time we got to the road, and he wasn’t taking any chances. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him from riding and surviving in Baja for 42 years. By being behind us, he could save either of us if we ran out.
He got a water bottle out, emptied it, and disconnected a fuel line from his carburetor to fill it. He handed me a few bottles which I poured into my tank to get me a few miles to the paved road.
No matter what you are trying to do, listen to people who have done it before.
Good morning everyone,
As far as I am concerned this is the best story on this planet and I am hooked. My sorrounding just looks at me when I giggle, wince, or submerge myself in the story. I try to explain them but to really understand the magic you have to live it – read it for yourself.
I hope Tanner’s foot and knee is better by now.
Great principle. We are not alone on this planet. Too often we think and act as if we are.
Thanks for sharing.
Larry, if you ever decide to publish your Baja story in some sort of portable format it would be cool to see the pictures you posted on your website to go along with it, almost like a statement of qualifications brochure. The pictures provide a perfect visual foundation to the story. Thank you for sharing the view with those of us who never had the chance to see that part of the world.