October 2015:

I throw a sore leg over my bike and settle into the saddle with a fresh torta in my left hand and a warm Tecate in my right. My brother rolls up next to me stuffing a hand full of firecrackers into his saddlebag on his gas tank and says "hurry up bro, I want to be there by sundown........you aren't gonna eat that lettuce are you?"


One Week Earlier: Clovis, Ca. Baja Expedition Trip Headquarters:

Our plan was simple
1. Drive to San Diego with two Adventure Bikes in the back of my truck
2. Park the truck at a friends house. Cross the border on bikes.
3. Spend a bunch of days in the desert getting lost, sleeping under the stars, watching the Baja 1000 race trucks go by while gorging ourselves on carne asada.
4. Ride home and make it to work on monday. Without a broken bone. Or The Clap.

You see, my litte brother Tanner and I were itchin for adventure. He is not a climber. He almost barfed from fear on a 5.5 slab the one time I took him out. But he can ride a motorcycle like a demon. He raced as a kid, has had nearly 30 bikes, and sells BMW motorcycles for a living. He has motor oil in his veins. As much as I am a climber and an outdoorsman, he is a motorhead and a wrench monkey. I drink Ballast Point. He drinks Bud. Sometimes I wonder if he's adopted. Or if I am.

He is almost ten years younger than me.....I went off to college when he was nine years old and when I returned 14 years later he was a man. So there's always been a bit of a distance between us. He'd been talking about a trip like this for years and we finally were gonna make it happen. Two brothers, two bikes, a map and the wild west of mexico. Yeehaw! What could go wrong?


THE NIGHT BEFORE THE TRIP:
"Honey where's my passport!!!!?"
"Oh, here it is......EXPIRED!!!! Oy vey. What a way to start the trip.
four hours on the phone. $378.00 in fees to expedite. Then I find out I can "go and wait in line in SanDiego tomorrow morning and you might have a chance at a same day renewal." I want to kiss the grumpy lady on the phone for her help and at two am we roll into San Diego. The next morning we are first in line at the Passport office. An auspicious start for sure.

Five hours later we are GOLDEN!!!! Mehico here we come!!!

We ride out of town, southbound, and soon the smell of burning tires, thirdworld sewage and carnitas wafts under our faceshields and into our nostrils, priming us for a visit to the third world.
The border can be a nightmare, but on bikes we split lanes and ride slowly right up to the front of the line. We can feel the glares of stuck tourists and travelers piercing holes in our backs as we glide forward.

We mosey through the crossing and are soon barrelin down the Tijuanan pavement at 75mph hoping to get outta Dodge and onto the coast as soon as possible. I can handle a dirtbike on soil but this road riding has me gripped. I'm on a borrowed BMW 650 and it feels heavy and awkward and underpowered. Semi trucks roll up on me at 80mph, blaring their horns and booming their jake-brakes "Blaaaaaaap-------blaaaaaaaaaaaaaap-----Blurrrrrrrp!" with their front grill inches from my rear tire. A paint bucket flies off a truck in front of me and I swerve at full speed to miss it. This happens twice. I'm white knuckled and my blood pressure is through the roof as I follow Tanner, cool as a cucumber, down the four lane freeway headed southwest out of The Juana.

Soon we hit a rest stop and I uncurl my fingers for a moment for a selfie by the beach.

We motor south along the coastal highway en route to Ensenada and the views are amazing. I'm relaxing and finally letting the trip unfurl before me.

The best part of this trip is that we will be down here for the start of The Baja 100 Race. THE BAJA 1000. The truest test of manhood on the planet. For those of you who know nothing about it.....here's a bit of a history lesson.

It started back in 1962 as a group of guys who basically just wanted to race
from Tijuana to LaPaz. Some of the early guys were real motorhead fun hogs, like actor James Garner, Steve McQueen and lots of bandito type adventurers. That early core group was a lot like Chouinard and the "Funhogs" and the early Patagonia expeditions. Dave Ekins recorded the first official timed run in 39 hours 56 minutes (39:56) with a total distance of 952.7 miles (1,533.2 km).


Baja has an extensive history of dirtbikes and racing and it is the spiritual home for desert riding. It is the Yosemite of the 60's and the golden age and the mecca if you like dirtbike adventure. The race has now become a no holds barred, big money rich boy endeavor. With million dollar trucks ravaging the silt and sand for 1000 miles as "chase copters" spot their every move and they spend millions for pennies of a trophy and bragging rites for a year.

And the fans are totally nuts. They party for a week before and line the twists and turns like Tour de France idiots getting as close as they can to the action.

fans routinely are struck and deaths are not uncommon. But they are rabid for it.

The race is open to all comers. You can be the millionare from Texas racing right next to an "open class unmodified stock" VW bug.

The race is a focal point of the year for most Baja Mexicans and the race and its heroes have done much for the land and its people.


Our family has become big fans of the race. My youngest son, Bek (9) knows all the riders and racers and history and is doing his first desert race next month.
Fixing bikes and riding with my little boys has been a fun chapter in my life.
And after a bit of a climbing reprieve that started with a knee injury on my first El Cap attempt a couple years ago, motocross has become a bit of a passion. Macronut, my steady partner on the rock, and I have had some really fun adventures with our kids, who all ride now.
Check out my new Kawi. Its my first 450 and its skeery fast! Braaaaap!

So this trip to Mexico with my little brother, during the race, at this point in my life, is really special.

Ok, back to the story. I survive the freeway drive down and we make it to Ensenada by dusk.
The place is a MAD HOUSE.
The race starts tomorrow and we are at the epicenter of the Mexican party of the century. Mariachi music, fan stoke and the sensuous smell of grilled meat fills the air.
We are wary of parasites and the thought of sitting on a motorcycle with Montezuma's revenge for a week so we vow not to eat the local food. We break that vow within ten minutes.
The place is electric with anticipation of tomorrows race.
Pros drive up and down the strip revving engines, honking horns and signing autographs. We are dressed the part and women and children ask us to take pictures with them every ten minutes. I keep pointing to Tanner and saying "Johnny Campbell....Johnny Campbell. The girls melt and beg for selfies with him.


A warm Tecate has never tasted so good.

The party starts to wind down and we ride off into the night seeking shelter.

Tanner has a buddy at Estero Beach who will let us crash at his place for the first leg of the adventure and we sleep like kings, waves crashing outside the open window lulling us to sleep. The next morning we are itching to get off the grid and we're up with the sunrise and ready to throttle down and head south.

We peel out of town and we are soon free of the choking dust, smoke and kamikaze drivers. It feels good to be out there under the open blue sky. We ride endless dirt roads and my blood pressure goes down with every click of the odometer.

We meander between open roads and dirt washboard.

We stop often for tortas and tacos. I cannot get enough of the asada. It is mana from heaven. It gives me wings. I fear not the possibility of gastric distress and go heavy on the peppers, onions and cilantro.

The vistas are breathtaking and the land is harsh. Ocotillo, cholla and agave whiz by in a Dr. Seussian blur out the corner of my helmet.

We head for the ocean, far from pavement, and soak up the freedom of the coastline.


DAY two or three: I forget. Time stands still on this trip:
We find ourselves at the little hostel/hamlet called Quatros Casas.
The race will go by any time and locals are gathering.
Soon we hear a roar from miles away and down canyon. A dull, angry wail of a machine hell bent on coming our way. A cloud of chocolate covered silt emerges on the horizon to our north. THEY COOOOOOOOMMMMMMINGGGGGG! A local screams.

And then its upon us.


I'll let the next few slides speak for themselves. But lets just say it was one of the more intense experiences of my life. I've been to the Himalaya. I've swum Alcatraz. I've run class 5 rapids and thrown myself at El Capitan. But this topped them all for sheer adrenaline and wild, hold onto yer butts insanity up close and personal in your face fear and excitement and nearly pee your pants fun.

The first truck comes by at about 90mph, engine screaming louder than an F-16, literally three feet, I kid you not, three feet from us. His spotting chopper overhead barking orders....."LEFT....LEFT...STRAIGHT......GO GO GO GO!"
And then boom. Gone. Like a thief in the night.

We hug strangers, high fives galore and a wild mix of Spanish, pantomiming and Spanglish. The Tecate flows freely. Stoke is our common language and we are all brothers within an hour.


Then it happens over and over for the next few hours as the locals get drunker, bolder, dumber and friendlier. Our teeth and eyes and beers are full of silty, crunchy desert grit. We laugh and cheer and hoot and holler until the sun goes down.

We make our way back to the hostel, planning to camp, but we get talked into a room by the owner. 15$ for a room and a shower and a place to lock up the bikes? Really? And "My wife is making mole tonight and you'd be a fool to pass up my wife's mole. Its legendary."

Done. He shows us our room and tells us our bikes are safe, the mole is in the kitchen and "I have more pot than the state of Oregon if you guys are looking to get high."

We take him up on the mole but not the weed.
She rolls out tortillas from heaven and the place smells like pure love inside.
We're on our 12th straight meal of Mexican food and we still can't get enough.

Holy. Mole. Pure perfection.

We sleep like men just home from combat and wake to the waves crashing on the cliffs below.
I brew up some Hood River Coffee in my Jet-Boil and find my happy place just footsteps from our room.

Tanner finds his own chair and we soak up another perfect Mexican sunrise.

Eventually breakfast is served. I don't know what day it is. Nor do I care.


Well, I could go on with more play by play, day by day trip report but its all the same. We visit some more towns. Eat more asada. See some sights, buy some little Mexican souveniers, light some fire crackers. Just living hour by hour, seeing whats around the next bend in the road. We lose ourselves and find the meaning of life. Then we do it again the next day.

We eventually make our way up the coast and back to the border without incident. Overall its a really mellow trip. No sickness. No explosive diarrhea. No banditos at gunpoint. Sometimes a no epic is a good thing.

We split lanes at the border again and are on home soil with nary a scratch or a skidmark in our shorts. What a fun little adventure. Right in our back yard. Home by Monday. Overall the best part was reconnecting with my brother. Having some laughs and shaping memories we'll tell the grandchildren years from now. But connecting on an intimate level with the Baja 1000 Race and the magical landscape of Baja California was a close and memorable second.

Macronut is already hounding me for an invite next year. Will we go back. Si. Es la verdad. Es la verdad sin lugar a duda.


Adios Supertaco.

Micronu Out.