Day: March 17, 2019

Whales: They’re Not Just a Hole in The Ground You Draw Water From

Did I ever tell you I’ve been on two boats that sunk? No? Ah well, It’s a story for another blog another day. Bounding out into Guerrero Negro’s bay our low-gunneled pongas were kicking up rainbow waves and a light, salty mist settled over the occupants.

Sensing my worry, Berk assured me that this whale watching tourist business was settled science and I had nothing to worry about. “They must know what they’re doing” he told me.

At first the whales were far in the distance. I was so excited I zoomed my camera way out and started reeling off hundreds of shots. It went that way for a few hours but slowly the whales started to get closer to our boat. Somewhat cautious, then bolder, they came in closer. My zoom lens slowly retracted into its housing.

Still they approached, checking us out like like census workers. I no longer bothered with distant whales as we had plenty within 100 yards of the boat.

Late in the day the whales began to swim under the boat and kept getting bolder until they popped their heads up next to the low gunnel and spouted a fine mist all over the passengers. This we enjoyed way more than you’d think people that had just been sneezed on should enjoy.

The whales started rolling next to the boat, showing a fin here or a tail there. They pushed each other aside trying to receive lovey-dovey petting from passengers. Yes, we petted the whales like they were puppies.

Jaded by so many fantastic photo ops, I wouldn’t bother to lift the camera unless a whale specifically asked for a selfie with me. By name. They were crazy friendly, getting their noses (or where a nose should be) scratched and blowing salt water onto my camera and then feigning surprise, as if it was all a simple mistake.

It was an amazing time to be a whale as they don’t often get to meet two Royal Enfield riders in the same boat. Finally we ceded our private pod to another, less fortunate group of tourists.

The Bullet made it through the day without problems and now that it seems to be fixed Berk and I will swap bikes for the return ride. Wish me luck!

Ballenos!

That word above (ballenos) converts to “whales” and wow, the whale watching in Scammon’s Lagoon today was as good as it gets!

First, a couple of motorcycle beauty shots…the Bullet and the 650 in Guerrero Negro…

…and next, some of the photos from our whale watching expedition earlier today…

At one point, we had four whales up against our little boat, all wanting to be petted like giant puppies.   One even smiled for us…

Joe and I had a great time.

After we returned, we had a couple of fish tacos at good buddy Tony’s Tacos El Muelle, and tonight, we’re trying a new restaurant in Guerrero Negro.   Tomorrow we’re pointing the bikes north as we head back to California, and most likely we’ll stay in the El Rosario/San Quintin area again.

Lawrence of Suburbia.  I love it.  Gresh thinks he’s riding the Bullet tomorrow.   We’ll see…

Guerrero Negro!

Bump bump. Bump bump.

Yesterday was real adventure riding.  They say the adventure starts when…well, you know.  You’ve heard me say it before.   Yesterday answered the mail in that regard.

It started out well and ended even better.   After a great dinner the night before at the Old Mill’s new restaurant, the Eucalipto, it was an early morning start.  I wandered around a bit and took the photo above (that bump-bump thing is the theme from Jaws) and I grabbed few photos as the sun was rising.

Sunrise over San Quintin Bay.

Then it was on the road, headed south, to El Rosario.  We filled up there, because it was an 80-mile haul to Catavina, and then another 110 miles to the next Pemex.

The weather was perfect riding weather, and things were looking good as we entered the Valle de los Cirios.   Then, suddenly:  WHAP!  I got smacked right in the eye by a bug.  Damn, how did that happen?  I had the visor down and I was doing everything the way I was supposed to, but somehow that thing found it’s way in.   And it was hurting.  Ah, it’s all part of the adventure.

We stopped for a grand lunch at the Desert Inn (or whatever they’re calling it this year) in Catavina, topped off our tanks for the trek south, I took my contact lenses out and put on my glasses, and I briefly wondered what I’d look like wearing a black eye patch.  You know, Moshe Dayan style.  My eye was taking on a nice maroon hue.

Refueling in Catavina.
A mural in the Desert Inn.
Uncle Joe enjoying lunch.

The riding was awesome, and the Bullet’s stumbling and missing were pretty much gone.  I felt just a hint of it after long decelerations in a couple of places, but Joe thought that was just because the bike runs so lean.  We stopped for photos in a couple of spots.  It was beautiful and over that 110 mile stretch, we mostly had the road to ourselves.

Somewhere south of Catavina. Those wires in the foreground used to be a tire.
Kilometer 244. That might make a nice title for something.
A Bullet beauty shot.
An Interceptor photo.

As we approached that 110-mile away Pemex, the Bullet’s fuel light came on…no kidding, we were within 100 yards of the gas station.  Timed it perfectly, I thought.  I emptied the spare fuel can I was carrying first, then we filled the Bullet, and then, after buttoning everything up, I pushed the starter button.

Nothing.  Well, a click.   Deader then Julius Caesar.  Damn.

And the rest you read about in Joe’s blog below.  The little Bullet soldiers on.  Now, you might think I’d be a little annoyed about a 3-year-old battery dying, but hey, that’s life.  Three years is a good long time for a battery to last in a bike that shakes a bit, and lord knows I’ve had a few battery failures on other adventure rides (on our Western America Adventure ride, the batteries on half the bikes failed before we reached South Dakota).   It happens.

So we’re in Malarimmo’s hotel, it’s early Sunday morning, and I’m headed out to see the whales in another couple of hours.   More good times, folks!

The Plucky Bullet

Berk was feeling pretty frisky about the Bullet. We had cleaned up a corroded spark plug cap and the big 500cc single was running well.

“You stay on the 650, I like this Bullet and want to try it now that it’s running right.” It took no arm twisting to get me back in the Royal Enfield 650 twin’s seat. I feel supremely comfortable on that bike and you will too if your spine has also recently collapsed from lifting 36,000 pounds of concrete last month. The thing suits my wee, 5-foot 6-inch frame perfectly. Bigger guys may fit the 650 also but I have no way of knowing that sort of shin surgery.

Meanwhile, Berk was was like Lawrence of Suburbia burbling along Baja’s Highway 1 with his Eton tie fluttering in the Bullet’s considerable draft. The guy was having way too much fun racing rag-winged biplanes and organizing Gurkhas. The big 500 single was in top form, pulling steadily and hitting every beat right on time. It got to the point that I thought I was missing out on something good. Like Tom Sawyer painting that picket fence.

And then the battery died. Flat dead, like nowheresville, man.

I recently bought a bunch of those lithium engine starter batteries, the ones about the size of a pack of cigarettes that will jump start an aircraft carrier. I whipped the thing out and Berk was impressed at how the Bullet jumped. Wait…that doesn’t sound right…

Anyway, once running the Bullet stayed running and we made it to Guerrero Negro where we located a slightly-used-but-still-holding-a-charge battery. The poles on the used battery were reversed and the case was a little bigger than the stock battery so we had to do a bit of ham-fisted metal rearranging to get the battery to fit inside the Bullet’s box. It’s not pretty but the bike starts fine now. The stock battery side cover won’t fit over the larger battery and we debated tossing it into the weeds but decided Royal Enfield wouldn’t find it so funny. We buried that part in our luggage.

With wires dangling and the larger battery hanging out the left side of the frame our Bullet is looking more like a BMW adventure bike everyday. If we wrapped 75 feet of 3/4 inch electrical conduit around the Bullet you’d swear it was a GS1200. Despite the troubles the thing is growing on us. Really, none of the faults are due to Royal Enfield assemblies.

In fact, each time we get the Bullet back on the road I like the thing better. It’s plucky, it’s a never-say-die-motorcycle in a British stiff upper lip, we keep our side of Gibraltar’s door knob polished, way. You know what I mean?

That’s it for now. Tomorrow we are going to see the whales, which in Spanish translates to “I’m going to ruin another expensive camera on a rickety boat out in the ocean.”