A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to the Baja Peninsula

When we started off on this trip I hated the Bullet. It was too old fashioned, too slow and it ran terribly. The Royal Enfield 650 in comparison was flawless. The twin ran smoothly and never stumbled. It was plenty fast and I couldn’t imagine anyone buying the Bullet over the Enfield.

The Bullet has broken down repeatedly on our Baja ride. When I’m aboard the 500cc single I never know if I’m going to make it around the next curve. I never know which thump will be the last thump.

And therein lies the Bullet’s appeal: The Bullet needs me. The Bullet needs an experienced rider with an ability to adapt to ever-changing situations. Anyone can ride the new 650 twin.

As this trip has progressed I’ve become more enamored of the Bullet. The Bullet appreciates my attention. It never got any before. I get the feeling that if I died the Bullet would lay atop my gravesite and mourn, not taking gasoline or succor from any others. The bike would lay there and waste away, broken-hearted. Much like how we found it when we rescued the old motorcycle from the dealership that had it chained to a post outside.

We’ve bonded; me and the Bullet are a team. Sure, the Bullet is the weakest member of the team but that just makes me feel like a star player.

And that’s another Bullet attraction: The motorcycle is never better than you are. You don’t feel outclassed or suspect you are leaving untapped performance on the table. What you see is what you get with the Bullet and the more time we spend struggling across the Mexican desert the more I like what I see.