A gentle rain of cinders descends upon passengers in the open-air cattle car. Shifting side to side, now a hard lurch, has you reaching, drunk-walking to the beat. People sway in time to the rails and the rails play a tune older than wax-cylinder recordings. Engine Number Four-Sixty-Three chuffs black, riot-grade smoke as the tracks gradually rise into the tailings of the Rocky Mountains in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Fire is the driving force behind the Cumbres & Toltec line. The tender hitched to Four-Sixty-Three glistens with dark, crumbling coal trailing a peat-tane scent. This is the good stuff, before coal became clean and beautiful. The tracks steepen; Four-Sixty-Three’s breathing becomes labored. The chuffs are farther apart in time but not distance. The fireman shovels more coal into the boiler. Steam pressure rises, pile it on man, let’s get this iron horse moving.
Tenderly stoking the fire…I think I can…I think I can…Adding new meaning to bore and stroke.
We climb higher, waxy shrubs and rabbits give way to deer and pines. The air cools and each sigh from Four-Sixty-Three’s smokestack hangs in the air marking the exact spot it escaped the inferno. The little train spews water vapor from several ports. It drools water near the drive wheels, jowly and unpettable. Geysers of high pressure water shoot out the side of the engine at random, but no doubt necessary, intervals.
We left Antonito, Colorado three hours, twenty-five miles, and thousands of gallons of water ago. The scenery is aboriginal: landslides, mountain streams, hard cuts through solid rock and lonely cabins pressed to the ground. We are burning our way across eons of metamorphic western land.
Great rides on great rails…A magic ride through amazing lands…
The Cumbres & Toltec stops for lunch midway between Antonito and Chama. Of the two options, I pick meatloaf because turkey is for Thanksgiving. It’s an assembly line operation but the food is tasty, old style and all you can eat. Fitting for a vintage steam train ride.
Water pours out onto the ground. Between the elbow of the tower and the chute there’s a 6-inch gap. Four-Sixty-Three guzzles the water as fast as it can flow into the boiler. The steam whistle blows twice and steam-torque pulls us away from the feed bag higher into the mountains where the spruce trees are dying from beetles and fungus.
The line into Chama is bumpy and downhill. In places Highway 17 parallels the railroad track. Old men stop their cars to photograph Four-Sixty-Three comin’ round the bend. The whistle blows and camera shutters release to freeze a moment from the past today. Four-Sixty-Three pulls into Chama a half-hour late. Missing the schedule is death to a train man. They apologize and ask forgiveness.
For people not staying in Chama a modern motor coach whisks passengers back to Antonio in one hour. The same voyage that took us nine hours by train. I feel sorry for those poor people, they’ll never get that hour back.
It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”
“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.
“Torrance? Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”
“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”
It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.
I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.
At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.
Pit row, Daytona.
“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.
Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.
Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.
“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”
Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”
“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”
“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”
We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.
By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.
The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”
The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”
The mechanic looks up again, “What?”
I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”
He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.
The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.
“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”
I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.
“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.
“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.
“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.
“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”
“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.
“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.
“What?” He stops sliding the leg.
“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.
“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.
“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”
The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”
“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.
“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.
“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.
“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.
“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”
Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.
There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”
“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.
The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.
I admit, I went full geek on camera gear for a few years. I spent thousands of dollars securing professional-level gear and studied photography online with the fervor of a Bit Coin disciple. I bought lenses, flashguns, radio-controlled shutter releases, more flashguns that communicated with each other via optical signals. I bought tripods, then heavier tripods, then sexto-pods with so many legs it was like wrestling an octopus trying to set the things up.
My gear kept getting bigger and bigger, like modern adventure bikes. Cameras got so large and unwieldy I stopped carrying them. I can make a good picture now but it takes 50 pounds of gear and forty-five minutes to set up the shot. I wasn’t enjoying events because I was lugging camera junk around and photographing stuff instead of seeing stuff. I need to experience a thing to write about it and camera gear was adding a wooly layer of techno-neediness over my senses.
I’ve since downsized to a Canon Rebel XS with an 18-200mm zoom lens and nothing else. If I can’t get the shot with that setup I’ll take a picture of something else. Taking great pictures is not important to me anymore. I need photos that help tell a story but not become the story. I run Canon gear because it’s cheap (relatively) and plentiful on the used market. Owning a Canon is like driving a Chevy Malibu; it’ll get you there but no one will be thrilled to see you pull up in the thing. All the pros use Canon gear. I imagine it’s because they always have, not due to any inherent superiority of function.
A camera is a tool, like a hammer but not as sturdy. If you can’t hit a nail the best hammer in the world will not help your aim. Nikon vs Canon? Until those guys start making phones I’ll choose an Iphone. The thing fits in my pocket and is nearly indestructible. It takes pictures that would be considered unbelievably good twenty-five years ago. It shoots decent video and if it’s not windy the audio isn’t half-bad, a must in today’s multi-media, everything-all-the-time landscape.
The sun has already risen over the Sacramento Mountains. It’s 7:30 in the morning. High strung and coltish, the 500cc Husqvarna spins freely at a hair-trigger 5900 rpms. I shouldn’t be doing this. I have no time and way too many projects that are more important. Part of the problem is that we’ve moved house three times in the last couple of years. Everything we own is in cardboard boxes or blue plastic tubs. We seem to be homeless more than at home.
Ahead of me lies the north/south flat of the Tularosa Valley. On my right are dark, sun shadowed foothills and each rising mountain range to the east grows lighter in color until the last and final one, Sierra Blanca, cuts an almost imperceptible line across the sky. Or is that actually the sky?
Every time we move into a rental place the damn thing sells out from under us. It’s happened twice by the same annoying real estate agent. It’s like she’s stalking us, waiting to pounce only after we settle in and start to unpack the 1000-count bed sheets and the good dinnerware. When we finally realized that this one particular Devil Agent was devoting all her waking hours to selling any house we moved into we caved and bought a cheap wreck of a place high in the hills overlooking the Tularosa Valley.
When I say wreck of a place I really mean it. The place was a shambles. Our first plan was to burn the joint down but that turned out to be more trouble than fixing it. Our remodel schedule has sped up due to Devil-Agent and it’s been 24-7 for the better part of a month. You wouldn’t think 500 square feet could absorb so much remodeling. I was cussing a blue streak and throwing expensive tools when my wife told me I had to go on a ride. “You’re no good to me like this. Get out.”
The air is crisp and cool through Corona and I swing onto Highway 3 to cut the Vaughn corner. I’m heading towards Santa Fe to see the Motorado vintage bike show. It’s an annual event open to all motorcycle brands and free to the public.
Look for Godzilla at this year’s Motorado. It’ll be the rattiest RT1B Yamaha in the parking lot.
Highway 3 intersects Highway 285, a four-laner, where I turn left and wick the Husky up to 73 mph. Right in the strongest part of the powerband, the slightest throttle movement causes the motorcycle to leap forward. A lightweight, powerful motorcycle ripping down the road: I’d be lying if I said I felt the least bit guilty about leaving my wife with a dripping paint brush in her hand.
Pulling into the parking lot at Motorado is beautiful. Old motorcycles are everywhere. I tippy-toe the Husqvarna under a tree and run my cable lock through my jacket sleeve and helmet chin bar before attaching it to the luggage rack. I wander worry-free, man.
A Sprite GT.A magnificent Ossa.
There are Maicos and Montesas, Yamahas and Suzukis. As usual at these shows I see at least one bike I’ve never heard of, a British/Husqvarna mash up called a Sprite GT. A sweet ’75 RD350 rests in the far southwest corner. Very cool. The turn out is good, maybe 75 vintage bikes and the crowd is impressive. I’ve got to ride Godzilla up here next year. Time to go.
Traveling south through Moriarty the temperature rises into the 100’s. Damn it’s hot. Approaching the 300-mile mark my living arrangements and chore list melt away as the Husky’s narrow seat becomes the epicenter of my world. Shifting my butt from side to side, it takes all the will I have to keep riding.
Four hundred miles on a Husqvarna SMR510 is like 2000 miles in Indian Chief years. I’m tired and sore but it hurts so good. You know, there are many good reasons to blow off a ride: it’s all too easy to cop out and fix the faucet or build that pump house. If it’s not chores it’s work or family commitments. If you get too busy you’ll soon forget that you enjoy the simple act of riding a motorcycle. Don’t let that happen. Get out there and make some time before all of yours runs out.
This is the second installment of a story about my grand designs on the 1979 Baja 1000. You can read Part I here.
Me, 37 years ago. No. 443. Baja. I’m the guy on the right…the one with a podium plan…
Feeling the desperate struggle of tiny, ceramic legs, the battle intensified between my digits until I could ignore it no longer. One eye reluctantly slid open. Something was in my hand. I repositioned my arm and uncurled my fingers inches from my nose. There in my palm lay the biggest cockroach I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. My brain slammed into gear with a grinding lurch. I hurled the Dreadnought class bug against a nearby wall and surged out of bed, heart pounding from adrenaline. Turning on the lamp I saw two more of his ilk and three ships of the line blinded by the light. Too many lads, I struck my colors and prepared the 250cc for tech inspection.
It seemed odd that while the bike was going through the most demanding vetting, the public course we were racing on was populated by terribly destitute cars wearing dented outboard motor fuel tanks atop their roofs in lieu of proper fuel pumps.
After Tech came Contingency Row. The deal was, you pushed your bike between manufacturers’ tents and they would plaster every square inch of the motorcycle with stickers. If you managed to win the race, money was paid providing the stickers were still visible. Use of the product was not mandatory since all bikes tend to look alike in advertisements. As the used-auto salesmen manning the tents plied their trade, the C&J Honda became laden with colorful vinyl logos. Chase truck driver Greg, Len and I agreed that we were now truly Big Time.
SCORE used a staggered starting system; each rider was flagged off at one-minute intervals. Motorcycles were the first to go, followed one hour later by the four-wheelers. This was done to give the high-powered trucks something to use for traction as they crossed the dusty lake beds at 140 miles per hour.
I was off. Riding through Ensenada past thousands of cheering spectators was unnerving. I had not expected so many people to show up to see me. There’s really no explaining my popularity with the Mexicans. I focused instead on my first problem, vision. I had attached tear offs, (thin sheets of plastic easily removable one by one to provide a clear view) to the face shield of my helmet. Since it was a thousand mile race, I stacked on 50 or so, figuring one for every twenty miles. Looking through the shield for the first time, the scene was a watery blur. I began removing tear-offs singularly then in groups while driving down the parade route. Little kids were scrambling in the street to retrieve my abandoned lenses. Ten miles out I managed to dislodge the final one and could see at last.
Class 21. Only five entries. I had a plan!
Fifty miles into the race the chain broke. I carried spare master links; repairs were made and I was back on the trail before the dreaded four wheelers came. Ten more miles and the chain broke again. I fitted another link as the first of the buggies drove past. A few miles further and the chain broke again. I was out of master links.
Pushing the bike through the sand and rocks, shod in heavy motocross boots, and wearing twenty pounds of leather, I was having trouble maintaining our 25 mile-per-hour goal. The near-constant buzz of four-wheel competitors saw me leaping to the side of the trail frequently. Except for the few motorcycles that started ahead of me, I saw the entire field for the 1979 Baja 1000 go by. I was dead last out of hundreds.
Pushing the bike off-road was hard work. I drank all the water and resigned myself to dying from evaporation. My luck changed, I came upon two campers from the USA who had a Yamaha dirt bike in their van. We talked casually, bemoaning my fate. All the while I was eyeing the chain on their bike.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for that chain,” I blurted out. The campers agreed and we swiftly installed the used chain. “Where’s the C-note, Gresh,” said one camper. “I’ll have to pay you back in civilization, I don’t have that much on me.” I gave them my phone number. The campers conferred amongst themselves. Plainly, they didn’t like the turn events had taken. “Why would you offer money you don’t have?” said the other. I made myself scarce before they decided to rob and kill me. That chain was still on the C&J when I sold it.
The Score Program. How hard could this be?
Any hope of catching the motorcycles long gone, I settled down to a four-tenths pace. I was learning desert savvy quickly: Anytime a large crowd gathered in the middle of nowhere you can be sure a ferocious obstacle was nearby. The locals liked to remove the little red ribbons tied in the brush that indicated you were on the right course. I was fortunate, the field had preceded me and I couldn’t get lost as long as I stayed in the rut.
The first two hundred miles were rough. I picked up ten or fifteen places using my secret weapon, attrition. If everybody broke down I could win this damn thing yet. Past San Felipe the course toughened up. One section called The Staircase was solid rock covered with loose shale. Stepped, square-edged boulders smashed the skidpan while I paddled to stay upright on the marbles. The Baja was working my body like a veteran boxer.
By nightfall I had made 350 miles, more like 400 if you include a 50-mile scenic detour. The thing that wins or loses Baja is lighting. Fully half the race is in the dark. I was running in fourth to rev the alternator high enough for the two 100 watt lights.
My pace dropped off and the crashes, while more frequent, were less painful because I was going slower. Ghostly cactus reached out from the gloom to paw at the C&J’s controls. The thorns stay stuck in your hands even after the main body of the plant is shaken off. Another crash finished off the headlights. I slowed to walking speed and fell again. Far away in La Paz Larry Roeseler and Jack Johnson had already finished on a Husqvarna, dramatically lowering my chances of winning.
I pushed the bike off the trail, leaned it against a cactus, and sat down on a large rock to plumb the depths of my character. It was time to find out what I was made of. Turns out, the abyss of my soul was a mere puddle concealing a shallow tolerance for pain. I sat on the rock and waited the few hours until daylight. The Baja 1000 could go to hell.
Dawn found me raring to go. With the glorious benefit of light I picked up the pace into El Arco, the halfway point, where my relief rider Len was stationed. I couldn’t wait to hand off the bike and turned in one of my fastest times between checkpoints.
In El Arco, Mag Seven installed a new headlight from one of the many wrecked buggies. I didn’t help at all. Peebles Sr. questioned me on how the bike was running. “The bike hasn’t missed a beat,” I told him, “Where’s my relief rider?” Sr. and Jr. looked at each other, “After you didn’t show up last night they figured you must be broken down. They went looking for you.” I wanted to scream Uncle right there but with Sr. and Jr. going over the engine plus all the Mag Seven guys bustling about feeding me coffee and doughnuts, describing road conditions, and generally getting me ready for another five hundred miles, I figured the embarrassment of quitting would be more than even I could stand.
I dropped the bike into first and motored away leaving behind El Arco, security and comfort all because I didn’t want to appear chicken in front of the guys. This kind of reasoning, my mom always said, leads to trouble.
Refreshed with caffeine and sugar, and with the bike handling much better since the boys lowered the fork air pressure from twenty pounds to five, I fell into an easy rhythm. Only one more major crash occurred when I drove off the side of a dry riverbed and impaled the front wheel on the opposite bank. The impact bent the handlebars and the wheel but I survived using a technique I’ve mastered called The Flying Squirrel. The lower Baja course flattened out and several sections along the beach were smoother than California’s freeways. I ran wide open for long periods of time and reached the town of Constitution by nightfall.
They had a nice cookout going at the Mag Seven pit in Constitution. It’s not often you get to sit down to a full meal during a motorcycle race so I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. The clock was ticking but nobody in Constitution pushed me to hurry. I finished dinner and lay down for a minute on an unoccupied camp cot. When I opened my eyes it was morning. The 1979 Baja 1000 was over.
There had been no communication with my team since I left the starting line two days ago. Maybe they had gone on to the finish and were waiting there. The P.T.M. 250 fired up first kick, no excuses to be had, and I continued south to La Paz at a less breakneck speed. Around noon, the team’s black Chevy chase truck loomed into view.
The razzing started immediately. “What took you so long? Were you out for a stroll? What part of “race” didn’t you understand?” Eight hundred miles of desert had proven to me that I was no hero. Our plan was sound, however. Only two 250s completed the course that year, leaving my spot on the podium tantalizingly empty.
Baja in 79, riding across the Gobi desert 37 years later. Check out the hair!
There comes a moment in every man’s life when he will be required to delve deep into the reservoir of his character and choose if he is a hero, or a goat. My opportunity occurred at 1:30 AM on a cool November back in 1979. Body sprawled upon the unforgiving Baja soil, mouth full of dust and knuckles swollen from spiny cactus punctures, the abyss of my soul required sounding.
Enlightenment was not my original goal in entering the Baja 1000 desert race. After several years of a truncated, 1000-kilometer Ensenada-to-Ensenada Baja Lite version, the legendary race was restored to its original full-strength, 1000 statute-mile distance in 1979. Ensenada-to-La Paz was the race I’d dreamed about riding since I was a child. Being twenty-two years old and having never entered a motorcycle competition at any level did nothing to shake my confidence. Unlike the seasoned pros, I had a plan.
The plan was genius: In 1979 there were only five entrants in the 250cc class. With a historical attrition rate of at least 50%, the Baja desert would do the dirty work. All we had to do was stay together and keep moving. A podium finish was assured. SCORE, the event organizers, made it even easier by allowing a maximum of 41 hours to complete the course. Hell, a 25 mile-per-hour average would do the trick.
The motorcycle question was solved when a used C&J Honda frame was found. The C&J was a chromemoly assembly that was half the weight of Honda’s construct. Rear suspension was long-travel controlled by two Curnett shock absorbers. Front suspension was from an unknown Yamaha. Topped with a 3-gallon plastic fuel tank, the bike looked every bit the $475 paid.
Peebles Thunder Machines of Point Loma, California provided an endurance-prepped 1973 Honda XL 250cc single cylinder, four-valve engine. P.T.M. removed several thousandths of an inch off the top and valve pockets of a forged Venolia piston, the idea being to lower the compression of the engine enough to use the notoriously low-octane Mexican gasoline. The intake ports were cleaned up, while the exhaust ports received a violent going over. Peebles Jr. spent several days hogging out aluminum to the point of cutting down and faring in the valve guides.
Heavy clutch springs and new plates completed the otherwise stock engine. The bike topped out at 70 miles per hour and could run on donkey urine. Peebles Sr. encouraged me to run the bike flat out all the time. “You cannot blow this engine.”
Between the bike needing assembly and testing, our team having full time jobs, and beer not being capable of consuming itself, the days passed without any actual off road practice by either me or my co-rider Len. We were philosophic about training and agreed that the 1000 miles made available during the race would be plenty of time to get the hang of it.
Our team joined one of the pit crew troupes formed specifically to assist desert racers. The Magnificent Seven provided several pit stops along the course. Welding machines, generators, air compressors, water, food, and any gasoline or spare parts you gave them would be delivered to the stops. We had various sized cans of high-test and one rear wheel shod with a used trials tire dispersed throughout the 1000 miles of brutal desert terrain.
Far left is Lynn Gasser, the guy in the middle is Dick Bridges (my boss at the time), and me. Photo by Greg Smith.
Final preparations were made only hours before we left for Mexico. The bike needed a chain and I had to borrow leathers. With no time to stop and reflect on what we were attempting, Team Leader Greg, Lenny, several cases of beer, the C&J and I made for our Ensenada motel.
I’ve been so busy with home-nesting projects my motorcycles have succumbed to time’s crumbling embrace. I parked the ZRX1100 Kawasaki after the carburetors clogged up and it began running on three cylinders. Since it has been sitting a few years naturally the brake pistons seized. Followed by fluid leaking out of the calipers. Followed by me robbing the battery to start the generator that powers the nest. In any event, it needed tires, a chain and sprockets and the throttle cable repaired. So the big green Eddie Lawson lookalike has suffered the indignity of being dragged across the countryside on a two-hundred-dollar Harbor Freight trailer.
Even worse, the mini bike my pops built for me when I was a wee lad is on the injured reserve list. Forty-eight years idle, Mini has untold issues although the Briggs and Stratton engine still turns over. I’ve lost a few critical, hand-made parts and since the Old Man has shuffled off I’ll have to re-make the stuff myself. It’s not easy handling such a precious thing. The mini is lousy with my father’s engineering and artistic skills. The welds and frame geometry are a direct, tangible link to happy times working together in the garage.
The 1965 Honda 50cc went under water in one of Florida’s many hurricanes so I took it apart and threw everything into boxes and plastic tubs. It’s been apart so long the tubs have crystalized into the finest, most fragile parts bins in existence. The slightest touch turns them to dust. Dry, chalky plastic oxide mingles with 4mm JIC screws and yellowed wings. The sheet-metal swing arm rusted completely in half so I’ll have to rig something in aluminum to secure the rear wheel to the frame and lower shock eyes. I do have a good engine for the Honda: a fire breathing 140cc Lifan clone that clears the front fender by a quarter-inch.
The newest dead-bike I own is a Husqvarna. On the last, long-ish motorcycle ride I took to Big Bend Park way down in south Texas the Husqvarna SMR510 lost its clutch release. Bit by bit, little by little the clutch action faded away until finally pulling the clutch lever had no effect on events. The headlight also broke off but on a dirt bike that’s hardly worth mentioning. We were doing some trail riding down there and the Husky did ok shifting motocross style. Starting out was the main problem as you had to push the thing, jump on, and pop it into first. The bike would either stall or roar off on a wheelie. On the ride home I would circle the backfield waiting for traffic lights to change. Sorry, everyone in El Paso.
At least the Z1 Kawasaki never ran for me. I bought it from the owner of the property we now live on. I had to get it out of there because things were disappearing and I felt someone was going to pilfer the Z before I could. The Z needs all sorts of stuff but I get the feeling this bike will be a keeper. The lines are so clean and simple compared to modern bikes. It sits damn near perfect, doesn’t feel heavy and I know from following David Howell through the Everglades, Z’s do well in the dirt.
Which leaves us with the only motorcycle I own that works: a 360cc, 1971 Yamaha RT1B. Fondly known as Godzilla to dirt riders far and wide, the old Yamaha just keeps popping along. Analog everything, smoky, noisy, sweating petroleum from every pore, this is the bike that will not die. Even with me maintaining it.
Everything around us is constantly falling apart. Even the Great Pyramid in Egypt will be a sand dune one day. I just hope that when it finally falls to the ground replacement parts will still be available on Ebay.
I admit, I went full geek on camera gear for a few years. I spent thousands of dollars securing professional-level gear and studied photography online with the fervor of a Bit Coin disciple. I bought lenses, flashguns, radio-controlled shutter releases, more flashguns that communicated with each other via optical signals. I bought tripods, then heavier tripods, then sexto-pods with so many legs it was like wrestling an octopus trying to set the things up.
The plan was genius: In 1979 there were only five entrants in the 250cc class. With a historical attrition rate of at least 50%, the Baja desert would do the dirty work. All we had to do was stay together and keep moving. A podium finish was assured. SCORE, the event organizers, made it even easier by allowing a maximum of 41 hours to complete the course. Hell, a 25 mile-per-hour average would do the trick.
