For starters, you can’t be shy. The bike is a conversation starter. Even people who aren’t into motorcycles recognize it’s something different. Stop at a light and people crossing the street look, then they look again, and then they realize: It’s silent.
“Is that electric?” is always the next question, followed by my affirmative answer, followed by their response:
“Cool!”
Sue and I took the bike out for a ride around the neighborhood. Surprisingly, even at its welterweight 216 lbs, Slick rides well two up. I think the battery life might be marginally shortened a bit two up (the bike is hauling more weight), but I haven’t done anything quantitative yet to confirm that.
Another surprise from our after-hours ride: The headlight does a good job. In fact, I think it does a better job than my RX3. I switched it on and off, accelerating under both scenarios, to see if I could feel a difference in the bike’s response, and I couldn’t.
I’m finding the riding experience is different. The handling is considerably crisper, a natural result of the City Slicker’s light weight and its crisper 12-inch wheels (I’ll write more about the 12-inch wheels and the resulting crisper handling in a future blog). I found I had to concentrate when stopping. The brakes are great, but there’s no brake pedal for the rear wheel (the rear brake is activated by the left handlebar lever). At more than a few stops, I found my right foot dabbing into thin air, and I chirped the rear tire twice attempting to pull in the “clutch” when rolling to a stop sign. And I found my left foot similarly dabbing up and down at stop signs, trying to find neutral, and then I would remember: There is no neutral, because there is no gearbox. You simply use the brakes to stop, and the “throttle” to go. Scooter lovers will feel right at home on a City Slicker because the controls are identical.
And then there’s this: I found myself frequently looking at the tripmeter and the battery charge indicator, thinking about how much of the charge we had used, how many miles we covered, and then doing the mental math to project the range. There’s more to follow on that, too, folks.
One more nice touch…our dinner stop even had reserved parking.
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.
…and another motorcycle publication print version bites the dust. CityBike, a San Francisco moto periodical, announced this morning that they are going to a digital-only format. We’re doing a bit on the state of the motorcycle magazine industry in the near future, so I was naturally interested in the CityBike announcement.
I’ve spoken with Surj Gish (the main man at CityBike) a few times during my days with CSC, and he was always a straight shooter with me. We wish these guys good luck with this change in their approach to market.
Get off your computer, quit playing with your cell phone, and get on your motorcycle. Your destination needs be the Nethercutt. It’s nestled away in an industrial park here in So Cal (in Sylmar, about 30 miles north of Los Angeles) and it’s magnificent.
I’ve been to a lot of museums. None compare to the Nethercutt. It’s that good. I’d like to think I could tell the story well, but hey, I know when I’m outclassed. Listen to Kyle Irwin (the Curator and Master Technician of this incredible place) as he welcomed us on our recent tour just this past weekend…
The Nethercutt has amazing vintage cars (and lots of them, more than 250, actually), trains, musical instruments, and more. And they’re all stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Visually arresting. But don’t take my word for it. Take a peek at the photos below. Better yet, go there yourself. Call ahead and tell them you want the ExhaustNotes discount for both the auto collection and the guided tour. Tell them Dajiu sent you. Who knows…you might just get in for free.
You can sign up for a Nethercutt tour if you call ahead (trust me, you need to do this). The automobile collection is amazing. The music room is even more so. The Nethercutt has a fully-restored theatre organ with 5000 pipes, and you don’t just see the organ…you enter it. What you see below is the console…but it’s only where the guy plays the thing. The real action is occurring within the walls, surrounding the grand hall in which the organ resides. In the silent movie days, this would have been a theater, and the music would be all around the people watching the movie. It must have been a grand time and a grand way to spend an evening.
Here’s what a few of the organ pipes look like behind one of the walls…
There are a lot of musical instruments in the Nethercutt Collection, including a Bosendorfer concert grand piano. It’s been modified by Mr. Irwin and his team team into a player piano (its plays itself). It’s an incredible treat to see and hear…
The visit to the Nethercutt was one of the best days I’ve ever had. It’s that good. You need to go. Seriously. Get off your computer and visit this place. We’ll be here when you get back. I promise.
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.
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.
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.
No clutch. No noise. No gears. Best of all, no gas. Basically, no worries. If you can work an iPhone and ride a bicycle, you’re there.
“Whoooeeeeee!” I thought. This is going to be fun.
I’m the only guy in America who has a new CSC City Slicker in his garage.
I’d like to be able to say I have a lot to learn about electric motorcycles, but there’s not a lot to learn. There’s close to zero maintenance (ooh, did I actually use that word?). One of my shooting buddies who owns a dealership in a large left-leaning California city (there’s a redundant expression if ever there was one) is dropping his line of electric bikes because there’s no follow-on maintenance. Follow-on maintenance is an important income stream for a dealership.
“Maybe we sell a tire once in a while,” he said, “but that’s it. Electric bikes just don’t need maintenance.”
So I rode a City Slicker home today. I stopped for a coffee on the way, because Slick was telling me he wanted to be a GS. “We’ll stop,” I said, echoing Lloyd Bentsen, “but you’re no GS.”
It was cool. I almost wished I had a job again, just so I could make a daily commute. I’ll bet I passed 30 or 40 gas stations on my 17-mile commute, and I was smiling the entire time. Four bucks a gallon? Who cares?
Well, sort of. On the last CSC Baja run back in March of this year, as the guys were signing up to register for the ride I had one fellow send in an email with the name “Buffalo.”
“What’s your real name?” I asked.
“Buffalo.”
Well, it turns out that “Buffalo” really was his name. But wait, there’s more. Buffalo is a world-famous artist. We can’t make this stuff up, folks. Check out this video and you’ll see…
Anyway, the first guy who signed up for the CSC ride was Tim. Buffalo is Tim’s cousin, and both gentlemen rode with us in Baja on the CSC ride. When they returned, Tim’s daughter bought the same motorcycle Buffalo and Tim rode in Baja: A CSC RX3. And then, not having had enough of a good thing, Buffalo, Tim, and Tim’s daughter rolled south in Baja again. Wowee!
I asked this intrepid trio if they would consider sending a story and a few photos to us, and they did. Here’s the story…
Two cousins, and one’s 18 year old daughter, ride their CSC RX3 250cc adventure bikes on a 5 day adventure in Baja, Mexico.
Day 1 – We rode from Burbank through San Diego, crossed the border at San Isidro, and took the cuota (toll road) along the coast to Ensenada. We rode a little bit farther from the tourist zone than usual to find our Air B&B for the night. We were almost there when a detour was required to get around a barrier in the middle of the cross street. Instead, we embraced Mexico-style and found a section of broken curb that allowed us to get some air as we moto-crossed our way to the other side. We took a perilous walk down an open-hole/rebar minefield sidewalk to Guadalajara Birrieria for some tasty stewed goat meat tacos and margaritas with locals enjoying live mariachi music.
Day 2 – We rode a really great winding mountain road southwest out of Ensenada on Hwy 3 to a high plateau and the little town of Lázaro Cárdenas. We filled up with gas and met a couple of retirees on quads who, after taking a minute to find their hearing aids, showed us lots of paper maps and advised us to change our planned route south past Mike’s Sky Rancho due to the road being in very poor shape. Instead we took 42 epic off-road miles west towards San Vicente. The dirt road was alternately sandy, hard packed, rocky, and ridged, along mountains and valleys, curves and slopes. Several times a nice section of hard pack tempted us to pick up the speed before patches of deep sand would suddenly grab our front tires, throwing the bikes unexpectedly. Each of us took at least one spill, but we were wearing full ATGATT so we only had some bruises to show for it, though our trusty RX3s required some roadside bending and bungee strapping. It was awesome. We popped out on Hwy 1 some hours later and headed south for some roadside fish tacos before finding our funky partially-finished concrete and rebar hotel resort (La Cueva del Pirata) on the beach at the end of a bit more dirt road in Camalu.
Day 3 – We rode south along a beautiful coastal section of Hwy 1 before a short but fun mountain pass, a military checkpoint, and then into El Rosario, where we decided to take the 16km (10 mile) dirt/gravel road out to Punta Baja, which is just a little fishing village with a dozen or so buildings. We asked some fisherman and found a little collection of picnic tables on a dirt floor under a building, where a lovely woman named Betty made us some abalone soup and fish tacos, and we met a lawyer from Texas with a dual sport and a surf board that was staying in one of the rooms upstairs and still hadn’t figured out how to work the toilets. The ride back to the highway was fast and fun, now that we knew the road and where the dogs would make chase. Next we rode up up up and into the desert of giant boulders and giant Saguaro cactus on our way to our turn-around point of Cataviña, where we stayed at the nice but pricey Hotel Mission Cataviña, with its delicious Micheladas and iffy electricity.
Day 4 – Since there are no gas stations, we began our ride back northwest by buying three plastic jugs of gasoline from some guys on the side of the road with our last twenty dollars cash, and had a lovely early morning ride through the desert before the day got too hot. Coming back to El Rosario, we had a fantastic mid-morning breakfast at the famous Mama Espinosa’s (cash only, try the ABD Supermarket), and headed north again. Back in Ensenada we cranked the Mexico-style adventure to eleven and got matching tattoos before having some tasty street tacos and cervezas.
Day 5 – Taking Hwy 3 just north of Ensenada, we finally passed a stinky truck likely carrying fish guts and rode the beautiful La Ruta del Vino (wine route) through the Guadalupe Valley and the mountains towards Tecate. We jumped on our last chance for some authentic Mexican street tacos at Tacos el Guero, and then we rode up Presidente Rubio Street and popped out right at a gap in the traffic barriers to meet the front of the line to cross the border. We were waved in by a nice man in a Mexican-plated pickup truck. Total time to cross: about 4 minutes. The hill country ride up Hwy 94 was a pleasant re-acclimation to driving in the U.S., and soon we were splitting lanes on the 15 North back to the LA area.
That’s an awesome adventure, guys, and thanks very much for sharing it with us. Great riding and great photos, and we sure appreciate seeing both! Baja is indeed a great place. Matching tattoos? Now there’s an interesting touch to a Baja tale! You’ve got to send us photos of those!
There’s no doubt that one of the most popular adventure touring motorcycles is the BMW GS1200, and there’s also no doubt that one of the most interesting guys I’ve met in a long time is Mike Huber, who was the topic of the Exhaust Notes blog a few entries down.
When I first met Mike in Baja last March, the conversation turned to bikes of years past (as it invariably does when folks start talking motorcycles). Mike told me his prior ride was a Ducati, and I commented that going from a baloney-slicer to a Beemer must have been quite a shift in perspective. “Nah, I can do wheelies on both,” Mike said. “I can carry a lot more gear on the BMW, though.”
Here’s Mike’s take on the reason why he made the move, along with several stunning photos…
I loved my Ducati M1100 Monster. I drove it from Maine to Seattle, camped on it, wheelied it across the Golden Gate Bridge, loved that the roar of the exhaust set off car alarms, and loved that the clack-clack-clack of the dry clutch sounded like…well, like a WWII airplane preparing for battle.
To me the Ducati Monster M1100 was everything that a motorcycle should be! The only thing that bike wasn’t fit for was the journey I was about to take. My idea was to leave Seattle and travel the country on my motorcycle with a high-level plan of camping in National Forests, visiting National Parks, and continuing to excel within my career.
I work as a project manager, remotely. I am fortunate enough to control my geographic location. I have always made it a point to maximize that strength. In the past I have traveled through Canada, Central America, and South America without anyone knowing I had even left Boston. I find this travel lifestyle improves my day-to-day work as I stay extremely happy. I use travel as a way to remain motivated and work with improved efficiency.
As the weather broke in Seattle in May and the sun shined brightly for the first time in 5 months, I loaded the moto with all my gear and gazed upon my packing job. The packing list was as minimal as possible, yet the bike looked as if it was something from the old Sanford and Son television show. My gear was just too much for this journey on the Ducati.
I had to make a difficult but much-needed decision. That day I traded the Monster in for a BMW GS1200.
Mike, thanks very much for your guest blog and thanks for these outstanding photos! Like I said earlier, when I grow up I want to be just like you!
Canon versus Nikon: It’s an old argument, kind of like the Ford versus Chevy debate. There are guys who love Canon, and there are guys who love Nikon. The question is, I guess, which one is best for motorcycle travel?
I’m a Nikon guy, and on our ride across China, Gresh and I got into a discussion about this. Well, it was more like a lecture…something along the lines of “real pros use Canon,” if I remember Arjiu’s comments correctly (Arjiu is the name the Chinese gave Gresh, but that’s a story for another time).
So I thought I’d open the discussion by asking good buddy Joe Gresh to tell me a bit more about his preferences in photo gear. But first, I want to share two quick photos with you. The first is from the Gentry Autry Museum in Los Angeles, and the second is from the Nethercutt Museum in Sylmar.
We’ll be posting blogs on both destinations (the Autry and Nethercutt Museums) in the near future, but for now, let’s get back to the question du jour: What’s your photo gear preference and why? I’m asking my buddy Joe here, but we don’t want to limit the conversation to just the two of us. Do you have a photo gear preference? Better yet, do you have a photo from one of your moto trips you’d like to share? Hey, send your inputs to info@exhaustnotes.us, or post your comments directly on the ExhaustNotes blog!
This is the second installment of a story about my grand designs on the 1979 Baja 1000. You can read Part I here.
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.
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.
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.