BMW – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Caught in the Snow

By Joe Berk

A few weeks ago I posted a blog about riding in the rain. With all the snow blanketing parts of the US this winter, I thought it fitting that I post a blog about getting caught in the snow. I’ve ridden in the snow four times and none of them were fun.

Crater Lake

On this ride, my buddy Marty and I were on our way home from Calgary to California after completing the 2005 Three Flags Classic rally. Marty was far more worldly than me and he knew all the good spots to stop. One was Crater Lake in Oregon. We rode in from the Oregon coast where the temperatures were cool but not unbearably so. We pointed our front wheels east and rode to Crater Lake. It was a brutally cold ride, and it grew even colder the further we climbed into the mountains.

We had an interesting encounter with a herd of elk on the way to Crater Lake. We had been seeing road signs warning of elk, but we hadn’t seen any until that day. A monstrous bull stepped out in front of my Triumph Daytona from the forest on the right side of the road. He stood broadside 50 yards in front of me, and he looked directly at me as if to say, “What’s your problem?” If he was attempting to intimidate me, it worked.

I stopped and Marty stopped on his BMW K1200RS behind me. My visor started to fog from my breath. It was just the three of us on that cold, cold morning: Me, Marty, and the Big Bull Elk. After what seemed like several minutes (during which I wondered how quickly I could execute a u-turn and accelerate away from those immense antlers), the elk turned his head and lazily sauntered across the road into the forest on the other side. Yeah, you’re bad, I thought.

I started to let out the clutch and moved forward a tiny bit when two more elk stepped out of the forest onto the highway. These were female elk following the alpha male who had successfully stared me down. So I pulled the clutch in again and waited. The ladies crossed the highway and I started to let the clutch out again. Then another lady elk appeared from the right. This went on for the next several minutes. Maybe as many as another 20 elk, all female, repeated the sequence, two or three at a time. I remember thinking the first one, that big bull, probably didn’t get much sleep with that harem to take care of. I wished I had grabbed a photo, but truth be told, I was too scared and shocked to react. I can still see it vividly in my mind, though.

The Daytona 1200 along Crater Lake in Oregon. A few miles earlier, we had a magical several minutes with a herd of elk.

After the elk episode, we continued our climb up to Crater Lake. The sun was getting higher, but we were climbing and instead of warming the temperatures continued to drop. There were bits of snow on both sides of the road, but the road was dry and we were doing okay. I used a Gerber electric vest in those days. It was a godsend.

Another view of Crater Lake. Note the snow in the foreground.

Crater Lake was interesting. I took a bunch of photos and checked that destination off my bucket list. Incidentally, on that trip I was still shooting with film. I had the N70 Nikon I blogged about earlier.

After taking in Crater Lake, Marty and I started our ride down off the mountain. The ride down was on the western side of the mountain, and the road was in the late morning shade. That section of the road had not warmed up. The snow was still there in two different forms…hard pack white snow in some places, and black ice where the snow had melted and frozen over. It was the first time I had ever ridden in such conditions on a big road bike, and I quickly realized my Daytona 1200 was way different than the Honda Super 90 I rode in the snow when I was a kid in New Jersey. Piloting that Triumph down off the mountain was an extremely demanding and mentally-draining 15-mph riding experience requiring intense concentration.

Fortunately, I remember thinking, Marty and I were the only two guys out there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else on the road. Marty was in front and we both were taking things very easy. Then in my left peripheral vision I sensed a yellow vehicle starting to pass me. I was pissed and confused. Who the hell else is out here, I thought. Can’t they see I’m on a motorcycle, I’m on ice, and why the hell are they passing me?

Then I realized who it was. What I saw in my peripheral vision wasn’t another vehicle. It was my motorcycle in the rear view mirror. The big Triumph was sliding sideways. The yellow I had picked up peripherally was my rear tail light cowling. Damn, that was exciting! (And terrifying.)

Marty and I made it down off that mountain, but it was a religious experience for both of us.

The Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup

This was a ride coming h0me from the Annual Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater, Texas (I wrote about the Roundup before and you can read that story here). We spent a half day at the Rattlesnake Roundup, another hour or so at the gun show in the hall next to the Rattlesnake Roundup, and then had a late afternoon departure headed home. The first portion of that ride was okay, but as the sun set the temperature dropped big time and the wind across Interstate 10 kicked up dramatically. We crossed into New Mexico and the wind was blowing so hard it felt like the bikes were leaned over 30 degrees just to keep going straight.

We pulled off the highway in Lordsburg, New Mexico, around 10:00 p.m. and stopped at the first hotel we saw. It was one of those small old Route 66 type motels (you know the type…a cheap single-story structure still advertising they had color TV). One of us (I can’t remember if it was Marty or me) decided we wanted to look for something nicer. We continued on into town and found a nicer hotel, but the desk clerk told us they had no rooms left. “With this wind, every trucker is off the run and in a hotel,” he said. The next town was 50 miles further down the road. I looked at Marty, he looked at me, and I made the case for doubling back to the Route 66 special.

We entered the lobby and two other people looking for a room followed us in. We were lucky. We nailed the last room in Lordsburg (which, I know, sounds like the title of a bad country western song). The folks behind us were out of luck. I have no idea what they did.

Most of the snow was gone after we returned from breakfast.

When we woke up the next morning, the bikes were covered in snow. There was no way we were going to ride in that, so we walked across the parking lot to a diner and had a leisurely breakfast. By 10:00 a.m. there was still snow on the ground, but the roads were slushy (not icy) and we could ride. When we were back on Interstate 10 the slush had disappeared and the road was dry. It was cold. I again enjoyed my Gerber vest. We made it back to southern California late that night. It was pouring rain (that’s the bad news), but it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been and there was no snow (and that’s the good news).

The Angeles Crest Highway

I met my buddy Bryan at a water treatment company. Someday I’ll write a story about that company and the guy who started it. He was a crook (the company founder, not Bryan) and I’m not exaggerating just because I didn’t like the guy. He actually was a crook who was later charged with financial fraud and convicted. I know, I’m digressing again. Back to Bryan, me, motorcycles, and riding in the snow.

Good buddy Bryan and his VFR at warmer times in warmer climes.

Bryan was fascinated by my motorcycles (I owned four or five at the time), and within a few weeks he had purchased a Honda VFR. That VFR was a nice motorcycle (one I never owned but always wanted), and Bryan and I started doing a lot of rides together. We both live in southern California at an elevation of around 1700 feet above sea level, and it is rare to see snow here. I think in the 40+ years I’ve been in So Cal I’ve seen snow twice at my home, and it both cases it didn’t stick.

Bryan and I often rode the Angeles Crest Highway. We would take the 210 freeway to Glendale to pick it up, ride over the mountains on the Crest (the Angeles Crest Highway), stop for gas and sometimes a meal in Wrightwood on the other side of the San Gabriels, and then head home through the Cajon Pass on Interstate 15. It’s one of the best rides in the country.

A typical weekend parking lot scene at Newcomb’s on the ACH. Those were glorious days.

One day in the winter months, it was comfortable So Cal winter weather when Bryan and I decided to ride the ACH, but in the opposite direction. We rode up the 15 to the 138, we rolled through Wrightwood, and then we picked up the Crest heading over the mountains to Glendale. It got cold fast, and by the time we were on the Crest it was brutal. Then it started to snow. It didn’t seem that bad at first and we pushed on. I was on my Daytona 1200 again, and I could feel the bike moving around beneath me. I’d already ridden the Daytona on icy roads in Oregon (see above), so I thought I’d be okay. But this was worse. I could feel the big Daytona sashaying around like an exotic dancer in a room full of big tippers.

Bryan and I stopped. “Think we should turn around?” one or the other of us asked. “Nah, it probably won’t get worse and it’s shorter to keep going than it would be to turn around,” one or the other of us answered. We had that same conversation telepathically three or four more times. The weather was worsening and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road since we started. No motorcycles and no cars. It was just us.

Finally, we made it to Newcomb’s, a legendary Angeles Crest roadhouse that is no more (a pity, really…you’d see all kinds of moto exotica and sometimes Jay Leno up there on the weekends). We stopped for a cup of coffee and a bowl of chili. The parking lot was empty, but the place was open. The bartender was shocked when we entered. “How did you get up here?” he asked.

“We rode,” one or the other of us said.

“How did you do that? The road’s been closed because of the snow and ice.”

Well, what do you know? We had our coffee and chili and we warmed up. When it was time to leave, we kept going toward Glendale. No sense going back, we thought. We already knew the Crest behind us was bad. But we soon learned the road ahead wasn’t any better. It was a white knuckle, 15mph ride all the way down, and man, was it ever cold. But it made for a hell of story. I’ve ridden the ACH many, many times…but only once on snow and ice when the road was closed.

The “Build Character” Ride

In my opinion (and I’m the guy writing this blog, so it’s the one that counts) riding in the snow and ice is dumb raised to an exponent. If you’re already on a trip and you get caught in it, it’s sort of understandable. Making a decision to intentionally ride into the snow, though (at least to me), is a really dumb move. But yeah, I did it. Once. Peer pressure is a bitch, let me tell you.

The story goes like this: A bunch of us guys used to meet every Saturday morning at the local BMW dealer to listen to and tell tall tales (said tall tales usually involving motorcycles, women, or both). We did a lot of rides together, this group did. Baja. The American Southwest. The Three Flags Classic. Weekend rides up the Pacific Coast Highway to Pismo Beach for a barbeque dinner in nearby Nipomo at Jocko’s. And more. We were not spring chickens, either. I was in my late 50s and I was the youngest guy in the group. Most of the other guys were real deal geezers in their 70s. One guy was in his 80s.

Geezer riding buddies in the Jocko’s parking lot after coming down out of the mountains. Trust me on this: None of these guys needed to build any more character.

One day at one of our Saturday gatherings one of the guys had this brilliant idea that instead of simply getting caught in the rain, it would be a grand idea to start a two-or-three day ride in the rain when rain would be forecast for the entire ride. You know, a tough guy ride into bad weather. We would do the two-day run up to Pismo, through the mountains and along the coast, and do it on a weekend when it would rain all weekend. “It will build character,” said the geezer whose idea this was. Mom had warned me about guys like that. I should have listened.

Everybody was in. Like I said, peer pressure is a bitch. I had ridden plenty in the rain, and if you are properly attired, it’s not that bad. But snow and ice? Nope, that’s positively not for me. That’s what happened on this ride. Remember I said along the coast and in the mountains? Well, it was that mountain part that did us in. It was in the winter, we were at higher elevations, and sonuvabitch, all of a sudden that rain wasn’t rain any more. It was snow. The roads never froze over, but it was plenty slushy.

Somewhere along our descent, the snow reverted to plain old rain again, and we made it to Pismo without anyone dropping their bike. I noticed on the way home, though, we rode the coast (where it was modestly warmer) all the way back. I guess each of us felt we had built enough character to have banked a sufficient amount.

There you have it…my thoughts on riding in the snow. The bottom line from my perspective is that motorcycles and snow don’t mix. Your mileage may vary. If you think otherwise, let us know.

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Zooming Through New Zealand: Part 4

By Mike Huber

It was well after 6:00 p.m. and I was starting to hit my wall for riding. My goal was to travel to this campground I stumbled upon on Google which was about 5 miles down a dirt road which had some decent reviews. The rental company mentioned no off-roading as Massie had street tires. I zoomed in on the map and saw “Linda Road,” so I technically was not off-roading. Check!

The road was a very tame forest service road with the occasional “Traffic Lamb,” as quite frequently there were herds of sheep and they would part like the Red Sea as they heard Massie’s engine roar grow closer (you can send hate mail for that joke to Joe Berk).

Once I neared the campsite I noticed a couple of old rundown stone buildings (from who knows how long ago) and a few van lifers dispersed around a large field. This was a really cool spot! Not only that, but you had views for miles of the sun beginning to set over the brown grassy mountains that surrounded the location. This was Linda’s Camp. It was an old short term gold mining operation from the 1860s, which switched hands a few times before finally being abandoned in the 1950s. This was an amazing place to camp and it was far off the grid. I didn’t even have cell service.

After setting up my tent I struck up a conversation with an old gold miner. He was living in his van there and spent his days panning for gold off a nearby river with minimal luck. He got a good laugh from my story about getting the boot from the coffee shop earlier that day for drying my gear there. The rest of the evening was spent exploring the hotel ruins and a short hike up the mountain to watch the sunset. It was one of those moments where I really was able to relax, breathe, and just be in the present. It was a long but rewarding day and I thought having an early night was in order. It would be another long day tomorrow to include the Hooker Trail hike, which I was greatly looking forward to.

Waking up in yet another serene location with Massie sitting just outside the tent was another perfect kickoff to this new day. Since it was still pretty early, after packing I thought pushing the bike out of the camping area was the proper thing to do to avoid waking any of the van lifers (or the gold miner).

Once well outside the perimeter I went to start the bike. Nothing happened. Shit. The battery was somehow dead. I took the panniers off and attempted to manually jump start it off a small incline. No good. It wasn’t starting. Well, I thought, it was not so funny breaking that “stay on the road rule” now, was it? I had no cell signal either. As I sat down weighing my options (none of which none were good) I heard a couple of pots banging together. The old gold miner was up. I walked over and asked if he had jumpers, and he did! Sure enough, the bike fired right up with his help. Okay, cool I can still make the Hooker Trail even if I am an hour behind schedule. And, the rental company would never know I was off road.

Once I was back on the main road and well on my way, the need for coffee hit me. I pulled into a rest area to see if there was a cell signal to guide me to a coffee shop. There was a cell signal, and there was a coffee shop not too far away. I pulled out and began racing the Linda Pass switchbacks when suddenly all I saw was a huge yellow Scania 18-wheeler coming head on at me. Why was he in my lane? SHIT! I was on the wrong side of the road! In my morning fog, and my distraction from the battery issue I zoned out and drove on the right side of the road. Even with a giant yellow arrow on Massie’s dash as a constant reminder, I somehow ignored the fact that they drive on the wrong side in New Zealand. I didn’t have much time to react and managed to skirt along not so much of a shoulder, but a strip of grass as the truck blasted by me.

That was close. I really didn’t need any coffee after that wakeup call, but what I did need was a moment to get my head back in the game (especially if I was to complete the Hooker Trail and find a campsite). Due to Massie’s moody electrical system, tonight’s campsite would need to be near a town with a strong cell signal. It was still early and my confidence was high. I knew I would satisfy both objectives.

Read the Mike Huber New Zealand posts here:

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A Visit With Andrew

By Joe Berk

This is another one of those blogs that almost had another title. I considered simply calling it The P11. Hey, if you know, you know. And I know. So does Andrew.

Sue and I were on the East Coast last week (as in literally on the East Coast when we stopped for lunch in Point Pleasant, New Jersey) when I gave my buddy Andrew a call. Andrew is the guy who runs British Motorcycle Gear, a company whose ads grace these pages. You’ve also read reviews by Joe Gresh on some of the top quality gear Andrew offers, including Rapido gloves, the Mercury jacket, and the BMG Adventure motorcycle pants.

Andrew is a true Anglophile (a lover of all things British), although like me, he grew up in the Garden State. We had a nice visit in Andrew’s beautiful home, and then he took us into his garage to see the toys. I was blown away, not just by the motorcycles Andrew parks in his garage, but at how closely they tracked with my list of highly desireable motorcycles.

No one has ever outdone Norton when it comes to fuel tank style. Triumph comes close. So did Harley in the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s. This tank is perfect. And those exhaust pipes!

One that caught my eye instantly was a Norton P11. That was the ultimate hot rod motorcycle in the 1960s. Norton shoehorned their 750cc engine into a 500cc Matchless desert sled frame. When I was a teenager, the word on the street was that nothing was faster than a Norton P11. Norton only made a very few of these motorcycles (I think the production total was less than 2500). Truth be told, Andrew’s P11 is the first one I’ve ever seen in person, but I knew what it was as soon as I saw it. It’s parked on the other side of the garage, and my eye skimmed over a bunch of motoexotica when I saw the P11. Man, I would love to own that motorcycle. I don’t necessarily need to ride it; I would just look at it and keep it immaculate. Which, incidentally, is the condition in which I found all of Andrew’s motorcycles.

A late ’60s Triumph Bonneville. How could these guys have been overtaken by Japan?

There was a silver and burgundy 1968 Triumph Bonneville that looks like it rolled out of the Coventry plant yesterday morning. Andrew told me that the Bonneville is sold. Not to me, unfortunately. It’s another I’ve love to own.

Andrew with a few of his rides. Check out the Honda GB500 just behind the Daytona. Just 535 miles! That’s an MV Augusta behind it.

Andrew has a Triumph Daytona, and it’s the rare one…the 900cc triple with a bunch of goodies (think triple caliper disks up front, carbon fiber front fender, and other similar go fast and stop fast bits). It is bright yellow (Triumph called it Daytona yellow), just like the Daytona 1200 I owned about a decade ago. But my Daytona was but a mere commoner’s motorcycle. Andrew’s Daytona is the limited-edition version. Like the P11 Norton mentioned above, it’s the first one I’ve ever seen. I live in southern California; I’ve been to a bunch of moto hangouts (like the Rock Store in Malibu) and numerous Britbike events (for example, the Hansen Dam Norton get-togethers). I’ve seen Jay Leno, I’ve seen pristine vintage Indians (real ones, not the current production stuff), I’ve seen four-cylinder Hendersons, and I’ve laid these eyeballs on other similar exotics. But I’ve never seen a limited-edition Daytona Super III or a P11 in person until I visited Andrew.

Another one of Andrew’s bikes that caught my eye was a near-new-old-stock Honda GB500. It has to be one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. Honda offered these 500cc singles in the mid 1980s. It was a modern nod to (and refined version of) the British Velocette. They flopped from a sales perspective back then, but that’s only because of our unrefined palate and our then-fascination with conchos, wide whitewalls , and beer bellies (think potato-potato-potato exhaust notes and you’ll catch my drift). Like a lot of things, I should have bought a GB500 back then. Andrew’s GB500 is literally in like new condition. It has 535 original miles on the odometer.

There was more…a modern Triumph Thruxton, another modern Triumph, even a Lotus Elise sports car. My eye, though, kept returning to the Norton P11. It really is a visually arresting motorcycle.

At the conclusion of our visit, I asked Andrew if he would consider adopting me. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh about that. They all thought I was kidding. But I wasn’t.

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Physical Security

By Mike Huber

Okay, so having served in the United States Army I am always aware of my surroundings, my gear, and most importantly physical security of these items. This is even more true nowadays as a fulltime traveler on my motorcycle. This involves not leaving sensitive items on the motorcycle overnight and parking it near me (usually line of sight) or in a garage. These habits have kept my gear safe over the past six years of traveling, not just in the United States but across the globe.

Upon waking up in Baltimore on November 2^nd and looking out the window from my bedside I instantly was shocked to see that my BMW GS1250 was not in the parking spot where I had left it the day prior. My heart sank. Not only was the bike gone but so was a lot of my gear. Non-sensitive items thankfully were inside my friend’s house where I was staying. I combed the parking spot to see if I could find any pieces from the bike or any type of clue as to what happened. There was nothing. The bike was just gone.

I was devastated to say the least. The GS1250 still had its temporary tags on it; that’s how new it was. What hurt me even more was the panniers with dozens of stickers identifying where I had traveled. They were gone along with some sentimental items from the Army that were kept locked in them.

Within five minutes of calling the Baltimore police, three officers showed up, took the report, and fully understood my pain. They issued an alert for the missing motorcycle, which was my home.

It only took two hours and my phone rang. They had found the BMW two blocks away. I quickly ran down to meet the officer and was anxious to view what was left of the bike (if anything) and my gear. The bike had a few thousand dollars in damage, mostly from whoever took it snapping the steering lock to push it into this dark alley. Amazingly, most of my gear was intact, but the panniers were destroyed from the thieves prying them open with a crowbar (I’m assuming). Some of the gear was still hanging off the panniers and some of it was thrown all over the alley. Fortunately, my losses only included my raingear, air mattress, tool kit, and my fishing pole. I asked the officer to alert the Coast Guard as obviously the thieves were going to blow up the air mattress and go fishing in Chesapeake Bay. Even in times of darkness I find humor to lighten the mood, if for nothing else but my own sanity.

So the police found my bike, but it wouldn’t start due to the steering lock being destroyed. That began a painful day of finding a local BMW dealer, calling a tow truck, and beginning the paperwork for the insurance claim. I was still extremely distraught and depressed over the whole incident, and rightfully so. Over the years my mindset has changed from the “woe is me” negative thinking to a more positive one of “maybe this is meant to be and had the bike not been taken I possibly could have been injured or killed in a wreck that day.” It sounds cheesy, but I do believe this. Having a positive outlook helps take a bit of the pain away, even if momentarily.

Luckily for me I have incredible friends pretty much all over the world. The decision to rent a car was a no brainer. It would be a fun way to kill a couple of weeks and Kia Kamp while the bike was being repaired. I could continue the “Mike Huber friends and family tour.” This would not only occupy my time but reassure me that even though I was going through a difficult time, being surrounded by beautiful friends would provide the inspiration and confidence to move forward. This is not to say that a few times a day I don’t feel an emptiness in my gut. Having traveled so much of the world and especially doing so by motorcycle where I am so exposed has provided much more good than bad throughout the years. If you get off your couch and go live sometimes bad things happen, but more often than not you meet wonderful people and build relationships with new friends for life.

Lessons Learned

Sadly, this isn’t the first time I had a motorcycle stolen. I had a brand new Suzuki GSXR750 stolen when I was in college at Boston University. That moto was never recovered, but I immediately bought a caliper lock for my next motorcycle. This provided comfort, but it would not stop three or four big guys from simply picking the bike up and throwing it in the back of a truck. I stopped using the caliper lock when I bought my first BMW GS (in hindsight, this was not a good move). I didn’t think stolen BMWs were in as much demand as the Japanese motos.

There are motion alarms, airtags, and a ton of other security devices out there that I am sure I will be writing about in the near future. For now the bike is back and the panniers have a clean canvas to start over and begin adding new stickers. My travels will continue after a brief hiatus as we await BMW parts from the Motherland.

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Mike Huber Stops By

By Joe Berk

Good buddy Mike Huber rolled through So Cal a few days ago and spent the night at Casa Berkowitz. It was a fun visit.

Mike Huber on the UberMoto. Mike’s current GS is his second one.

I first met Mike on one of the CSC Baja expeditions, and the circumstances of our meeting hit on shared interests (motorcycles and Baja) and a shared background (we are both alums of the Benning School for Boys).

An August 1972 jump school postcard purchased at the Benning School for Boys Post Exchange.

The CSC crew (me and maybe a dozen fellow RX3 riders) had stopped for gasolina on the 200+ mile stretch between Baja’s El Rosario and Guerrero Negro. Cataviña is about 130 miles south of El Rosario, and for a long time it has been the only place to buy fuel on that section of Mexico’s Highway 1. There were no gas stations then; enterprising Mexican capitalists sold it from bottles on the side of the road (capitalism rules, my friends). Today there is a Pemex in Cataviña, but that’s a relatively recent development.

Refueling in Cataviña. That’s good buddy Tuan, an RX3 rider and one of my former students at Cal Poly Pomona.

You can imagine the scene…a dozen bikes crowded around a handful of people selling fuel out of jugs. Or maybe you don’t have to imagine it; just take a look at the photo above. It was a hot day, we’d been on the road a while, and we were two days into a seven-day trip. I looked at the other bikes around me and on one of the motorcycle tailpacks I saw a decal that commands instant and profound respect from anyone who’s been there: The winged parachute emblem showing that the bearer graduated from the US Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia.

Mike’s jump wings on the back of his first GS. It was this emblem that first alerted to Mike and his background. Mike’s done 19 jumps (5 in jump school and another dozen when he served with the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division).

When the jump wings fell off, Mike replaced them with an 82nd Airborne Division decal. The “AA” stands for “All American.” I learned that when I asked one of my jump school instructors; he first told me that for us trainees, it stood for “Almost Airborne.” Then he told me the real story.

That’s weird, I thought. I had only known the guys on this ride for a few days, I’d seen all of their bikes, and if any had been adorned with jump wings I would have picked up on it immediately. I was pondering how I had missed that when I looked at the guy standing next to the bike. It was Mike Huber, whom I had not met yet. My next befuddled thoughts were that I thought I had met everyone. Where did this guy come from? Then I looked at the motorcycle. It wasn’t an RX3. It was a BMW GS 1200. The two machines looked enough alike that I had not noticed the difference when Mike worked his way into our herd of turtles at the gas stop in Cataviña. I looked up at Mike again and he was grinning. He knew I was confused and I think he was enjoying my being perplexed.

Mike’s current GS 1200. It’s a stunning motorcycle.

Mike and I hit it off immediately. He stayed with us a couple of nights later in Mulegé (at good buddy Javier’s magnificent Las Casitas Hotel), and we’ve kept in touch ever since. Mike did a guest blog or two for us here on ExNotes, and he became one of our regular writers last year.

When Mike told me he would pass through our neck of the Peoples Republik, I told him we wanted him to stay the night and enjoy a barbequed salmon dinner with us.

And the starboard pannier. Mike gets around, as you know from his blogs here on ExNotes.

We had a great visit. The Tecate cerveza (and later, the Spanish wine) flowed freely. Sue crafted a desert we recently learned about on an olive plantation in Spain (see our most recent blog), and it was awesome.

The post-dinner treat: More vino, and chocolate gelato topped with orange-infused olive oil from the Basilippo plantation in Spain. Olive oil on ice cream sounds strange, but take my word on this: It’s wonderful.

As always, it was great to spend time with my good friend and fellow scribe Mike. The next morning after a good breakfast Mike was in the wind again, headed north toward Ojai, the Bay area, and beyond. You will be able to read about those travels right here, on your favorite motorcycle blog.

Good times and good friends, folks. It’s what life is all about. That, and clicking on the popup ads.

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Life as a Digital Nomad: Part 1 (Testing the Waters)

By Mike Huber

In 2010 the company I worked for gave me my pink slip due to budgetary cuts. I was feeling distraught and lost because I had been working there for 8 years. Fortunately, I had a great director who helped by transferring me from a management position into a project manager slot that would be fully remote.

Remote positions at the time were called working from home. It didn’t take long for me to ask myself a question: What if I didn’t have a home? This mostly was bar talk amongst friends and I didn’t expect the crazy scenarios we discussed to ever become a reality. Well…it seems planting those seeds in my mind was all it took for them to nurture, and then to grow into 13 years of almost nonstop travel.

The first two years were mostly spent learning to excel in my new position as a project manager along with clumsily discovering how to adjust my work/life balance in creative ways. This involved motorcycling throughout New England in between work responsibilities.

Something I learned early is that there are McDonald’s with wi-fi everywhere, and at the time it was one of the better places to stop to respond to emails or for a conference call (this was a life prior to riding a BMW, so I didn’t require Starbucks). I timed my rides to reach these locations 10 minutes prior to conference calls. This allowed me time to set up and prepare for them as needed.

The first day as a remote employee I decided to knock out a ride from Boston to Route 17 in northern Vermont. Route 17 is also known as the “Little Tail of the Dragon.” It was May and I was literally working off my Ducati Monster M1100 as I tore up Vermont. Since it took so long to reach Route 17 it made sense to ride it twice to ensure the long ride was worth it and regain the curve back in my tires. It may have been one of the best days I have ever had working and figured this newfound freedom would provide many opportunities to fill in the gaps that I had been missing by going into a regular office day to day.

Riding all the way to Vermont from Boston on your first day in a new position probably was a bit of overkill. I was missing calls and hadn’t noticed my phone was constantly ringing in my pocket (an easy oversight being so heavily focused on riding). I was in flight formation and setting the pace for a flock of mallards that happened to be flying down the White River, which ran parallel to Route 100. Unbeknownst to me the phone continued ringing as the Ducati’s Termignoni exhaust roared through the Green Mountains while I leaned into corners that followed the river.

Shortly after parting ways with the mallards and crossing back into New Hampshire, I saw some lights behind me. It was a New Hampshire State Trooper. Dammit! I am sure I was speeding, but the question always is how fast. It was fast. As I began talking to the State Trooper to try to minimize the damage, I could now hear my cell phone ringing. I picked it up as the Trooper ran my information. It was my new manager based in Virginia calling to introduce herself and ask if I had noticed that I had missed a call I needed to be on. I stated I was just out getting a coffee (which was 100% true; it’s just that the coffee was 200 miles away). This was probably one of my more challenging multitask scenarios (i.e., signing a speeding ticket while on an introductory call with my manager). To this day I feel I would have been able to get out of that ticket had I not been so distracted by work. Lesson 1 as a remote employee learned.

After that day I knew I should take my work a bit more seriously and slow my pace. I continued to ride, but always ensured I attended every call (which I did over the next 13 years). My work ethic has always been strong, and I didn’t want to compromise this position and what I could possibly do with it by losing my focus. Continuing to merge my work responsibilities with riding was something that I honed to an art form.

Once I was comfortable performing my work one or two days a week off the motorcycle, I thought I would step the adventure up a notch: California. I had relatives in Oakland and there was a Harley rental in San Francisco, a short transit ride away. It made sense to fly there for two weeks and work remotely in a new environment and time zone to see how I would perform.

The test run couldn’t have gone smoother. I was on Pacific Time when my team was on Eastern Time. This ensured that by 1:00 p.m. all my tasks and calls were completed. Having earlier workdays provided much more time to explore San Francisco and the Bay Area. A couple of vacation days in the mix allowed time to rent a Harley in San Francisco and take a 3-day trip to Tahoe and Yosemite. Even though I was on vacation those days I felt obliged to join work calls whenever possible just to stay on top of my projects, while obtaining bonus points from management for doing so on my time off. I felt this made up for my missed meeting when I had first started this position in New Hampshire.

The California trip had solidified my abilities to work from anywhere. On the return flight to Boston my thoughts focused on a farfetched mindset: What if I don’t have a home? It would take a few months of planning and a solid leap of faith. As with all leaps of faith you never know where or how it will end, but I felt sure I could make this dream a reality. What I didn’t realize is how far I would take this and the new experiences my decision would deliver. I turned my life into Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on steroids over the next 13 years.

Lisbon

I should have paid more attention in my elementary and junior high school geography classes. I remember studying Christopher Columbus (the guy who “discovered” America), but the other explorers’ names are lost among my fading neurons. And here we were, in Lisbon, where Vasco de Gama, Magellan, Henry the Navigator, old Christopher C. himself, and others hung out five or six centuries ago. I wish I could repeat my 7th grade geography class with Mr. Costa for just that reason. Being 12 years old again would be cool, too.

My new good buddy Ibrahim, one of our fellow tourists on this adventure, is a serious photographer. He used my consumer grade Nikon to take the photo below at the Parque Eduardo VII . It was one of the first places we stopped in Lisbon, and the statue at the end is Christopher Columbus. Look at those hedges and think about how much labor is needed to keep them looking this good. By the time you get to the end trimming them, you’d have to go back to the beginning and start over. That’s the Tagus River in the background. Lisbon is right on the Atlantic Ocean. A lot of 14th and 15th century New World explorations started right here.

Susie and yours truly at the Parque Eduardo VII in Lisbon. Photo by Ibrahim Alava.

The photo below is from one of many churches we visited (we saw many churches and a couple of synagogues in Spain and Portugal; before the Spanish Inquisition, there was a thriving Jewish community on the Iberian Peninsula).

Blue and white tiles were a common decor in Spain and Portugal.

Blue tiles were everywhere in Lisbon. Spain and Portugal were occupied by the Moors for centuries. The Moors brought their art, their architecture, and their style (including blue tiles) to the region. The Moors were ultimately driven out, but the tiles remained. I could spend a month in Lisbon just photographing the tiles. The tiles get their blue color from cobalt, which is locally mined.

We wandered through Lisbon’s Alfama neighborhood to a church at the top of a hill, led by a local guide. Our walk here involved a steep uphill climb through narrow streets and alleys. When Sue and I first joined up with our tour group two days earlier, I felt good seeing that the group was mostly made up of old people (I called our group the Portugueezers). I figured our age would hold the walking and climbing to a minimum. I was wrong. We did a ton of walking and climbing. My iPhone told me one day I did over 17,000 steps. Most days were at least 10,000 steps.

A colorful door in Lisbon’s Alfama neighborhood.

I took a lot of artsy-fartsy photos of doors, doorknobs, door knockers, and other things as we climbed the twisting and narrow streets of Lisbon’s Alfama neighborhood. My fellow Portugueezers thought I was a serious amateur photographer when I frequently stopped to grab a picture, and I didn’t say anything to persuade them otherwise (the stops were so I could catch my breath).

I noticed that a few of the homes had printed tiles with photos of older women on their exterior walls. I tried to find out more about this on Google but I struck out (I should have asked our guide while we were there, but I was huffing and puffing too hard to ask). Maybe these women were famous Portuguese mountain climbers. Sue later told me our guide said the tiles tell a bit about the residents of each home. Say hello to Ms. Delmira and Ms. da Luz.

Ms. Delmira, an Alfama neighborhood denizen.

Ms. da Luz, known as Maria to her friends.

We were in an area frequented by tourists and there were lots of shops selling things. Where there were colors, I took a photo or two.

We then went down to the waterfront Belém area along the Tagus River. The statue below is a monument to Henry the Navigator.

An interesting monument to Henry the Navigator in the Belém area.

A closer view of statues on the Henry the Navigator monument.

The Hieronymites Monastery was across the street from the Henry the Navigator monument. Jose, our guide, told us that nuns in this monastery (I didn’t think they had nuns in a monastery, but what do I know?) were famous for their Pastéis de Belém. Jose disappeared for a bit and then reappeared with samples for us to try. They were excellent.

James (one of our fellow travelers) and Jose, our tour guide.

Like Porto and other big European cities, downtown Lisbon was a hotbed of scooter activity. At any traffic light, scooters filtered to the front of the queue, and when the light turned green, it was a multi-scooter drag race. It was fun to watch. I guess Portugal has a helmet law; everyone wore one. But that was it for protective gear. Think full face helmets accompanied by t-shirts, shorts, and flip flops (all the gear, all the time). I’m guessing I saw a hundred scooters for every motorcycle, and when we did see motorcycles, they were mostly 125cc machines. Many appeared to be of Chinese origin, with Honda and Yamaha motorcycles making up the balance. There were a few big bikes; I spoke to a guy at a rest stop who was on a BMW GS. He told me he liked his GS and it was a good machine, but he had another motorcycle that was his pride and joy: A Harley Sportster. “It has a carburetor,” he proudly told me (an obvious vintageness badge). I thought I might refer him to our earlier ExNotes post, 18 Reasons Why You Should Buy A Used Sportster, but he was in a hurry and I had already run out of ExNotes business cards.

Check it out: 18 Reasons Why You Should Buy A Used Sportster.

There’s more, but this blog is getting long enough. You get the idea. After two days in Lisbon, it was on to Évora and then Spain.

Stay tuned, my friends.

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Three Steps to Ease into Moto Camping

By Mike Huber

I know many people on this page camp and ride, but some have yet to dive into mixing these two great passions. My objective in this article is to help you bridge riding and camping, alleviate any concerns on this topic, and build a foundation of knowledge for those new to motorcycle camping. In doing so you will discover a deeper level of motorcycling that many riders experience.

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Start with Less

With all the social media posts of riders from around the world sharing their epic adventures and providing reviews of the gear they use can cause anxiety. Intimidation from the expense and amount of equipment people use for moto camping can become overwhelming when starting this hobby. I’m not saying any of these riders are wrong in the gear (or the amount) they use, but my philosophy while motorcycle camping is less gear is much more efficient and cheaper. My first time moto camping I had nothing other than a one-person Kelty tent (which I still use), a sleeping bag, and a small personal hygiene kit. I planned to give moto camping a shot and figured I could survive one night out on Washington’s Olympic peninsula even if I was a bit uncomfortable.

I wasn’t uncomfortable at all. In fact, other than adding a 6-pack of beer and a crushed Subway sandwich my gear didn’t grow or change for the next 8 more years (even after “maturing” from a Ducati Monster M1100 to a BMW GS1200). Would I have been more comfortable with a sleeping pad, cooking set up, and maybe even a chair? Yes, but that came years later after learning from others (I am a bit set in my ways even if they force me to be uncomfortable). Starting from such a minimalist perspective and adding gear slowly allowed me to tailor my equipment perfectly. You will find everyone has a “better” way of doing things; you might want to learn what works best for you and expand slowly.

Start in a Familiar Location

Roaring through the dense rainforest of the Olympic Peninsula on my Ducati Monster I was excited to be camping with my motorcycle for the first time. In hindsight this choice was probably a further and more isolated location than I should have started with, but it worked for the most part. I had ridden the road several times, I was comfortable with the distance, and I was aware of the ever-changing weather conditions. Being new to this I didn’t pack rain gear and of course it rained heavily that night (I was forced into my tent by the weather by 7:00 p.m.). You must pack raingear if you want to ensure it never rains on your moto camping trip. But even with the weather not cooperating it was a fun first night and it was enough to get me hooked on the lifestyle.

Looking back, a more comfortable way to experience my first moto camping adventure would have been a more controlled environment. Even for those well-seasoned campers, testing new gear in your home or backyard to learn how to set up, adjust, and break down the equipment makes for a less stressful time in a real-world environment. Purchasing lots of expensive gear, not testing it, and going on a multi-state tour can be a painful way to learn the gear isn’t right for you or the climate. Another way to learn your equipment and build experience is at a state park close to your home or a KOA. Even if you have to retreat to the KOA store or end up back inside your house, don’t be discouraged. That’s what this step is for. Take notes on what worked and what didn’t, and build off that until you are comfortable with the next step, which can be dispersed camping or a longer distance ride. It is better to learn in this semi-controlled environment than to have a horrific night with improper gear in poor weather and become completely deterred from ever moto camping again.

Learn From Experience

Having completed a successful test runs with your gear it is now time to begin learning how to increase your confidence in harsher and more remote environments. This point in your experience level is also the perfect time to make gear adjustments based on your notes. With a few nights camping under your belt you can seek advice and learn from others, including their set up tricks and in what type of climate they moto camp. In doing so you will fine tune your camping outfit so that it is perfect for you, your motorcycle, and the climate.

During this phase it is important to remain open minded. Everyone has a method that works best for them. For some it is a half shelter at a roadside pullout, for others it can be as elaborate as a 6-man tent with copious gear that requires 2 hours to pack. Normally when I travel and moto camp it isn’t for just one night. I’m on the road for two to three months at a time with Airbnbs or hotels as resting points or for working. Even though I am comfortable with my moto camping equipment it’s always fun to chat up other motorcyclists. In most cases, even if their set up is completely different there is usually one or two takeaways I learn from conversing with them.

Conclusions

Moto camping is an easy and inexpensive way to escape the rat race with less effort than many would think. These experiences and the people I meet along the journey are some of the most best I have had. Being so removed from everything as you sit relaxing in the glow of a warm campfire reflecting off your moto is a fulfilling feeling that few venture to achieve.

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Bobbie’s Solo Baja Ride: Part 1

By Bobbie Surber

Discovering motorcycles came late in life for me. My first ride was in 2014 on the back of a KTM. From the first ride I knew I was hooked, and I knew being on the back was not for me. By January 2015, I purchased my first bike, a 2006 Yamaha 225 XT. I drove from Sedona, AZ, to Denver, CO, to pick her up. On the drive home, I kept looking at her in my rearview mirror and dreaming of my future adventures. That is, once I learned to ride!

A day later I was on a quiet street teaching myself how to clutch and ride. The clutching came easy, and I had no fear as a newbie. Soon I was competent enough to go down the block, then to the store and friends’ houses, and soon off-road. Boy, I fell a lot at first, but I was surrounded by a group of guys who encouraged and taught me the basics. Many remain mentors to this day. I still have that little 225 XT and would never sell her or give her away. She will be with me till the end.

I soon added a Honda 750 Shadow to my new addiction and split my time between dirt and road adventures. It seemed a perfect balance as I gained more skills off-road with the 225 XT and could now venture further without trailering as I rode the Shadow. This led me to my third bike, new to the USA: A BMW 310 (a single cylinder in hot demand in Europe and Asia). She was a red bike far faster than my little goat, the Yamaha.

With a bike that was great off-road while still able to handle the open roads, I set my sights on several bucket list trips, including the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1 up the California coast) and the Sierra Nevadas. These two trips in 2018 gave me the confidence to plan another solo ride. This time I would ride Baja, the peninsula in northwestern Mexico bounded to the north by the United States, to the east by the Sea of Cortez, and to the south and west by the Pacific Ocean. I set my plans for a Spring ride, but a trip to Hawaii and paddling the Colorado River got in the way in May, delaying my departure to June.

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Adding a new 40-liter Wolfman tail bag, I departed Sedona, AZ, heading for a small town south of Tijuana, Alisito, known to the gringos as La Fonda. This was my first time crossing the US border on a bike, challenging my skills while negotiating what seemed like 100 lanes with traffic darting between the lanes. It was soon my turn to cross at San Ysidro south of San Diego. I had done this several times in a car, but what a whole new ball game on a bike!

Turning hard to the right, I made my way to Mexico Highway 1, following the Pacific coast out of Tijuana. The air was crisp even on a June morning as I pulled into the left lane to pass a line of trucks and a group of protesters, soon finding my groove, indulging in music through my helmet speaker and enjoying the sights along the way. An hour later, I pulled into the parking lot at Dmytri’s Restaurant, well-known by locals and visiting gringos alike. It was a time to meet friends and show off my new girl (BMW, to clarify!). The margaritas and conversations flowed as I assured all of my friends that I was utterly competent to ride Baja solo in the growing heat of June.

Bravada got me thru till the morning of my departure, then a massive wall of apprehension flooded me. WTH, I was not competent enough to take on this challenge solo in Mexico! A repeated flaw as I once again found myself vacillating between the urge to push myself and my endless fear of failure and the unknown. I did what I do best, shoved the fear down, and got on my bike heading south on Highway 1 while enjoying the ocean breeze and the endless views of the Pacific Ocean. All the while, I negotiated traffic and the epic potholes that ranged from minor to “might swallow my bike” in one epic plunge.

With the efficiency of the toll road, I was soon in the traffic and mayhem of Ensenada, a port city that is a frequent stop for cruise ships. The smell of exhaust and burning trash contrasted against the street stalls grilling fresh fish and carne asada. I could not resist and soon found a place to pull over for a cold Tecate and a plate full of tacos. The local girls working the roadside restaurant were enthralled with my bike, asking for photos on it it with the sultry hotness that only a Latina could pull off while wearing an apron. I accommodated their requests for pictures and answered a soon-to-be-frequent question of “Solo?” with “Si, Solo,” followed by “No, no, where is your man?” Ha, I didn’t even have a man at home, let alone on this trip, but I had someone I was thinking about a lot on this trip (a story I will tell in another post).

With Ensenada’s noise and challenges behind me, I headed out of town to a campground with hot springs and soaking pools. The ride getting there was all dirt, rocky as hell, with several water crossings. These were my first water crossings on my own. I was both thrilled and nervous as I gave the throttle a firm twist and flew through creating a satisfying rooster tail. It was a short day full of first-time accomplishments that felt right and bolstered my confidence for the adventure ahead. I paid my entrance fee of 200 pesos, about $10, and proceeded to enjoy the hot tubs, complete with little cabanas and a hot shower.

The next day I found myself back on the road. My destination would be the tiny town of Cataviña, a community of fewer than 200 residents. Cataviña is known for cave paintings, colossal rocks mixed with desert vegetation, and epic sunsets. This place could be on Mars with its endless boulders stacked at impossible angles and the stark beauty of the high desert plateau.

The day called for 380 kilometers, about a six-hour ride without stops. The morning started slow and easy as I retraced my ride back down the mountain and through the water crossings of the day before. After a quick stop at the OXXO convenience store for a burrito and coffee, I was on the road heading down Highway 1. The road went into the interior, passing through several tiny dusty towns and a few newfound favorites, including San Vicente and San Quintin. One of my favorite finds is Don Eddie’s Landing Hotel and Restaurant, an oasis with comfortable rooms, sports fishing, and even a few camping spots. I settled in at their patio, enjoying the views of the Pacific and Eddie’s legendary hospitality. This place is an ideal rest spot for enjoying a perfect plate of shrimp ceviche with just the right intensity of lime and chilis, complete with Don Eddie’s legendary hand-crafted margaritas, the likes of which I’ve never found in the USA.

Reluctantly leaving Eddie’s, I continued south on Highway 1, turning inland at El Rosario de Arriba, climbing up from sea level to 1841 feet. The elevation change did little to abate the day’s growing heat. I arrived intending to camp, but the reality of a 98-degree afternoon soon had me sapped. I pulled into the only commercial enterprise besides a little store across the street and a few tiny restaurants.

The Hotel Misíon Santa María – Cataviña looked like she was built in the colonial era; in reality, I learned she was built by the Mexican government as part of their tourism outreach. With a courtyard full of flowers and mature trees, I found a haven and counted my good fortunes to stay in such opulent digs (opulent compared to my humble tent). After securing my room for the night, I quickly dumped my gear, splashed some cold water on my face, and confirmed that I looked like I had ridden in the heat all day. I landed outside in the shade near the little bar enjoying my margarita. The bartender generously gave me endless glasses of water while we chatted about the heat, my bike, and his childhood in Arizona. Soon it was time to head to bed. I reached down to grab my bag and Delorme. A momentary shock as my Delorme was nowhere to be found. The little safety device would allow me to signal for help if needed and text my friends and family when off the beaten path and far out of cell coverage. The bartender and manager helped me search the grounds to no avail. I gave up and went to bed, cursing myself for my carelessness.

The following day bright and early I rode across the street to purchase the only available gas in this remote region from locals selling gas in plastic drums and liter-size soda bottles. Saying a prayer for the safety of my engine, I had them fill up my tank and MSR fuel bottle I always carry for the just-in-case moments.

Soon I was on the road headed to Guerrero Negro. The wind brushed over me gently with no hint of the high wind advisory posted for later that day. I left the unpleasantness of my Delorme loss behind and leaned into the joy of the ride. As it was a Sunday, I had the road to myself, with the added blessing of many commercial vehicles being home for the day. This was precisely what I had been dreaming of. As the starkness of the desert unfolded in front of my bike, I knew how lucky I was to be on this adventure! I was once again reminded to grab my dreams, ignore the naysayers, and embrace the adventure ahead.

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Charlie Don’t Paddleboard: A Baja New Year’s Story

By Mike Huber

There was no better way to ring in 2023 than camping off our motorcycles on a beautiful beach in Bahia Conception in Baja, Mexico. The only thing that made the moment more special was sharing cigars, Tecates, and Tequila with our new friends in the palapas to our left and right while sitting around a fire. Somehow, I managed to make it until 10 p.m., which is equal to a Boston New Year, and I surpassed my previous Baja New Year by 1 hour. I was pretty proud of myself.

Groggily awaking the next morning to the sunrise peering over the mountains across the bay was a serene way to start the new year. Once we had a coffee (or three) in us we decided to pack up and make our way back north. The plan was originally to hotel in Guerrero Negro for the night, but we had made such incredible time riding that we arrived in town by 11:30, and it seemed too early to stop for the day. The biggest problem with this is once you leave Guerrero Negro there isn’t much (really anything) until you arrive in Gonzaga Bay, which is another 4+ hours of riding and the possibility of bad winds. We rolled the dice and decided to attempt the ride to Gonzaga confident we would arrive just before sunset, which I had confirmed was at 16:49 PST.

The ride up was rather uneventful and even the winds seemed to be cooperating with us on the last leg of this ride. In pulling up to the Rancho Grande Tienda to reserve our campsite, refuel the bikes, and load up on firewood we were starting to feel the 320 miles we had just completed. One of the cool things about camping in this location is the rather long bundle of firewood they provide. Every time I load the wood on the moto it looks like some type of biplane. What completes the biplane feeling is riding to the palapas on the bay you are parallel with an airstrip, so you actually feel like you are about to take off. Just as we hit the 1-kilometer dirt road the winds began to increase heavily. This was the norm for this part of Baja and wasn’t too alarming for us.

Thankfully the palapa provided us with some protection from the swirling gusts, but not from the roaring freight train sounds that would keep us awake through the night as a demoralizing reminder that we’ll have to ride in them the following day.

After setting up our home for the evening it was time for a cold Tecate beer to unwind and enjoy the gorgeous views of the bay and the mountains that surround it. As I sat in my chair, I noticed a lone paddleboarder in the bay and became a bit alarmed with his lack of movement while he struggled to fight the wind to return to shore. He was quite a ways out and it was obvious the wind was physically and mentally wearing him down from this difficult battle. I could see him stand up to paddle ferociously for a few moments and then he would lay on the board, clearly to rest. This went on for about one more Tecate when I noticed it was 15:45. People were beginning to gather on the shore to watch his valiant yet seemingly unsuccessful attempt to return to his camp, but he wasn’t getting any closer. It was time for me to walk the beach and see who this person was with, gain insight on his experience level, how long he was out for, and determine next steps (if any were needed).

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After a few minutes I found his wife who didn’t seem to be concerned until I mentioned that sunset would be in an hour. At that moment the full weight of the situation set in, and she became frantic. Being one to always travel with a SpotGen 3 GPS emergency beacon I powered it on, gave her a brief tutorial on how to activate the SOS button, handed it to her and said, “If I am not back in 15 minutes you push the SOS button.” I then directed her to drive the bay in search of a fisherman or boater that could possibly assist. While she was working the problem from that angle, I fired up the BMW GS1200 and returned to the tienda to see if I could find a local that could assist in what clearly was becoming a rescue operation.

The locals in the tienda didn’t seem to know anyone that could help. This was not what I expected, and my brain was scrambling for any other ideas to save this person. As I exited the store the man’s wife came flying into the parking lot creating a mini dust storm from her sprinter van. She was even more panicked then earlier. Just as I was about to take the GPS beacon, return to the location of the paddleboarder and press SOS we saw a 1960s VW van with some surfers with their boards on the roof. After explaining the situation, they fully agreed to help, and we all raced back to the beach. We had 40 minutes of sun left before it disappeared over the desert mountains behind us. Once our rescue caravan arrived one of the surfers quickly dawned his wetsuit, grabbed his board, and was off into the cold, windy waters. Fortunately, it didn’t take him very long to reach the distressed paddler, secure his paddleboard to his surfboard and tow him back in. Everyone was safe and back on shore with 10 minutes of sunlight remaining.

The rescue operation was a success. The hero surfers made a hasty exit just as the last rays of light from the sun began to fade into the lonely desert. An hour later the family came over to our palapa to gift us with a couple bottles of wine as a thank you for assisting in the rescue mission. Of course, we invited them to share our campfire. Chatting with the paddleboarder, we learned this was his first paddleboarding experience. Together we relived the moments of the day from each of our perspectives while drinking the wine and enjoying the glow of the fire. What could have been a much worse ending was nothing more then a valuable lesson for him. The true heroes were the surfers, and I never even got their names before they rolled back down the dusty road and into the Baja desert.