George: Some blast from the past....worthy of revisiting for greater meaning.....
In need of some editing.....but worth building upon?
Real Time: Now: Saturday 6/22/2019. Retrospective look back in time
Blog entry originally published: 1/22/2014 5:31 Pacific Daylight Time. I wrote this while I was taking flight training lessons in Bisbee Arizona, Starting composing this blog entry much earlier in the morning. There is something to add in retrospect from this point of time in the eternal now at St. Charles Hospital, Bend Oregon that goes into the future.............
......................................
My journey in space and time found me riding my bike down Baja three times at the end of the 80's, beginning of the 90's. A ride from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas during the Christmas holidays. Not alone but one among a group of people that I could identify with. People who would want to ride their bikes, carry with them everything they would need to camp along the way and at the end of the ride all go off in different directions.
During a time when most in the country focus on home and holiday tradition we riders focused on an un-holiday tradition. It was a tradition started by daddy Wags, as we affectionately called him. It was Wag's ride. He organized it, but did not lead it. He rode with us a just another rider. More like an interested observer. Leading by exception. If something had to be settled or decided, which was rare, then he would do it.
Dady Wags had been a bike racer. He lived in El Cajon and rode his bike daily to a job in San Diego. Every day. He lived alone and had an old pick up truck called Cap'n Crunch. It had been crunched many times and wore the memories of past encounters like a sailor wears tattoos of past lovers. He rarely used the truck. His bike was more dependable.
The Baja ride did not have an official name therefore I won't put both words in caps. That would be an injustice to the ride. Dress it up in clothes that didn't fit, were not appropriate to what it was. We just called it the Baja ride. If it had any ownership is was Daddy Wag's ride. It was his ride and he was our daddy. Gruffness with a heart of gold. We loved him. Writing that truth brings a tear to my eye. That kind of guy.
Alternately we called him Bob, his real name. The story of the ride was word of mouth. The history of it being much like folk lore as well as the word of mouth grapevine knowledge of its existence. Limited to about 30 riders, Application to join was made by asking Bob if you could join the ride. A self submission of qualifications. A telephone interview that some did not pass. Prior riders had an advantage. If they were not kicked off the ride somewhere between El Cajon and Cabo they earned the right to ride again.
I had done 20,000 miles bike touring between the time I retired from the navy in 1986 and I asked Bob if I could do the ride in 1987. The more he told me about how difficult the ride was in order to discourage me from doing it, the more appealing it became. Payment of one or two hundred dollars was the least requirement to join. I was fortunate to win his drill sargeant approval to ride that consisted of: "Send me 200 dollars and I hope you survive."
The ride started from Bob's house. Some riders arriving days before the ride, most there the night before the ride. Sleeping on the floor, eating a lot of pasta. A variety of riders, unusual people to say the least but the usual type of person I had come to know over the prior year and a half. We were normal among each other.
As a new rider I listened respectfully to the stories of previous riders. Retold and embellished, I am sure, from previous years of riding. New riders were allowed to say something about their previous riding experience as bona fides for joining. The rider that had survived the ride most times was conferred the most respect. Nobody had done the ride as many times as Bob. The legend of the ride was informally told to new riders as a form of initiation but not in the presence of Bob.
The morning of the ride, all riders assembled in Dady Wags' driveway bags on bikes ready for adventure. Bob gave us a short talk like might be given to marines preparing to assault the beach head. Take care of each other. If you drop out, you are on your own. Be prepared for that. If I say you are out, you are out. No refunds. Let's ride!
Sometimes we camped. Sometimes we stayed in cheap hotels. Eight to a room sometimes. Four on mattresses, four on the box springs. Most chose a sleeping partner for the trip. Bob explained that at the start. If you did not want to sleep with another guy then sleep on the floor. Most riders were male. On a subsequent trip where there was no female sleeping partner, Rose chose me. I was more than flattered until Rose added that I was the one guy on the trip she trusted the most. A compliment that nevertheless deflated my ego somewhat. Her initial Baja ride was reluctantly approved by Bob. She had no bike riding experience but was the California skate board champion. Rose was tough.
There were no official campgrounds for us to pitch our tents. We camped in the desert. Listened to the coyotes in the evening and woke to roosters in the morning. Even if there were no ranchos nearby, there were always roosters crowing. Cold crisp mornings that would gradually become warmer as we rode south.
The road was narrow. Traffic not to bad. If a bus or truck was coming toward me and one behind as well where I could see that we would all meet at the same time and place I got off the rode and watched them pass. One day in the distance I saw a semi stopped in the middle of the road ahead. A Corona beer truck. As a rode around it I came to a bunch of the bikers in front of it. The driver had stopped to share a beer with the bikers.
Meeting the locals was an experience. Locals not generally used to Norte Americanos like us. Food on the trip was on our own. We stopped at home restaurants along the way at the side of the road that would only be passed by Americans in cars seeking something closer their expectations of appearance. They did not get to see women patting out tortillas (the heartbeat of Mexico) by hand, putting them on wood burning stoves and turning them over with their fingers talking with her children waiting for a tortilla with red beans.
At one such place a rider asked for chicken. There was always a menu but after finding that most items on the menu were "no hay" the inexperienced rider learned to ask "quay tiene para comer". My Spanish was muy mal. Hablo un poco y no mas, pero bestante. At the end of the day we would talk about our experiences on the road. We all road in small groups or alone. All at different speeds having different experiences. One rider told of lunch at a road side cafe. He ordered chicken. He was asked three times if he really wanted chicken. Verdad, pollo. Shortly later he heard a squawk coming from behind the cafe. Probably not a true story since I was once assigned the job of killing the chicken and preparing it for a fiesta in Guadalajara. It takes a long time from a living chicken to chicken on a plate. It was a good story and there is license granted to telling outrageous stories on the road. The best ones were the believable ones and considering the type of people we were riding with I never was sure which were true or not. All of them could have been.
Days were short in December. We rode long distances each day. Normally riding with first light in order to get to the next destination by dark. An excellent motivation to ride fast. Nobody wanted to be on the road at night in Baja. Being on the road in the morning was different and there was none long stretch from what we called "Construction City" because it appeared to be perpetually under construction with rebar sticking up as if praying for clothes to cover its stark nakedness. The destination was.....140 miles away in one day.
No comments:
Post a Comment