Shredded beef Machacas, a half dozen sautéed jalapeno chilies, and a couple shots of espresso get the day started at the crack of noon here on the Pacific coast of the Baja. It is an awesome feeling waking up so early and knowing you are doing exactly what you want to be doing… gearing up in Sidi boots, Klim desert ride gear, and looking out the window of my room above the palm trees and down on Kellie my KTM!
Down in the living room overlooking the beach, Peter Furler has found a vintage Fender acoustic guitar and is rifling through acoustic versions of his songs while studying the surf break, pausing to call Summer (Senora Furler) with ride updates and an “All good at the front” report.
Today’s ride takes us down the coast through fishing villages perched atop shore hovering cliff tops, the kind of cliffs that mesmerize you and pull you closer to the edge of 2-stroke bliss.
acceleration payback to San Vicente to refuel the tanks, then blisters south through rolling heat wave horizon to Colonet stopping at Saucedo, a hole in the wall taco joint with the best burritos and fried chilies in the world. A couple burritos and matching chili count produces a stream of sweat rolling down Peter’s dusty goggle outlined face and across a kind of smile only found in the Baja. We Peso up and head west to the coast.A few miles into a perfect burrito buzz in the blistering Mexican desert and Peter takes a hit to his rear tire from a 2-inch cactus thorn. Bringing the Honda to a halt to check on the tire, the kickstand sinks into the sand and drops the bike onto a massive cactus. One lone cactus spike punctures the fuel tank spilling precious fuel in the desert like the Honda was the Manikin Piss in 
Brussels. Had this been a scene in a Hollywood action film, the fuel would have ignited from the heat of the engine leaving Peter and I looking like fried calamari in marinara sauce…once again our Baja prayers have been answered!
Using a screw and some JB weld cement, Peter gets the tank patched and sealed saving enough fuel to ride on.
Putting on my imaginary Luchador wrestler mask we take down the rear tire. Using the remaining espresso caffeine in my system, we devise a plan that includes Peter guarding the Honda with a #17 wrench and a warm Gatorade, and me strapping down the flat tire to my handle bars using the spare front innertube… Please remind your children that all life-threatening stunts were done by semi amateurs in uncontrolled situations…
A couple hundred sweaty pesos gladly paid to the local tire fixer later, and I am wound out in top gear back to 
that unmarked spot in the desert, imagining Peter surrounded by hyenas, scorpions, and rattlesnakes… Hitting the front break a little hard for soft sand, I come to a lurching halt, stall the bike, and deliver the new tire with a bug smattered smile.
With all the passion of an Italian F1 pit crew changing tires for Claudia Schiffer during fashion week, we mangle the tire, chain, and bolts back together and hit the trail fighting woopdeedoos, ruts, washouts, and motor block cracking rocks the size of mangos and Idaho potatoes. We must be home before dark… Katie is a motocross thoroughbred with no headlight and the Honda’s headlight shines a wee high of the horizon!
“Lord please be with our bodies, bikes, and bowels” is normally our morning prayer, this evening it is my mantra until we see Gordie back at the moto-hacienda a couple hours past sun down!
