Ensenada Run, 2000

 Back

On a cool morning in the middle of July, I woke up to the phone ringing. John Ford’s voice poked through my morning cobwebs asking me if I was still planning to go to Mexico. I had overslept, so my first word of the day had only four letters. I hate when the day starts like that. I grabbed my newly purchased and carefully packed tankbag and backpack and dashed down to the bike, lashed it all on and zoomed off to the rendezvous.

I arrived to find John waiting with Nicolette and Frank Madrid. Tony and Michelle Rodriguez would have been there too, but Tony's employer had rescinded his leave at the very last minute. We fueled up and headed south, full of anticipation and unseasonably chilly—it did NOT feel like Sacramento in mid-July at all. We sliced through the morning commuters fairly easily, in large part because we were heading OUT of the capital of the most important state in the Free World.

The ride continued without incident until the first gas stop in some nameless bulge in the road whose entire existence was catering to people blazing through on I-5. We ate at a Burger King and got what we paid for, and ate outside in the parking lot, standing up. Nic provided a civilizing influence, sharing fresh fruit from The Trailer. I guess now would be a good time to let you know a little more about this group, in case you did not belong to the club when this happened: Frank and Nic were on a Harley Dyna Glide and pulling an enormous trailer behind. John Ford is captain of a Honda Shadow ACE 750, and I’m the resident slow poke on a Suzuki Bandit 1200. One of the nicest things about this club is that you can ride any bike you like. So long as you ride it safely and treat people right, you’ll always be welcome.

But on with the trip—besides the sun coming out and forcing everyone to join me in the vest ‘n T-shirt look, we fell into a kind of slow hypnotizing rhythm: Gas up, smoke cigarettes, eat fruit, guzzle a bunch of ice water, make some raunchy jokes (ok, that part was just me) and repeat a hundred miles later. This process ended when we hit the Days Inn in La Habra. Despite the delayed launch, we had crested the Grapevine before the heat became lethal, and were very ready for a nap.

Frank’s brother (and long distance CCMC member) Anthony Garcia joined us and fed us at his excellent restaurant, El Taco Nazo—funny, we’re heading to a weekend of nuffin’ BUT Mexican and we have Mexican for our final dinner in America. Then again, the food at Taco Nazo is the STUFF! If you ever get down that way, I give it a major “Thumbs Up”.

We did some minor maintenance stuff before bed—check tire pressures, lube chains and such. Frank discovered that if you pour oil with the long side of the bottle up, it won’t glug and make a mess.

Morning came and we headed off for San Diego Harley, the staging area for the push to Ensenada. Again, uneventful but for discovering the oppressive Orange Crush—the Orange County morning commute. This would not have been a problem except for The Trailer, which turned our sleek white-line warhorses into mud-mired mules. Perhaps I speak as the high-strung pilot of the relatively perky Bandit—John was in no way annoyed at being trapped in traffic like a minivan. Speaking of minivans, Nic was sitting cozy in a Caravan with Anthony’s very pregnant wife Thelma. Thelma was totally indispensable on this trip. Besides being fluent in Spanish, she is very familiar with Ensenada and just a mighty nice lady. She never got on a bike this trip due to her delicate condition, but I sure hope she's with us next year for E2K.

We slugged through the traffic and made it to S.D. H-D with no problems at all. For any members reading this, I feel compelled to note that Frank’s oft-maligned navigational skills were operating at 110% the entire trip. Once at San Diego Harley, the expected scene ensued—lots of gorgeous women wearing pert near nuffin’ (accented with black leather) and lots of American Iron, ranging from heavily customized multi-MULTI-thousand dollar semi-show machines so beautiful they turned MY jaded Rice Rocket head, all the way down to a couple of sad old rat bikes that even a mother couldn’t love. There was the usual gearhead talk: “Ever since I switched to the hot cam and ThunderHeader ™, I can run the quarter mile under a minute.” , arcane detailing lore: “You can keep your pipes from getting blue if you have a sacred virgin rub ‘em with a unicorn hide under a Full Moon.” and spiced with the scent of brand new $40 tee shirts stuffed into saddlebags. You know—your basic Harley Dealer Parking Lot Gig.

Folks were nice enough I guess, but it was made very clear that this was a Harley event. Not that I would miss this run for love or money next year, but this is definitely a party for the Bar & Shield folk. HD souvenirs (and last minute replacement parts) bought, the event coordinator, El Jefe gave the command to saddle up. We left the parking lot and mustered just before the on-ramp. The CCMC group was about ¾ back …lemme tell ya, it’s a thrilling sight to see a column of bikes four riders wide stretching so far in front of you that you can’t see the head of the mighty road snake of which you are a part. Soon after hitting the highway, The Trailer slowed our progress. Hog after hog blew past and I could feel the thrill slipping away as we sank in ignominy to a stinky place on the snake a lot closer to the rattle, if you know what I mean. By the time we hit the border, we were dead last. Again, not so bad for the cruiser boys, but a sore chafe for me.

Once across the border, the great majority of the riders eighty-sixed their helmets. Our group were not quite so free—we talked among ourselves and decided that if we were going to get dead or worse, we’d prefer to have the permanent-coma-inducing closed head trauma AFTER a glorious weekend in Sunny Mexico. We got out of the border choke point and made our way to the first of two tolls. We all pulled over at the toll plaza for the now familiar ritual with the fruit, cigarettes etc. A kickstart-only ratbike began having problems that would haunt him for the rest of the trip.

The next stop was lunch, and such a lunch it was: carne asada, guacamole, chips and Mexican beer on a patio restaurant on a bluff overlooking the beautiful blue Pacific. The rest of the way into Ensenada, I kept stealing glances to the right, as we passed beachfront properties studded with condos, the whole time scheming how to get down here a LOT more often. I was already forming a pleasant overall impression of Mexico.

This is a country where life has a vibrant, genuine immediacy. I never saw a “HeartSmart” option on the menu, and I never saw a packet of artificial sweetener. These people are busy LIVING, right NOW rather than killing themselves trying to live forever. These people don’t cringe when you say “Fat Gram” or “sodium”. They don’t make you wear a helmet either…they let adults make their own decisions and take their lumps when they have to. More on this later.

We had one more stop to set the tone for the weekend to come. We pulled over at a place ablaze with bright colours—azure, hot pink and deep yellow. Happy tropical colours that perfectly complemented the ocean a hundred or so vertical feet down the cliff. I had a chance to try out what would become one of my favourite phrases for the next two days “Agua fria, por favor”—ice water, please. Most of the others were sampling the local cerveza. Eventually, we pull into Ensenada proper after a ride through what I think was semi-desert. Sorry—I grew up in a major urban area and usually get queasy when I smell clean air, so this area of dust, steep cliffs and scrub growth (on the other side of the road from the ocean, no less!) looked enough like a desert for me. The last mile or two covered an industrial zone that was almost as alien and surreal as the desert. Great steel devices of unknown function seemed to erupt from the earth’s flesh, metal teeth studded with fist-sized rivets. The sun gleamed on the darkly polished surfaces with sinister foreshadowing. That was how it seemed and how I felt…as if we were in Chapter One of a science fiction novel. Then we got into the urban center and the dark vision gave way to the sunny fiesta atmosphere I had expected.

John and I shared a room, and were the only CCMC folks to NOT have air conditioning. From what the others said, it wouldn’t have made much difference. Hot, tired and sticky, we were more than ready to wash off the day’s road grime and cool off. I won the toss and got first crack at the shower. Good thing too, because the shower handle fell off in John’s hand. Honestly, I could go on and on about the flaws of our room, from the windows in the bedroom that wouldn’t stay up (we propped those open with our helmets) to the window in the bathroom that had been painted shut (we decided that 1) WE were only staying there two days and besides, 2) REAL men can put up with mildew), from the desk clerk’s steadfast refusal to accept John’s AMEX Traveller’s Check to the housekeeping staff’s refusal to provide two sets of bath gear…like I said, I could go on and on about the flaws. Still, what must be said in all fairness, and cannot be said of the place across the street, is what will bring me back there again next year: there was not a single bug in our room.

Once showered, we began to realize that we’d put in a strenuous day and we’d just had a pretty big lunch. After the inevitable nap, John and I walked around and had a look around. Ensenada is a mid-sized town but as far as a tourist can tell, it all really happens on what HAS to be called “The Strip”.

The Strip is five blocks long and two blocks either direction off the main drag. By day, it’s a nice looking street with sidewalk dining, lined with little shops that sell exactly the sorts of things a tourist would want to bring home from Mexico—leather goods, tequila and Kahlua ™, cheesy ceramic trinkets that are the natural companion of plastic furniture covers, and of course the obligatory switchblade knives. As the day wears on toward afternoon, the scenery is enhanced by the addition of sad eyed children selling gum and wily salesmen hawking jewelry. It’s best not to talk to either of these. The adults will rope you into a thrilling haggle session for stuff you didn’t even want in the first place, and if there is a heart in your chest, the kids’ pleading eyes will slice right to your soul, and you’ll feel like a real dog when you tell them “NO!” for the millionth time.

By the time we had finished the recon mission, the others were ready for supper. Lee Morse suggested we try El Charro. The food was not bad, but the real runaway show-stopper was the waitress. I took a LOT of ribbing about her, so I feel compelled to set the record straight in this accounting of the weekend. Ensenada has no shortage of beautiful women both tourist and native, but Julieta was a marriage waiting to happen. No, really. I would have invited her back to America, except she didn’t even know I was alive. Oh well, at least I had a pretty good chicken mole dinner with elevated blood pressure (courtesy of the lovely Julieta) for dessert.

By now, evening was falling, and The Strip was making its final transformation to an unlikely amalgam of Vegas, a frat party and the Boulevard Cruise from any city that has one. Traffic becomes an all-city conga line, with no clear rules. Pedestrians come in two flavours: The Quick and The Dead. No, it’s not really THAT dramatic, but crossing the street takes more than a little courage. On the sidewalk again, safe until the next corner, the body human subconsciously responds to the Latin rhythms seductively pouring out of the many bars, clubs and discos. Hips sway and shoulders roll in time with the mariachi band as you pass a restaurant, and automatically adjust to the beat of the next place you go by. The comfortingly cooler night air carries the music on powerful wings. Never mind that you can’t understand the words, or that you can hear four songs at once from four different establishments, the song and message remain the same: PARTY!

The message is heard loud and clear (did I say loud? I meant LOUD!) by all until 0400. There is something very satisfying to know that I can just put on my trousers and walk across the street for a melon margarita while my coworkers up north are getting out of bed for another day in the rat race. Sadly, some hear the call a little too loudly, and as we return to our hotel, we see several riders (NOT affiliated in any way with CCMC) running back and forth through the Boulevard Cruise. They are having a water fight with some very realistic looking water pistols. After pissing off a few of the locals, someone persuades them back into the hotel courtyard. These folks are beyond drunk, and to their credit, they are not riding or trying to. On the other hand they are being disorderly and a dangerous nuisance. Several of them are naked out by the pool. One of them climbs an umbrella, seemingly to dive in or perhaps he suddenly wants to be Mary Poppins. Either way, what happens is that he falls, cracks his head and falls into the pool. His compadres are too drunk to notice or care. He’s lucky Anthony spotted him and dragged him out of the pool. He was taken to the hospital. I never heard any more about him.

As I tell this tale of one of the best weekends of the year and one of the best rides I’ve ever been on, it hits me—we didn’t really do that much riding once we got to Mexico. The next day was all done in the Caravan (which cradles six full sized adults in serious air conditioned comfort). Thelma took us to all manner of treats that I would think were unique to coastal Mexico. The tour started with a breakfast of coctel de mariscos—a seafood cocktail that is a meal of itself. Shrimp, strips of clam, octopus alone or in combination mixed with chopped onion, cilantro and cocktail sauce. Just a couple of bucks and a delicious way to start the day. Next was La Bufadora. A natural wonder right on the coast, all it is is a rocky inlet where the crashing surf sprays up to 120 feet skyward. On paper here, it sounds insignificant, but like so many wonders of the ocean, it’s pretty hypnotizing up close and personal. La Bufadora is a beautiful natural jewel in a K-Mart necklace; the half mile walk from the parking area to the ocean is lined with vendors hawking everything from T-shirts to misspelled “Hayley-Davison” jewelry guaranteed to not turn green until you’re back in America. One vendor boldly displays a sign that reads “We cheat you less than the others”. The ubiquitous sad eyed kids selling gum make an appearance too. Which is not to say there are no genuine bargains and treats to be found. In fact, our stop here ignited a buying frenzy in Nicolette that did not end until we were back across the border.

Next stop was some beautiful private beachfront condos. We parked and swaggered down to the beach where we frolicked in the surf until sundown approached again. No one questioned our presence. All that swagger and attitude—wasted. We went to a swanky seafood restaurant for dinner (don’t worry, gentle reader—I checked to see if Julieta was on duty before I gave MY ok) and almost immediately regretted the decision to not have something more authentically Mexican. Afterwards, we strolled The Strip again, just enjoying the smells and sounds and sights of a place so different from home. Knowing that we had a long ride ahead the next day, we turned in early.

The time had come, all too quickly I think, for us to say adios to Mexico. Loading the bikes, I discovered the only noteworthy mechanical problem on the trip: the bolts holding the bracket of my Corbin ™ seat to my bike had somehow fallen off between Sacramento and Ensenada. The only thing holding that seat to the bike was my ass. Fortunately, it was up to the task. When I got back to America and called Corbin, they were wholly uncooperative, and pretty much told me "Tough". Yeah, see if I every buy anything from THEM again.

Most of us boldly decided to ride to the border without helmets. I can well and truly understand why those who prefer to not wear helmets made that choice. Bare headed riding is a little bit freer, and the bond between man and machine feels seamless and somehow more organic. The rushing wind is a familiar friend, and all of the senses are awake and attuned to The Ride. With a helmet, you experience 98% of riding, and it is wonderful. Here, in the cool humid coastal air, that little two percent becomes the enormous, unbridgeable gulf between riding and RIDING.

And then a vehicle ahead of me kicked up a pebble that hit me in the head. OW! Sudden flashback to the time I went down hard and scuffed my helmet pretty good. Oh yeah…right…now I remember why I wear a helmet on purpose. Still, I’m looking forward to doing it again next year. And that pretty much concludes the Mexican Mission. The ride home was uneventful, really. Oh, sure, M-16 bearing Mexican Army checkpoint guards gave Frank a thorough going over but that was a total surprise—who would have thought a big guy with a bandito moustache towing a huge trailer behind a Harley would be suspicious?

Fortunately, Frank had the good sense to have an illegal knife hidden in The Trailer. I never asked him what he said to get out of that, but it must have been good. The rest of the trip home was just a big chant for me: “Om Migawd Arwi Deryet” over and over until I actually pulled into my drive way. Twelve Hundred Fifty Three miles. Five Days. Six Friends. Doesn’t get a whole lot better ‘n that.

-Walt Livingston