The "Real" Baja Peninsula If you've never been south of Ensanada, you've never been to "Baja". Senic views, golden sunsets, and hundreds of miles of coastline unfettered by BLM regulation. "This" is Baja.

Some just show up the day of the race, pull off the road where the course is near the highway, flip open a lawn chair, and wait.

The mixture of locals to US visitors varies a great deal, with the gringos normally heading out to the “regular” good spots that are fairly easy to get to. More adventurous race watchers drive back into the boonies and find some of the most fantastic places imaginable for viewing.

Back in these spots, is where you’ll find many local residents, and people who feel comfortable well off the beaten track.

One of my favorite places to hang out with a camera, is Erendira, a small village located on the Pacific Ocean side of the peninsula. It’s a few clicks north of SanVicente (get your Triple A Baja map out) and about a 20 minute drive from the main highway to the ocean.

Once there, you’re greeted with a spectacular pebble rock beach, flanked by cliffs. Even if there wasn’t a race being held, you would more than likely be happy to sit there and stare out at the waves, watch the seagulls swoop and dive, and listen to the sounds of the ocean. It’ll make you a better person.

But when you’re there on raceday, you get the best of both worlds. You get the soul-stirring view and you get to watch the best off-road racers in the world come blazing by.

2 Men, a Beer, and a Subaru You meet all kinds on the peninsula during race week. Rich to poor, tall and short, hammered, and looking for another beer. Welcome to the Baja 1000!

While waiting for the first bike, we had a chance to chat with some of the people who shared our magificent viewing spot. To say that we encountered some colorful characters would be an understatement.

An hour before the first bike was due, an ancient Subaru 4WD car rumbled up and parked directly in the center of a “Y” on the race course. Two crusty old dudes got out of the Subaru and proceeded to unfold some lawn chairs.

I mentioned to them that they might be just a touch safer if they moved back a bit. After all, they didn’t want a Trophy Truck tossing a rock at their Subaru and ruining the paint job, or blowing the glass out of the doors.

I said this tongue-in-cheek, since this car was so butt-ugly that most folks would not want it for free. It was … ahhh … sort of tan/brown/puke colored and encrusted with a fine layer of mud on the bottom half and enough dirt on the top half to probably plant corn on.

The short guy, who looked like a cross between Elmer Fudd and Gabby Hays, hitched up his sagging over-sized levis, covering up a first-rate butt-crack in the process, and smiled: “Hells-fire, boys. We don’t worry none about this here car. It’s got over 320,000 miles on her and a scratch here or a dent there ain’t gonna make much difference at this point.”

Try That In NASCAR! While the "Turn Left" crowd are content to pay $100+ a ticket to sit in the grandstands developing Carpel Tunnel Syndrome in their necks, Off-Road race fans like to get "up close and personal". The wide open spaces of Baja are just the place to pull up a tent and a cooler, grab a few buds and "experience" the event.

I had to agree. The Subaru looked more like a 300 hundered year-old beached sea turtle than it did like reliable transportation.

The taller of the two nodded his head in agreement: “Yup, she’s a runner, alright. But we ain’t worried none about babying it. Shoot, we just dug it out of the beach no more’n a couple hours ago. Had us a few cold ones and went to sleep. The tide was half way up the doors when it woke us up. Had to dig it out with our hands.”

I was curious at this point: “Wouldn’t that salt water screw it up?”

Shorty scratched thoughtfully at one of his five or six remaining teeth. “Not to worry. Got me a back up Turbo Subaru back home.”

I was impressed. “Turbo, huh? Must be a fast runner.”

Shorty squinched up his eyes. “Dunno. We never could get it runnin’, but it should be a real missle.”

The two guys moved back a few feet and then proceeded to start drinking a bizarre mixture of whatever they grabbed out of the seemingly bottomless cooler. A beer followed a slug of tequilla, which was chased down with a vile looking bottle of rum.

They noticed us looking and said, “Oh, don’t worry about us. We ain’t drivin’ anywhere tonight. And we got Oreo cookies for food.”

"The Unknown Spectator!" For decades, rumors have told of a dark, mysterious man who prowls the desert with a beer box hat, and an ice cold brew. Local historians have traced the source of the sightings to a Pemex station, just south of Ensanada. Now there is photographic evidence. ORC's Rick Sieman took this incredible of the spectral spectator somewhere near Santo Thomas. Bigfoot? I think not!

A well balanced diet, I thought.

Soon after, the first bike roared by. It was Campbell on the 650 Honda, with no one in sight behind him. The two guys grabbed pencils and started writing numbers and times on the hood of the Subaru.

Curious, I wandered over. “You use the hood to keep score? Not worried about screwing up the paint job, I see.”

Shorty licked the pencil and marked the next bike number down. “A hood’s a good thing to write on. Once when I was elk hunting up in Wyoming, I came back to camp one day and wrote a whole love song on the hood of this here car. And I don’t worry none about cleaning it up. Little bit of rain and it’s ready for more notes or stuff.”

The vision of Shorty shooting an elk, and this creating the urge to write a love long on his hood, made my jaw drop.

We decided to look for a better spot for photos and said goodby to our friends. During the next few hours as we moved around from place to place for the best camera angles, we talked to many people.

ORC’s fearless leader, Pat Chicas turned to me, licking his lips. “Look, we forgot to bring any beer with us. You think I can trade some Off-Road.com stickers for beer?”

“Senor Chicas, you are in Baja and stickers are better than money here. Go for it.”

During that day, Pat traded a small stack of ORC stickers for dozens of beers. One guy even offered him a six pack for a sticker.

As the day wore on, we made friends with a tow truck operator from San Diego, an anthropology professeor who lived in Baja and worked in the US, a bunch of Mexican guys who were pitting for a biker buddy, a 90-year-old lady who said she never missed a 1000 race, her 92-year-old husband who swore he owed his good health to drinking lots of tequila and proved it by sipping steadily from a bottle of Sauza Hornitos (green label), a retired cop from Arizona with a “Pigs Are People, Too” t-shirt, a lady with a skull and crossbones t-shirt on who was a school teacher, a real estate broker who claimed the only thing that kept him sane was regular trips to Baja to see the races, a whole bunch of ex bike racers who sat around lying to each other about how fast they used to be, a nice lady who used to be a nun, but now ran a bar in Hermosa Beach, a bunch of young guys in an old Dodge van who pooled their money from working all summer just for this one trip, a really fat couple who rode down on a Suzuki DS 350 all the way from Colorado (the rear shock was nearly bottomed out with them just sitting on the bike), a Mexican family with a dozen kids, from toddler to 14 years, all arriving in one ancient Ford pickup, two guys on horseback with backpacks, a drop-dead gorgeous Latina lady in a flowery dress who was their with her vigilant Mamacita and a seemingly endless preocession of people on three wheelers and quads, all without helmets, but all with giant Igloo coolers held on by big, black bungee cords.

"Fire, Fire....he...he....." What would a desert race be without good ol' campfire to go along with it? Come "1000" time, it gets mighty chilly on the peninsula. Lonely? Need Friends? Hate camping alone? Light a raging bonfire. You'll see people come out of the woodwork. (Editors note - charg'em a beer to warm their frozen assets ;-)

There were also a number of fairly serious looking pre-runners along the course, that looked like they might be chase vehicles for the racers.

All things considered, it was truly astonishing cross-section of humanity, and they all chose to be in this spot, at this time.

Weird

How different were these people from your garden-variety race watchers?

Well, consider the tow truck guy from San Diego. He was handing beer out to Pat like a bartender getting big tips, and I mentioned that the stores might be closed for liquor sales all this weekend, as there were Mexican elections being held. During elections, all liquor sales cease.

When I said this, he got this panic-stricken look on his face like I had just told him the world was about to get hit by a huge comet, and life as we know it would end. He hopped in a Toyota pickup, and blazed for town at a truly terrifying speed. In fact, he went through a deep rock-filled rut faster than Johnny Campbell did, in his haste to get to town before the stores closed the beer coolers up. I thought the Toy would fold in half, but somehow it stayed in one piece.

Later in the day, when the traffic got heavy (as did the dust) the Herzog ProTruck tried to pass a slower vehicle and augered nose-first into a 20-foot deep chasm. As the driver and passenger scrambled out of the truck and I could see they were OK, I grabbed my tow rope from my trunk and ran over to see if it would be of help.

"You'll Never Be Bored" There they were enjoying the race, and minding their own business when suddenly The Herzog Protruck stopped in to say "Hi"....

The tow truck guy, now fully re-stocked with beer (both internally and externally), ran up and volunteered to get them out with his 4x4 Ford truck. Within minutes after assessing the damage, the strap was hooked to the underbelly of the ProTruck and the hooks slipped through holes in the Ford bumper.

The tow truck guy dropped it into four-low and hammered the throttle. His wheels threw up a cloud of dust and dirt that probably settled a week later in Denver. The ProTruck groaned, creaked and shuddered, but moved about half way out of it’s temporary grave.

Tow Truck Guy chopped the throttle and the race truck settled back in the hole with a big thump.

Not to be dismayed, Two Truck Guy backed right up to the tail end of the race truck, leaving a lot of slack in the tow tope, then gave it full throttle once again. The strap stretched taut and the race truck came out a bit further than the first effort.

Then it fell back into the hole

By this time, a huge crowd of people had gathered around the two vehicles. All manner of advice was offered, both in Spanish and English. After a few more futile efforts, it was clear tha t no matter how hard the pickup tried, it wasn’t enough to get the race truck free.

An elderly Mexican gentlemen barked out some orders to his collection of sons and motioned for Tow Truck Guy to give it another try.

He hopped back in the Ford and pinned the throttle. The wheels chattered wildly and the ProTruck pulled out about the same distance it had on the pervious tries, then the old man yelled for everyone to grab the truck and help pull it out.

Hand were everywhere and you could hardly see the truck the crowd was so thick. But all those hands, combined with the straining pickup, did the job.

The race truck emitted a horrible groan and flopped heavily down on the level ground!

A cheer went up from the crowd, but it was short-lived, as the race truck was moving backward at speed and blasted into the rear end of the pickup.

"Tow Truck Guy!" Some people are happy with a good book. Some people thrill to the wonders of a baseball caught in the big game. Some people like getting hit by Protrucks..... Whatever makes you happy!

The noise from the impact was ugly, as the massive race bumper caved the pickup tail gate in, twisted the bumper out of shape, crumpled the fenders in and squashed the tail lights to fragments.

Tow Truck Guy looked startled for a moment, then brightened, and yelled: “What the hell! We got it out, didn’t we?” With that, he pumped his fist into the air and howled.

The crowd applauded and cheered like World War II had just ended.

The Herzog driver quickly offered to fix the damage to the Ford pickup and took Tow Truck Guy’s name and address down. He walked around, proud as could be, and the spectators patted him on the back and gave him a bunch of thumbs-up approval signs.

Later on, we talked with Tow Truck Guy, and he put it all in perspective: “You know, when I yanked that thing out of the hole and it blasted into the back of my truck, I felt like the guy who caught the World Series winning home run ball! Wow!”

He opened up another beer, and I figured I would have one, too.

Here’s to you, Tow Truck Guy: King of the Baja Spectators!