12/22: ZZ Panda.
Zhen Zhen is making her first public debut today. When the Shedmaster 9000(tm) passes on, I'm going to see what I can do about getting a panda. Holy Mother of God, this thing is cute. I curse my womb every day for not being able to make one.

And now, let us revisit Brian Fantana's great line from Anchorman: “Panda Watch. The mood is tense; I have been on some serious, serious reports but nothing quite like this. I uh… Ching… King is inside right now. I tried to get an interview with him, but they said no, you can't do that he's a live bear, he will literally rip your face off.”

Maybe that one is understandable — out of sight, out of mind — but I'm not sure how this one got past me: This morning I put water into the one-cup coffee maker, pushed the button to start it, and walked away. When I came back, coffee was all over the counter because I forgot to put a cup under it.

I wonder if all those years of eating off of scratched up teflon is catching up with me.

Death Proof: Quentin, we get it: You like long, quirky dialog scenes. It was funny the first time in Reservoir Dogs, but 15 years later it's gotten long in the tooth. Jackie Brown was a fine female character — where did you go so wrong with this self-conscious girl-power script? And was it possible to give Rosario Dawson a worse haircut? Get back to me on this.

Summer of Sam: Less about the serial killer and more about Spike Lee's stereotypical portrayal of Italian Americans, which isn't so bad because who doesn't love macho guys with feathered hair acting like mooks? Adrien Brody might've shot his career wad in The Pianist, but he's still the best actor with a beak where his nose should be.

Nine Queens: Are you like Mr. Michigan? Hate reading your movies because that foreign shit is for foreigners? This Argentinian grifter flick will change your mind or I'll buy those two hours of your life back (market value set by me).

The Weather Man: Is it just me or is it hard to watch Nicholas Cage nowadays without being totally distracted about what's real and what's implants? Weirdest hair of any actor out there. Ok, so I'm also a little put-off by him giving his kid the birthname of Superman. Kal-el? What's wrong with Jack or Fred?

The Machinist: Christian Bale gets down to around 120 lbs. and conveys the torment of an insomniac like no other. Not that I've seen a lot of movies with 120 lb. insomniacs to compare it to. The true reason to like anything he does is his quote from IMDB: “The only thing that I'm obsessed with is sleeping.” We professional sleepers must always support each other. He could play Tinky Winky in a low-production porn film and I bet he'd still wipe up the floor with Josh Hartnett at his acting peak.

No Country for Old Men: Harkens back to Blood Simple, a great film that first introduced the world to the awesome Frances McDormand and her chewing-tobacco cheeks. Tommy Lee Jones in a cowboy hat is also always a good time.

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada: See above reference to Tommy Lee Jones. I also learned that in a pinch I can use radiator fluid in place of embalming fluid.

Shopgirl: Way more engaging than I thought it would be. Warning: You'll need to take a few deep breaths before you can watch Claire Danes snog Steve Martin.

Breach: Who knew Robert Hanssen was so creepy? This movie gets five eyepatches out of five.

Ride With the Devil: Ang Lee directed it so I thought it would be at least ok — incorrecto. Tobey Maguire's acting in this one just plain hurt.

Hollywoodland: Decent movie about the real life (or at least semi-real life) of George Reeves. Would've been better with someone other than Ben Affleck playing Superman.

Tsotsi, Hotel Rwanda, Last King of Scotland, Nowhere in Africa: All good movies guaranteed to make you feel better about your own life.

The Squid and the Whale: Same as above, but instead of being glad you're not there, you're glad you're not them.

Cosi: Films involving mental institutions is a vehicle for overacting, and this is no exception. Still, it's worth seeing Faramir, son of the last ruling Steward of Gondor, play a cat-burning arsonist.

The Proposition: Grim. Bloody. Guy Pearce's cutting cheekbones. It's a potent triple-threat combo that makes for one fabulous western.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang: Self-consciously clever. Couldn't finish it, and I stick out most movies.

Duane Hopwood: The movie no one saw, probably because David Schwimmer starred in it. It's worth it though, because he's the most likeable alcoholic ever.

You might think that this toy would be bad for your 5-year-old, but a child can never learn the valuable lesson about come-uppance too soon. And why wait for your kid to discover on his own that he has a disemboweling hatred towards mimes, new age kooks, and The Man? The sooner your child learns the realities of life, the sooner he can get on with drug experimentation, wild mood swings, and totaling the family car.

Here the three of them are, looking at one of the groups out on the track at lovely Perris Raceway. It's the first time I've been there and calling it a “raceway” is, well…cute.

I think if you're a sponsor of some sort, or maybe an in-law of the property owner, or maybe a delinquent teen, you can paint your info on one of the big rocks on the hillside. Question for Honda: Is the ‘08 marketing budget going to be a little bigger so you add some red paint to that Navajo-white freehand job?

Fast forward to a week later. Mr. Michigan accidentally drops a metal object on a power strip and shorts the circuit. The fish tank is on the same circuit so power to it is lost. When I get the power back on, I see this fuzzy blob at the bottom of the intake tube. Although the shape is somewhat indistinct, the color suggests it's the artist formally known as Runty. I do recall knocking the intake tube off the pump the last time I had cleaned the tank — in the few minutes that lapsed before I put it back on, Runty got sucked into it. Were it not for the power outage to the tank, Runty's body would never have had the chance to drop back down into the intake tube. Over time, he would've disintegrated to nothing and his fate would've remained a mystery.

So that the other fish would not be tormented with his carcass, I immediately removed him and gave him a proper burial. Although I could've used Runty as an example of what happens to bad fish, a week of breathing in their sibling's decomposing body was probably enough to keep them obedient.

Look, we're used to droughts. This rain shit is plain scary.

Instead of saying “In the 80s there were big Japanese boats…” the writer tells us “In the 80s anus there were big Japanese boats…”

Friends, if you're not saying “a�o” while in Mexico, I hope you're either in a proctologist's office or at a resort decorated with rainbow flags, because just about any other situation will result in your teeth getting kicked out (for guys, at least).

I did retouch the photo a bit around the belly button because it had a festering sore that I figured you could do without seeing — I assure you that the mitten shape is 100% midwest, corn-fed natural.

Here's a group photo I took this morning of the latest harvest of demon fruit. Dig the shadow they cast.

It probably looks like simple math to you map people, but it looks like trig to me. I wonder if Happy Bunny could only tell me one of these, which one would it be?

So on our final Mexican morning we head out of town and take the first left past the arches on the north end of town. For a while we travel under power lines on a wide whooped-out road with deep sand. Then it's back to hard pack and we roll on until we come upon the option of entering private property or hitting the sand again. We get on the sandy trail which follows alongside a fence but after a while we get the sense we're not in the right place so we turn around. We're almost back to the hard pack again — just one more 90 degree bend of deep sand — and the front tucks without notice. I'm on the ground with the bike on my leg. I try moving it but it won't budge. Having melted that very pant to that very leg with that very exhaust once before, I want the pig off me…NOW. Fortunately, Mr. Michigan is already stopped around the corner because John-Mark also had a lowspeed dump (he's gone by the time I come along). I beep the horn a few times to let him know I've got a problem. He sees me and starts to come over but I don't sense enough urgency in his movement so I lay on the horn to try to get a jog out of him. I'm not sure it makes him move any faster, but it at least distracts me from the discomfort. Britt has also stopped and is there to help pick up the bike. My leg is instantly refreshed without a 300 lb bike laying on it! I empty my boot of sand and we continue on.

As I'm bringing up the rear, something shocks the shit out of me when it flies past. It's John-Mark. He flashes some hand signal and I instantly realize the three of us have gone the wrong way and like a mama duck he's on a mission to get all the baby ducks back in a row. I cruise up to Britt, who's doing a first-gear idle. Eventually John-Mark comes back by with Mr. Michigan in tow. Britt and I take a few minutes to do our standard 18-point tippy-toe turn and then regroup with the guys.

We stop at the dry lack bed to take a bunch of pictures and then finish off the dirt stretch to Highway 3. We get gas again at the Valle de la Trinidad Pemex and then we're on the pavement until the turn-off to the dirt road to El Hongo. It seems like the dirt road we want shouldn't be that hard to find, but we find ourselves in the tiny settlement of La Huerta with no discernible road out. A bunch of kids have been watching us and either Britt or John-Mark says something to them about El Hongo. One kid starts waving for us to follow him. We assume he's leading us to the road out but instead we end up in someone's yard, standing by the washing machine that flanks the front door. The kid runs into the house and out comes a woman. I tell her we're trying to get to El Hongo and show her our map. She starts talking about taking a right here, a left there, and a something or another somewhere. She draws a few lines in the dirt but it's not really helping. Eventually another guy comes out and he starts talking to us in English. It's an ex-pat, and one can only wonder about the story that brought him to this place. He does a better job of pointing out the direction we need to go. We thank him and we do find the golden route to El Hongo.

The road north is fairly obvious until we hit a fork. We go left and as we're bumping along the worsening trail we pass a beat-up green passenger sedan that's crawling. I'm thinking that if he's there then we must be going in the right direction, but we soon arrive at a gated house at the end of that road. John-Mark and Britt make a u-turn and go past the now-stopped car. Mr. Michigan makes his turn and as he goes by the driver is just getting out of his car and waves. I figured he was the owner and maybe wanted to tell us something so I stop. He starts rapping away in Spanish just a little too fast for me so I shout “What?” and give him the hand signal to slow the words down. He's still talking too fast but I do catch “El Hongo,” which initially sound like “Blah blah logo.” In my best Spamish (Spanish spammed with English construction), I tell him something that probably translates into “We are also conducting our ways towards El Hongo. Back there made a Y of the road — we are now try to go to the right side of it. There are none other roads; it is the only option.” I take off, preferring to be lost than to try to conjugate any more verbs. I'm heartened by the fact that even the natives get lost in their world of unmarked trails — it's not just a gringo thing.

We've pretty much stopped taking pictures at this point. It's late afternoon, we're a little cold, and we just want to get to Tecate before sundown. When we reach pavement again it's around 3:00. Knowing that it's a straight shot to the border crossing and there's no way for us to get lost now, it pretty much feels like we're home. There is, however, one last spike of adrenaline to be had. Just as we reach Tecate, a car turns right in front of John-Mark. I see either smoke or dirt rising all around him from the hard braking and I wait for the impact. Miraculously, the car slides by and we're not pulling out our bi-national emergency medical cards to look for a phone number so he can get him airlifted out. I know drivers don't see bikers, but a sport ute was to John-Mark's right — this person either didn't see him and a 5,000 pound vehicle whose headlights were on, or the driver had no depth perception whatsoever. What a crappy end to this adventure that would've made.

The line to get back into the US isn't epically long. We're not sure if we can split lanes to the front so we wait in line. Even if we try, we'd have to roll over several peddlers and a handicapped guy in the narrow gap between the cars. While waiting, Britt notices a nail in one of Mr. Michigan's knobbies. Because all of us spend way more time around tubeless tires, we opt not to pull it out in case it's also acting as a plug. (You dirt vets can insert your snorting here.)

We reach the border agent in about half an hour. He asks if I'm bringing anything back from Mexico. “No,” I tell him, but then add “just dirt.” He says ok and hands my passport back to me. Welcome home.

Photos on Netflix.

Our original goal was to make it out to Bah�a de Calamaju�, but seeing how I had packed the wrong pump and how we were scattering bolts across Baja, we decide not to add that stretch of (most likely) rocky road to the trip. However, we didn't want to miss Coco's Corner while we down there so we agree to go south to check it out and then head back north to San Felipe.

On one open stretch that's washboarded, I come across a rectangular black object stark against the tan sand. It's Mr. Michigan's fender pack. I stuff it into my bag and a little ways down the road I find him and John-Mark parked. Mr. Michigan's fender is all cock-eyed — three of the four bolts holding it on have fallen off and the one remaining bolt is partially backed out. The combination of the fender pack's weight (holding two innertubes) and the constant rhythmic shaking of the washboard road reinforced what we already knew: All ye who enter Mexico without Loctite shall despair.

Despite forgetting Loctite, I did pack extra bolts that I knew would be of use on our DRZs. I have just enough bolts of the right length to secure the fender. The god of n00bs has enjoyed alternating slaps and strokes upon our helmets. We accept this and can only hope for more strokes than slaps in the final tally.

The wind is still howling when we reach Coco's Corner. I'm surprised to see that it's no more than a tiny structure with a couple of walls to create a shelter from the wind. The walls are plastered with photos of people like us who have made the odd pilgrimage. A variety of women's underwear hang from the rafters. Amusingly, the one pair that stand out the most are a pair of men's classic “tighty whiteys.” One has a desire to know the story behind it, but one forces oneself to stop thinking about it just as the image of it getting peeled off over a set of hairy thighs to gloriously reveal — yes, stop. Stop.

Coco, the spot that the place is named after, is in the hospital suffering from complications with diabetes. Someone else is there to watch the place and sell us the beer and water. He's a large guy who follows our every move quietly. I can't tell if he hates us gringos with our freedom to leave this place behind, or if we're just entertaining to watch because he's an existentialist at heart and we're another band of kooks who decided to visit nowhere for no good reason. If nothing else, he likes Britt enough to let her hold a calico kitten he's named Mallorca. When he takes the kitten back he nuzzles it affectionately — he's a lover and not a fighter after all.

A small sport ute we had passed on the way in eventually arrives. He asks if I've seen a bar in the road. I look at his car and the rear Thule rack is gone. I tell him no. Welcome to the club of lost parts, my friend.

We're back on the dirt road and just north of Alfonsina's we come upon another military checkpoint. The truck they have stopped is from California and an older couple travelling with a dog is getting their stuff picked over. The woman looks back at us and smiles, almost as if she's relieved that there's now someone else to get the invasive attention.

The lead guy asks us where we're going. I tell him we're on our way back to San Felipe. He tells me to open my bags and he starts fishing around. The other soldiers disperse and start poking at the rest of the party's bags. It's clear they don't plan to give us trouble — they just want to look somewhat officious and are probably curious what kind of crap people travelling on bikes pack. Rather than take off as soon as they're finished, John-Mark needs to do some tweaks to Britt's bike, including letting some air out of the tires. The soldiers watch and to try to be a good foreigner I explain that there's too much air in the tire. They all nod knowingly, “Yes, too much air.” I make the same comments I did at the other checkpoint about a long journey, lost bike parts, blah blah blah. Minutes later a soldier picks up a plastic part near me and hands it to me like it came from one of our bikes. I know it didn't but I walk around asking everyone if it came off their bike, holding the piece out like it's a gold nugget. After I get the last no, I study the piece thoughtfully for the benefit of the soldier and put it in my bag so as to not insult him.

The soldiers take a shine to John-Mark's jacket. They've gathered around him, intrigued by the many zippers and pockets and maybe even by H20 stamped on the chest where the Camelbak hose goes. They probably don't see a whole lot of motorcycle jackets up close so now was a great opportunity to squeeze his shoulders and evaluate the armor. The black-and-gray jacket could conceiveably pass as the preferred gear of an elite military branch — maybe we didn't get shaken down because they thought he was an officer in the Green Seals Ranger Delta Beret branch of the US military and any discomfort exacted on us would result in their being “erased” during the night. At the least, I know it isn't my red or Britt's bright orange jacket (or the pigtails) that's intimidating anyone.

We leave the checkpoint and from there it's an uneventful run back to San Felipe. The wind continues to howl and a few times I am blown into another lattitude. On the paved section of road there are sand drifts in the lane and our faces are getting pelted by large-grain sand. For the pavement stretch I had removed the bandana from around my nose, which at the time didn't seem like a mistake but would later torment my cilia-destroyed sinuses for days.

Back in San Felipe the 250 runs out of gas again in mocking distance of a Pemex. Out comes the fuel bottle. We finish the gas-up routine and then return to George's Motel after that — we are tired and it would be way too much work to try something new. We clean up and find a great non-touristy place called Chuy's to eat. After that it's back to the motel where we finish up some booze and wind down. We are too tired to even bother rolling the bikes in so I lock Britt's bike (which doesn't require a key) to one of the DRZs. John-Mark actually passes out before 8 and the rest of us are done by 9.

Photos on Netflix.

We head back south on Highway 3. After about an hour the pavement disappears in Puertecitos and we're staring at a stop sign and “private property” in big handwritten letters. Did we turn somewhere wrong? How could we have when there was absolutely nowhere to turn? There's a bit of traffic passing through so we decide to continue on. If someone wanted us to stop, they were welcome to chase us down.

The road winds along the mountainside and has a nice view of the ocean. There are only two problems with this scenic road: big jagged rocks and smooth-half hidden rocks. The former want to rip your tires up, while the latter want to catch you out at speed and pretzel your rims. John-Mark disappears immediately as he's on a search for a little privacy to deal with a little intestinal mayhem. Britt, Mr. Michigan and I motor along, stopping occasionally to attend to one thing or another. Britt sheds her jacket in the heat, I take a picture here and there, and Mr. Michigan tries to recover a few items that have fallen out of his bag. (He doesn't find his tubes of JB Weld, but he does find the package of Imodium AD, which he lovingly refers to as “Shitstopper 2000.”)

I'm behind Britt and as we're rounding an uphill curve my bike stumbles. I'm hoping it's a transient stutter, but it continues to stumble before totally dying. A mild sense of loneliness comes over me as I watch Britt round the corner and disappear. The bike is stalled in the middle of the road, and my consolation is that nobody is likely to come along so I don't have to move it. Still, I try to push the bike into the shade of the mountain, but the incline is too steep for me to succeed. I could've backed it down into the shade but I wasn't thinking particularly straight. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the thought of being far from a shop with my once-reliable rolling barcalounger.

I'm not much of a mechanic but now seems like a good time to pretend to be one. My grand guess is that I have either an electrical or fuel-delivery problem. I squeeze the one fuel line I replaced to accommodate the larger Clark tank, but other than being longer than it needed to be, it seems ok. I pull off the side panel to access the battery and find that the terminal screws are snug. A wire I had spliced for the GPS power supply is now dangling apart, but it doesn't seem to me like something that would kill a bike. The lights and instrument panel are working when I turn on the bike, but there is absolutely no cranking when I press the button. As I poke around, Mr. Michigan comes back and I explain to him the situation. He suggests that maybe some of my electrical additions are causing a problem so I remove the GPS wiring from the terminals and re-tighten the screws. Just as he takes off to inform Britt what has happened, I turn the bike over and fire it up. I don't know enough about electrical paths to understand why that worked, but it doesn't matter one bit. The bike runs — it feels like my birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one.

While I'm taking inventory of the bike, I check the clearance between the tank and the radiator. John-Mark mentioned a problem where the sharp edge of the radiator could start cutting into the tank. Sure enough, there are signs of shaved plastic so I wad up some cloth and jam it between the two, trying to hold it in place with some electrical tape. Given the road conditions it's wishful thinking, but sometimes all you can do is try.

We catch up with John-Mark at the abandoned cabana where he's found the outhouse of his dreams. After a brief break we continue on to Gonzaga Bay. A few miles down the road my bike seems to be cutting in and out again. I am disturbed. I do not like a broken bike in the United States and I extra especially don't like a broken bike in Mexico. Everyone has taken off on the fast flat stretch, but I fall back as I keep the speed under 40. I don't know what the bike is going to do, but I do know that if the motor seizes (just a general paranoia gifted to me from previous seizures), I'll accept anything under 40 as the speed at which I am pitched off the bike.

I catch up again as they take a break around one of Mexico's many car husks. John-Mark mentions that my latest problem might've been caused by the kickstand bouncing up against the kill switch. This seems reasonable, except the bike was acting up on parts that weren't all that bouncy. Perhaps the kickstand kill switch was momentarily half-stuck. Anyways, the bike ran ok for the past few miles so I keep my fingers crossed.

Just as we're nearing Gonzaga Bay and are a few hundred yards from the Pemex station, Britt's bike runs out of gas. She pulls out of one of the Nalgene fuel bottles and pours just enough into her tank to make it over to the station. After that, we buy some booze and ice at the nearby mini-mart before heading over Alfonsina's motel.

When we get to the motel I ask the person who appears to be the proprietor how much it costs per night. He says “$55?” like it's a question. I suppose he expects haggling, which seems kind of strange since his is the only place to stay in a billion mile radius. The price is above the normal $40-ish I've heard from others, but giving an extra $15 tribute to someone making a place function in the middle of nowhere just doesn't bother me. The roughly twelve-room place was also busy so getting any room was good enough for me. Gonzaga Bay consists of a landing strip, a row of non-ostentacious vacation homes, and Alfonsina's. It's a quiet stretch of beach on a calm bay and it would probably be as popular as San Felipe were it not for the bolt-loosening trip across Mars to reach it. Like Mike's Sky Ranch, the generator is on for a few hours during the night.

Before I take my hard-earned shower I go over my bike while there's still light. I pull off the panels and check various bolts to make sure everything's tight. Several of the men who work at Alfonsina's have pulled up chairs on the patio and watch. I must be a freakshow on several levels: 1. Not too many Asians make it out their way; 2. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles make it out their way; 3. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles who diddle with their bikes make it out their way. I loosen the tank and pull it back to address the radiator problem. I'm in need of a file so I go to the proprietor and ask if he has one. He says they're all about to sit down and eat but he'll check later. Rather than squander the daylight I look for the hardest rock I can find and start rubbing it against the aluminum. It's actually working so I keep at it until one of the guys, Cuero, shows up with a file.

Cuero hands me the file and continues to stand inches from me, so rather than pretend this guy with large bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes isn't there, I explain to him my problem. That was an error. He starts chatting away, asking me all sorts of questions I find hard to understand because although he has teeth, he's enunciating like the front dozen are missing. I say “What?” over and over and although he slows it down, that doesn't help remove the slurring and puffing sounds that obscure his words. At some point I have to work so hard to listen that I take over the talking (mostly a bunch of non-sequitors) so he's forced to listen.

Finally the job is done and I hand Cuero back the file and put the bike back together. With maintenance done, I hit the booze, grab a shower, and then we gather for yet another delicious Mexican dinner. The Polaris-sponsored quad couple are there and we spend the next hour hearing about their epic journey from Canada to not-yet-there Cabo, which includes the unexpected adoption of a young dog that was slated to be put down at a Navajo reservation. Their site is at www.quadtrek.net and my favorite challenge they have listed is: “WE START THE RIDE AS A COUPLE AND WE'D LIKE TO FINISH IT AS A COUPLE.” It's in all caps — they really must mean it.

Photos on Netflix.

Part way through our trip out, we come upon John-Mark who informs us that a hole has ripped in his gear bag and that he's lost a fuel bottle, tools, and his cell phone. As he's adjusting his bag, Mr. Michigan and I slowly retrace the path to see what we can find. We're eventually back at the ranch, having found everything except one socket and the phone. When John-Mark and Britt reach us we do another slow scan back out. Oddly enough, just as I was giving up hope of finding anything else and thinking to myself, “If they can't see it with their big round eyes, how am I going to see it with my little slanty ones?” the small socket materialized. I had to laugh.

The rest of the ride out was pleasant and without incident, although when we got to the road Mr. Michigan noticed his left turn signal was gone. The bolt that held the seat, tail rack, and turn signal in place had backed out. The bolt on the other side is loose, but not gone. Cursed again for forgetting the Loctite. (It's not as good as Loctite, but in a pinch nail polish can help prevent bolts from backing out. Unfortunately, I hadn't planned to paint my dirty, stumpy nails while travelling so I didn't pack any.)

It's back to Highway 3 as we make our way down to San Felipe. There's a military checkpoint at El Chinero so we pull up and wait for a signal. John-Mark is at the front so the soldier insists he takes off his helmet and it sounds to me like he's demanding his “cartera” — wallet. Perhaps there's some colloquial translation for it that I don't know so I take off my helmet and say “Hola!” The guy turns to me and asks if I speak Spanish. I shrug my shoulders and say “a little” and he asks where we're from. I tell him San Diego and he points at our bikes and says, “On these?” Sensing his mild incredulity, I answer yes and go into a pitiful story of how its been a long, painful ride and how we've lost a bunch of parts from our bikes. Somehow he infers that I've crashed and instead of correcting him I let the fictional tale of woe wrap up our “inspection.” Britt wants to take a photo of the checkpoint. I ask the soldier if it's ok but he says no, although another one seems like he's about to say yes. Rather than piss anyone off by pressing for one little harmless piccy, I thank them and we head off for San Felipe.

By the time we're gassing up in San Felipe it's 3:00. John-Mark suggests that instead of pressing on towards Gonzaga Bay we find a place in town to spend the night. The sun is at a pretty good slant so we're all for calling it a day. We end up renting a room at George's Motel near the beach, which costs $80 USD for the four of us. $20/person is budget-friendly, and we have the added bonus of being able to push all the bikes into the room.

We do some pre-dinner boozing in the room and then head over to dinner. Stingray burrito is on the menu and never having had that (and wanting revenge on the old stingray attack) I thought I'd give it a try. It tasted exactly like cuttlefish, which is like a gamier and stringier version of squid.

We're back at the motel room after dinner and it's lights out before 9:00. The travellers wrap up this Thanksgiving day buzzed and beat.

Photos on Netflix.

At the border the 250 comes off the truck, we exchange some dollars for pesos, and then cross into Mexico with no issues. As we try to head out of town, we manage to select a street that dead ends and we have to turn around. It's impressive that we're maybe a mile from our native soil and we've already made a navigational error — holy shades of portentousness, Batman!

We get on Highway 2 and make our way over to La Rumorosa, where we stop for gas. Our first Pemex gas encounter goes well — no one tries to cheat the gringos or sneak diesel into the tanks. After the gas stop we hop next door to a restaurant for our first group meal in Mexico. The hot coffee — thin as it is — is unbelievably refreshing and prepares us for the dirt stretch on this gray day. Outside the restaurant John-Mark notices my radiator shrouds are loose. The bottom bolts on each side have already backed out. There's a good reason for this: After I put the radiator guards on, the lower bolt holes on the shroud no longer lined up so I had to run a smaller diameter bolt through, using a nut to keep it on. I didn't Loctite the nut. The error of not packing Loctite (I really meant to pack it) would be an oversight rubbed in our faces again and again on the trip. I dig into the zip tie supply and secure the shrouds.

Although we have GPS waypoints, we still have a hard time identifying exactly which of the many dirt roads to turn down. John-Mark leads the way and after a few turns we find what looks like the right road. We see in the distance an officious-looking truck with the light bar in action. The truck is moving slowly so if the officer/ranger/person-with-a-firearm is actually chasing someone he's making a very casual job of it. We reach the truck and slowly pass by, waving to express our love and respect of all things official, and to please not pull us poor dirtbikers over.

The ride for the next couple of hours on the dirt roads is enjoyable. The scenery is nice and except for a saddlebag malfunction on Britt's bike we have no problems. We stop a few times to take pictures and enjoy the gestalt of it all.

When we arrive at pavement we do 40-ish miles southeast to Valle de Trinidad where we gas up again. Ever-sensitive about cheating Pemex attendants — having been cheated before — I look at the change the guy had given me and roll it around in my hand for a while, trying to do the math. It wasn't enough change for the 200 pesos I gave him so I ask him where the rest of it was. He walks over to the cash box and holds up the two bills I had handed him, which amounts to 120. He did give me the right change and, embarrassed, I shout “Lo siento!” through my helmet while giving him a good ol' gringa “Me bad!” slap on the arm. A dash of octane boost for Mr. Michigan and Britt, and then we're back to the dirt on the day's final run up to Mike's Sky Ranch.

By now it's 4:00 and the sun is dropping behind the mountains. My GPS indicates 13 miles, which is a quick trip on pavement but could've been over an hour in the dirt, depending on conditions. We move along quickly, stopping only for necessary adjustments. The sun is down by the time we reach a wide pool of water that sits at the entrance to the ranch. Mr. Michigan and I stop and turn off our motors to ponder its depth. There is no way I'm going first, and I have visions of watching Mr. Michigan sink up to his helmet by crossing in exactly the wrong spot. Then John-Mark pulls up, stops long enough for his headlight beam to bounce off the water, and motors through. Seeing that the foot of water didn't do him in, we follow his path.

We find that we're the only people at Mike's Sky Ranch. A week before it was probably packed since the Baja 1000 had been in the area. It seems a little weird to have the storied place all to ourselves, but at the same time it doesn't seem that weird since it's in the middle of nowhere. We're served dinner at 6:30 and after that we do our last few tasks before all power is shut down (the generators only run for a few hours each night). What a great day: A long and fun ride, a hot shower*, a tasty steak dinner, and a bed that doesn't make me itch.

*I will admit to having had packed my hairdryer (a small one!). Short wet hair dries quickly. Long wet hair does not. If you've never had the opportunity to wear long wet hair, imagine having a wet sock on your foot and waiting for it to air dry. On a cold day, it sucks a lot.

Photos on Netflix.

As for the knobbies, they were just about brand new when the trip started. We're pretty much all down to stubs now.

Here's the second thing you need to know: So fun you'll shit a cactus.

Su jefe.

Don't give me shit about packing for the apocalypse. For five days on the road, I don't think that's all that bad.