“Once we cross the border, if we’re not racing, we’re on Baja time. Nobody is in any rush.”
SAN JOSE DEL CABO, Mexico – Marty Fiolka is a Baja lifer. He’s been racing anything with four wheels since he was a kid driving his father’s Meyers Manx dune buggy at the age of nine. And he’s our tour guide as we leave San Diego and head south for the Mexican border. If there’s something to be known about racing in the desert, Marty knows it. He’s literally written the book on the Baja 1000, and has put together a documentary about it to boot. A member of the Off-road Motorsports Hall of Fame, and a veteran of 12 Baja 1000s, Fiolka has two rules – have fun, and speak up – which seem like appropriate rules to follow for not only this trip, but through life itself.
We pile our stuff into a 1992 Ford Bronco, our unofficial office for the week.
This particular Bronco has had a bit of a facelift since it rolled off the lot almost 25 years ago. It’s got a roll bar, new paint, new seats, new gauges, new shocks, new tires, and most importantly, an expensive racing engine. It has had plenty of work as a prerunner, and even served as the pace car for the NORRA Mexican 1000. I’ve never ridden in a Bronco before. After this trip, a Bronco will be the only thing I can think about for weeks.
Within five minutes of hitting 80 on the highway, I involuntarily shout out. “Holy shit, when I get home, I’m buying a Bronco.”
The only experiences I’ve ever had with racing involved a NASCAR race over Memorial Day and a truck race down a ski mountain. I’ve never been to Mexico. I’ve never ridden in a race truck. I’ve never come anywhere close to dumping fuel on the side of the highway. By the end of this week in late April, I’ll not only have done all those things, but I’ll be looking for any excuse to get back to Baja.
The saying goes that you don’t find Baja. Baja finds you. And I’ll be damned if Baja didn’t find me at the most unexpected time.
“Every mile that goes by, the life that’s back there disappears. Whatever you had to do doesn’t matter.”
The first thing to know about the Mexican 1000 is that it’s more living museum than it is a race. Winning is still important, and there are plenty of trophy trucks near the front of the pack that sprint across the desert in six-figure Mad Max machines. But a good portion of the racers are there to honor the history of the sport, see their friends, and make their annual pilgrimage to Baja.
Cars raced by legends like Rod Hall and the late actor James Garner have been restored and brought back to life. Greats from Walker Evans to Larry Ragland to Robby Gordon suited up again to drive the peninsula they’d raced so many times for the past few decades. And newbies curious about the race they’ve heard so much about (but not quite ready for the Baja 1000) entered their name and got set to drive the four days and 1,374 miles from Ensenada to San Jose Del Cabo for the “Happiest Race on Earth.”
What makes this race different from any other is you can do it with as few as four people – or two in the case of bikers Michele and Kevin Busch from Salida, Colorado. The pair have been riding together for 10 years and rode tandem through the Mexican 1000 with no support team.
The husband and wife will do anything they can to cross that finish line, including stuffing their motorcycle tires with brush and leaves to keep on powering through to the next stage.
“We’re going to finish,” Michele says on Day 2, promising me that we’ll get a drink when they do. “We’re going to finish. God dang.”
(They will finish. And Michele holds her drink up to me as I pass her on the streets of Cabo.)
Off-road racing, especially with finely tuned cars and trucks, is an expensive endeavor. Aside from the car alone, you’re looking at upwards of $75,000 in some cases just to run a race. The check, even if you do win, is paltry.
But it’s less a hobby than a passion, and a passion you can’t ever shake. That’s why you see so many guys retire, then unretire, then run a different sort of race entirely. Guys don’t just fall in love with racing; they fall in love with Baja. And they’ll do anything they can to keep coming back.
Everyone comes to racing in different ways. Trevor Glidden, who has partnered with Dave Westhem to race the two trucks – a Chevy T-8 that has won the Mint 400 multiple times, and the 1978 GMC that Westhem won the 1987 Baja 1000 in – I’ll be following for the week, saw that Westhem had dropped his keys in the water when Glidden was about 13 years old. Trevor jumped in to get them, and he wanted to race with Dave from that moment on.
The two formed a friendship, and this year presented a great opportunity to do something they’d never done before as a race team: run two trucks at the same time.
“You either love it or you hate it. You’ll know right away.”
The Baja peninsula is unlike any terrain I’ve ever seen. In one day of driving, you can see never-ending cliffs and water that changes color from blue to green. You see cacti the size of apartment buildings, and plants straight out of a Dr. Seuss book. You pass Spanish Missions that have been there long before we entered this Earth and that’ll be there long after we’re all gone. And you hit stretches of desert that could swallow you whole. There’s equally the sense that there’s a higher power building all this and no higher power at all caring one single iota about whether you live or die.
For as much fun as this race is, experienced drivers are quick to remind you this is dangerous, and people have died. The desert doesn’t care how much you spent on your race truck. It doesn’t discriminate based on how much money you make, or who you are.
Actor Steve McQueen, who ran the Baja 1000 in the 1960s, supposedly once broke down and had to sleep at an airstrip overnight. There weren’t cell phones, or GPS trackers, or even the occasional helicopters flying overhead to check on the race. There was the infinite desert, the drivers themselves, and the occasional rancher. McQueen eventually made it safely, but Baja didn’t give a single damn that Bullitt himself was out there alone.
“I started in 1983 and there’s no doubt of all the races in any of the countries,” Westhem tells me, “off-road racing in Baja is the greatest, most incredibly amazing experience you can have. We are all the same in Mexico.”
My second day with the team, it dawns on me that they were serious about me riding in the race truck. It had been rumored, and mentioned, and discussed, but I never actually thought it was going to happen. And then after a few margaritas at the appropriately named Horsepower Ranch (which, like most things in Mexico, has a history – it is linked back to Al Capone and the time he used to spend in Ensenada), I’m handed a driving suit and a helmet.
I rush to remember the tips I’ve already been given, and I am thankful I talked to Bob Bower, former manager of BFGoodrich’s off-road program, a few weeks prior.
Bower is a bit of an off-road mystic. He’s been at it as long as anyone, and he carries Yoda-like wisdom with him into every race. He can be found with a BFGoodrich shirt on, a camera around his neck, and a smile on his face, and he dispenses words of advice and encouragement to anyone who will listen.
He has a few rules to riding in a race truck, and they’re as follows:
– Nothing bad happens slowly.
– The faster the truck moves, the faster your scope of view moves.
– Cross your ankles one over the other so that you’re not bracing your feet.
– Let the motion happen (No Gumbys ever have fun).
– If you’re more relaxed, you’re more aware.
– Get some chewing gum (It alleviates nervous energy and keeps you hydrated).
– Pick up a tenth of a second on every turn, and don’t stop or have a problem, and you win.
As we pull the Bronco over to the side of the road somewhere past El Rosario, I’m glad I remembered to put gum in my pocket. I toss the fire suit on over my jeans and t-shirt, and put my shoes back on. I forgo the external catheter (I’m only set to navigate for about 165 miles, and I doubt I’ll be thinking about my bladder much during this stretch). And I take one big gulp of water before putting on my helmet.
“You can make a small fortune racing off-road – if you start with a large one.”
I’ll be riding with Randy Salmont, who has more than 35 years of racing experience and wins in both the Baja 1000 and Baja 500. He’s calmer than I’d be if I was about to run a special course with someone who’d never even changed his own oil much less knew how to read a road book, but trust is the key to a driver-navigator relationship, and I have spent the past hour and a half trying to memorize each of the items in the book, from washouts and sweeping turns to cliffs and speed zones.
The navigator’s job is to see things before the driver does. The road book – constructed from detailed notes compiled during preruns – has waypoints that correspond to various mile markers. The book goes hand in hand with the GPS and the road itself, so that the driver stays on course, avoids danger, and gets through the stage without getting lost. So to navigate is to constantly bounce between windshield to GPS to book and back again, finding a rhythm with the driver, and watching out for unexpected events like cattle crossing the road, kids playing, or a rancher’s pickup truck blocking the way.
The driver is the star, the crew chief is the director, and in some ways, the navigator or co-driver is the writer. He has ultimate control over the story. If he does his job, things will be okay. If he doesn’t, there won’t be a happy ending for anyone.
We breeze through the first portion of the special stage, and I quickly go from tense to calm. I never feel like I’m in danger for even a second, and the truck handles itself incredibly well for being a couple years shy of 40. Randy knows what he’s doing, and he’s a bitchin’ driver – and I say that with the highest degree of esteem a person can while using the word bitchin’.
“You can’t win if you don’t cross the finish line,” Salmont says as dust kicks up from the truck in front of us leaving us both pretty much blind.
There’s a beach closer to gravel than sand, and a camp up on a hill we’re set to pass through and suddenly we’re stuck. The truck tries to whip around and gets buried in the gravel. Luckily there are people watching and cheering, and they sprint over. That’s Baja (a saying I’ll hear over and over again). A few enthusiastic onlookers become participants and help to push us out, and we’re on our way again, gravel spewing as they implore us to keep racing. The GMC whips around turns, hits a straightaway and goes about 110 mph. Randy lets out a roar, and I can feel him smiling behind his helmet. Some people never find home. Others find it every time they get behind the wheel.
For Salmont, who has experienced heartbreak, loss, love, and joy like any of us, racing is an escape and an entry point at the same time.
As we barrel out of the special stage and onto the transit stage, he tells me over the intercom, “You can race with me anytime you want.”
Whether he is merely being nice or truly means it, I don’t care. That moment is the most badass I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
The motor is running great. Randy takes a second to show me the gauges and what to watch for, as this is also part of the co-driver and navigator’s job. As long as everything stays stable, the engine should be good to go, and it’ll get checkups at pits and overnight.
Seconds later the oil light comes on, and our oil pressure drops considerably.
We pull over and there’s an oil pump belt ripped that pulled our serpentine belt off. Our chase truck, which is constantly in contact with us on the radio, isn’t far behind and catches up to meet us. The team fixes it, and we go another 30 miles, but now the oil and water temperature are both climbing. We pull off at an abandoned Pemex gas station to meet the crew.
At some point the radiator hose disconnected, and we have to get the water temperature down and reconnect. The team tries to figure out what to do to cool the radiator down, and one of the head gaskets blows.
Everyone is calm until it is clear the truck isn’t going to make it any further south on its own. Then there’s a mixture of frustration and disappointment. Nobody blamed anybody. As is my wont, I considered myself a jinx and Randy squashed that quick.
“In no way, shape or form was this your fault,” he says. “Period. Exclamation point.”
These things happen. It’s racing. And like life, it’s better to have a short memory on these things and look ahead. Staring in the rearview won’t get you anywhere. It might even keep you from seeing the hazard up ahead.
The GMC came to Baja on a mission, and it’ll spend the last three days of the race at an oasis in San Ignacio.
“Racers are clever. They’ll figure it out. If you want to turn left, go to Daytona.”
The nice thing about coming down with two trucks is if one of them goes, there’s still another truck. And that truck – the one Westhem is driving – is kicking ass.
We pack four of us in a hotel room just steps from the Bay of Los Angeles. I can’t sleep. I’m convinced there are bugs all over me after hearing about the proclivity of sand fleas in this region, and I just give up and put my earbuds in and walk outside. It’s been a long time since I watched the sun rise, and I sit in an old rowboat facing the water as light starts to creep toward me.
The stillness and quiet envelop me, and I start to walk on the beach, noticing a trio of motorcycles on a small ridge. Three racers have made camp there, forgoing a search for one of the last remaining rooms in the area to opt for sleeping bags on the beach instead. One is staring out as the sun grows and offers me a half wave before turning his attention back to the bay.
There are still three days to go, but I can start to see why people leave everything behind and disappear into Baja. A member of our team found a place in Loreto, and he retired down there. He has satellite TV, there’s a Home Depot and a Costco not too far away, and he has a dock where he can keep his boats. He fishes, drives, and fishes some more, and he can’t imagine doing anything else now.
That life is at arm’s length away from so many of us, but this former truck driver made it his present and his future. For all the excuses we make all the time about why we can’t do something, there’s something about Baja that flips the question back to “why not?”
With the entire team following the T-8, we chase Westhem into San Ignacio and down to El Rosarito, taking a brief stop at one of the beaches to have a shot of tequila and a beer. There are a few RVs there, and one small restaurant claiming to offer WiFi and cold cervezas. We meet back up with the crew at the hotel in Lareto, and take turns washing the truck, cleaning the tires, and putting new decals on the side.
“It’s a trophy truck,” Westhem says. “It should look like one.”
After Day 2, the T-8 is in first, unofficially. The times are disputed throughout, as certain drivers have penalties coming (you can’t exit a transit stage early – discouraging speeding through those sections), but some racers just don’t care, or are daring the organizers to keep perfect time. It’s a desert race; some things are still on the honor system, but at the very least, the Westhem truck is in the hunt.
When we break for dinner in La Paz the night before the last day of racing, we sit at a couple big folding tables outside the motorhome that has been following us the entire way. We’re treated to an Italian dinner, and everyone shares stories and plenty of wine.
Westhem stands up and stops everyone to say a few words.
“What we’re doing is special,” Dave says. “Stuff like this doesn’t happen all the time.”
Getting that many people together in one place, prepping two trucks, bringing an RV into the mix along with food, having a motorcycle in the group, and wrapping two media members into the fold makes for a complicated situation, but it all works. That’s the beauty of people addicted to off-road racing. It takes a certain type of person to run a team like this, and those individuals are wired differently. They can’t take a break. They can’t relax. And they’re typically highly successful folks who run their own business.
Racing is a way to trick their minds into thinking they’re on vacation, or enjoying a hobby. But they have everything organized down to the minute, and there’s so much planning that goes into the NORRA race, much less the Baja 1000. But for them, this is everything. They have so much fun it doesn’t matter how much prework they had to do.
They’ll spend every day after they get home thinking about how to get back – and they’ll start pulling together outlines for the prerunning trip in advance of next year’s race as soon as they possibly can.
We decide to sprint ahead of the drivers and run the course from La Paz to San Jose Del Cabo on the last day to give ourselves another taste of racing, and it’s a blast. The Bronco speeds through tight spots, gets up to high speeds in a flash, and crushes it in the sand. We’re not too far from the road where we’ll pull off and wait for the first batch of trucks to come through – including the T-8, which is still vying for an overall win.
Everything is going smoothly until we make one wrong turn at a fork, and have to make a three-point turn to go down the road and get back on the course. The truck’s buried in silt and sand, and it’s not going anywhere. We take pressure out of the tires, dig down with our hands, throw brush under to try and get traction, and rock the Bronco forward and backward, but it won’t budge.
Before we get the chance to radio for help, three farmers in an old pickup come barreling down the road. They tow us out with a metal cord, and we make it back to the fork.
Then we’re stuck again.
Thankfully the pickup wasn’t too far away, and they quickly get us back on the road. We see dust in the distance, and the first group of trucks are barreling down on us. We get up to speed and feel as though we’re really racing through the last few miles before hitting the turnoff on the road in Cabo. Minutes later, the T-8 comes rifling past, and we follow closely behind right to the finish. The street is one big party as trucks come in one by one, and everyone who finishes has the right to be proud.
Fans and curious spectators line the streets and walk up to trucks to snap pictures and ask for stickers, and the Westhem team is relieved and pleased. Dave and I walk from truck to truck to see who came in and at what time, trying to estimate the finish. When the times are finally tabulated, our team comes in fourth place.
Five minutes total separated the first and fifth place finishers overall.
There’s a big ceremony on the beach at The Grand Mayan hotel, with a fireworks display to follow. The winner, Jim Bult from Chicago, hadn’t even heard of the race until a few weeks prior.
“We just stayed with it and the next thing you know, you spin out trying to stop at the finish line,” Bult says. “We will definitely be back next year.”
I have no idea if I’ll be back in Baja – next year, or ever – but I know one thing: Baja will be with me for the rest of my life. Oh, and after I got home, I did end up buying that Bronco.
