The "Mexican 1000" is a one thousand mile race from Ensenada to La Paz. The race nearly runs the entire length of the Baja Peninsula and right through the middle of a very inhospitable desert region.

Most teams drive the entire course a week before the race. This drive is known as "pre-running" the course.

While pre-running around the course half way point, I had an opportunity to meet a few Baja natives. We had left the small village of El Arco about 3 hours before, and were running about ninety miles per hour through one of the courses few fast sections. Suddenly, the right front tire exploded, and sent us careening off this horrible dirt road right through the desert. The ride was exciting ride for a while, but the truck finally slowed down and stopped. There we sat, looking at each other, knowing we had been lucky not to crash into anything big.

It was hot. Extremely hot. The kind that burns sweat off your skin before it does any good. The well worn pre-run truck was a venerable steed, but even its tough off-road tires were no match for the jagged rocks that filled the passage between Ensenada and La Paz. About 100 dusty, bumpy, treacherous miles had passed since the last town.

If ever there was a God forsaken, middle-of-nowhere-place, this was it!

After using the wrench, I finished loosening the wheel nuts with my filthy chapped fingers. We were hunched over trying to use the dusty truck for shade from the blazing inferno that beat upon us. Unexpectedly, we saw some small children running toward the truck. As the children approached, we saw that they were living near poverty level. Dark, faded and tattered clothing covered their dirty bodies. Since they spoke no English, our broken Spanish had to suffice. We learned they lived close by and they invited us to their home constructed from discarded metal Pepsi signs, sticks, and old boards. We gave them money since they seemed so needy.

I wondered where they would spend it.

After leaving their shack, we headed back to the course. The driving became excruciatingly monotonous, hour after hour, mile after excruciating mile, upon the endless, bumpy, and un-maintained dirt road The heat, dust, fumes and rocky jolts from the road made us slip into private thought.

I began thinking that these extremely poor people, nearly abandoned by civilization, were very happy with their family. How could they possibly be happy?! They subsisted on the edge of survival. I could not understand it. I still think of these poor forsaken people from time to time.

The last time we stopped at their crumbled shack, they were gone. In fact, one could barely see where the shack had been. The harsh unforgiving land had forgotten them.

I still wonder...

Where are they now? Did they find an easier life? Are they still happy?

 

E-mail: dirtbike@off-road.com