Algodones To Glamis Via TRX - A Fast Ride While Riding High Tide

Cruises, such as the trip from Mexico have produced some fun too. I don't know if I can say this in front of the kids, but... It's the trip back from Mexico that's usually the most interesting. Not too long ago, on the way back from Mexico a buddy and I had left the border a little late. It seems that it got dark outside. Somehow I forgot that happened EVERY day. We almost arrived too late to cross the border. We would have had to stay for the night. It seems that the sun must have gone down sometime between when the doors to the green bar closed and when the ladies started hanging on to us (f)or our wallets. I forget the name of that bar - maybe it's called The Green Bar. That's what everyone calls it. Algodones is no place to be after dark and no place I'd want to be all night, especially with my TRX250R locked up to a fence on the USA side. When we crossed the border the ride back to camp seemed like a long, long way.

The first section of the trip is paved road, if brave enough to risk a ticket. We were. It was over before I remembered doing it. Sixth gear, up against the rev limit - more than 9300 rpm's running 14/36 gears. Top speed about one hundred MPH. It would not go any faster. I remember thinking that a piston traveling at that speed was going up and down at something like one hundred and fifty times per second. The sound the motor was making was beautiful music. The sound that any two stroke enthusiast yearns for.

The second section is a wide, rolling dirt road. With two, one hundred watt headlights leading the way I was running flat out in sixth gear. I'd drift it in to the corners by pitching it ever so slightly with the power on - just enough to keep the bike light, then hit the gas hard again to set up for the next flat-out, full-on power-slide, ride-of-your-life, would scare the fight out of Rocky, would make a man out of Pee Wee Herman (you get the idea) corner. The motor barked like a rabid dog and sucked its air in gasps to feed its thirst for the oxygen it needed.

We passed the Shell station and crossed Highway 8 in order to run beside the railroad tracks. Again flat out in sixth - WFO. This time the obstacle is the drainage dips. About every three hundred yards or so there is an under-crossing to let water under the railroad tracks if there is ever any there. These crossings - at speed, are like suddenly becoming air born but not remembering why. The road just drops out from under you. In the right state of mind (ahem) they can be a real blast! It takes a sort of thrill seeker to appreciate them because once you do hit the ground again, depending on your throttle position, you could be doing a ninety MPH wheelie or be riding with only the front tires on the ground, thinking "my it's interesting that the ground is going by me from top to bottom instead of being in front of me then behind me" or a double ended "shock bottomer." UGH! It's best to roll the throttle off ever so slightly to set the chassis, hit the dip, then roll it on again. When done correctly the result is an almost full compression shock bottom with the rear tires to the ground first. I was neutral on the gas to let the chassis settle which is the set up to a wonderful power-on high speed wheelie. I was having so much fun - more fun than was necessary to be having, but not willing to back off a bit either. About one out of ten dips would get my attention enough that my brain would send tingles up my back. About another one in fifteen was an almost perfect, plush "I couldn't do it again like that if I tried" power landing. The intake roar was awesome. Its pulsating sounds were competing with the exhaust for my attention. I could hear and tune into each sound independently. There would be no winner. They were singing the song together.

I can remember thinking that there must be a law against what I was doing, and if their wasn't, there probably would be in my life time. As far as I know there is no speed limit there. I would have stopped to ask the Border Patrol, but their Chevy's were just a blur. I think they were Chevy's. They don't care about the ATV people anyway. They just want to catch illegal immigrants.

After a few miles of that, we reached the asphalt section where it leads onto the most boring ride there is... But that one quarter mile section of real road is not wasted! Full speed ahead! I turned onto the tarmac in third gear, lofting the front, upshifting to fourth and fifth. All with the front end reaching for the stars. From top gear at WFO into a full on "brakie" while turning the tires and setting the chassis to lean left to turn onto the road from hell. You gotta love those Ohtsu Radials and the way they squeal on asphalt. Lot's of body-english required.

With only one turn in the road for something like fifteen miles - we DID NOT WASTE IT!!! A good drive on to that road leaves room to gain enough speed for a full-lock, drifting, gravel-slinging, rock-throwing, outa-my-way mini chill-thrill at near flight speed. That speed is just below the speed which takes away all sense of humor. Not quite where you actually see God, but you can sense he's paying close attention to you. Any small mistake would make for a nasty memory. A memory which might require several years with a therapist to recover from.

We made it to the main part of the road. At maximum speed any vehicle is fun to drive, even if the road is straight and wide and only slightly loose on top. With the amount of attention it seems to take to keep going flat out it's fine to take a hand off the handlebar and rest it on the tank, fix my chin strap or scratch a nut. It became a game to see how little attention I could give the bike and still maintain the WOT. I tried closing one eye to see if it would make it more fun. I started riding side saddle - that did little to keep my interest high. Even at that kind of speed I could have served coffee to my buddy. The (s)miles would pass in a matter of a few minutes. I wished for another tooth on the front sprocket and maybe a few less on the rear.

Turning onto the main road again - I pulled the required and always necessary all gear wheelies. Through the Glamis Beach Store parking lot I slow, even if it's closed. I wouldn't want to leave any bad vibes. Finally we are across vendor row and onto the dunes. Finally something worth driving on! Even without paddles the sand is welcomed. The both of us so fully excited to be on the soft stuff, we start spinning donuts. For only the second time in its life (up till then - those are other stories) my TRX lands on its side. I wish it were a more interesting story but to describe it fully would be to say that the edge caught, it started to go, I thought I saved it and it went anyway. Throwing me ever so lightly to the ground that I laughed out loud. It filled my face shield with sand. I was laughing so hard I drooled.

We had come to the part where it's nine miles of sand... No. Nine beautiful miles of heavenly rolling dunes. Complete with gnarly razor backs, short flat straits, dead drops, nasty peaks and everything in between. I had plenty of gas to go as fast as I wanted, great headlights to see and a riding buddy to make it that much safer. At night everything changes. Hills look steeper. Sand looks vague. It's much more mysterious and seems much more dangerous. As dark as it was we rode parallel to the highway about a mile into the dunes, because that's where the good sand starts. With careful timing and planning, picking out each hill and guessing or remembering what's on the other side somehow comes naturally. Overshooting the top of the hills had become part of the thrill to let me see if there was a way to make a legendary loft and a perfect landing. I was catching more air that night than I ever remember before. I was facing dunes at WOT in fourth gear and launching from there. Several times I must have had a hang time much greater than a professional kicker puts up the ball for the start of an NFL game. I was getting so much air that I had to slow down a couple times because my kidneys hurt from the impact of the landings. It was like I was on a mission. At that elevated level of driving intensity the limit seemed to be pushed further and further away. It was like I could do no wrong. No matter what line, lane, route, trench or path I launched from I was rewarded with the wonderful experience of great air time, optimum balance and control and landings that though scary as anything Steven King has tucked in his twisted mind, were no less than perfection. It somehow filled a gap in my life. It had a purpose, a reason and a meaning only I could understand. Words don't seem to fully describe it. It all made sense. It was like I needed to do that at that time. It was going to be then or never. It was like it was the only way to get from where I was to where I wanted to go. It was like I was a passenger and the TRX was making me do it.

My wrists started to ache, my forearms were pumped up and I hit my chin a couple of times on my water bottle. When my chin starts hitting my water bottle, it sends a signal that I'm getting tired and I need to slow down. I was out of breath because I had knocked the wind out of myself. At that point I knew I was getting close to camp because the sand flattened out and my speed picked up. I saw the Ranger station. It was WOT again - less than a mile to go before we reach camp. To be respectful of others we slow down to a roar and cruise into camp. I pile up some logs and start a fire and my friend makes a pitcher of margaritas. After looking at the time it occurred to me that we made the voyage very quickly. It took me longer to write this (up to here) than it took us to go the (what amount to) thirty miles from Mexico to our campsite. Paved road, dirt road, gravel road, dunes - thirty miles less than twenty minutes.

The next morning I got up, and went outside to check things out. I opened my gas tank to refuel the TRX. There was what could be called a trace of fuel left. What is normally in the float bowls was about five times more than what was in the tank. This, from a trip that usually takes less than two gallons (one way - we usually refuel at the Shell station) steady cruising - had instead drained the 3.6 gallons - OUCCCH!!! My friends Banshee would not have survived the distance without the desert tank either. I looked my bike over to see if there was any damage. As it turns out there was. The frame was broken in three places. Two places under the motor and the swing arm frame/bolt mount was showing light through it on the shifter side. There are five bolts that hold the engine in the frame (there is no head stay on mine), that makes ten motor/frame mounts - six of them were broken off. The mounts at the rear of the engine were the only thing left not broken - and that's because they would float when the engine moved. The 86 model is that way. I was screwed. I had left my MIG welder at home 510 miles away. Well actually I didn't leave it at home, my motor home was broken into the night before I was leaving, after I packed and the thief(s) took it. It's kind of funny what they took - for instance they took the cheap four dollar bottle of tequila - the one used for making margaritas, but left the $45 bottle of sipping tequila. Perhaps they knew it was out of their league. Additionally they took my off road wheels/tires and several other things that were necessary (TV, boom box, RC car). I am fortunate enough to have a brother who has an 88 TRX with the same wheels/tires as were taken - and since he couldn't make the trip - I was able to borrow his. [They would catch the thief's later in the same day, locate all my stuff though it was impounded for quite some time. The only thing I was missing, and still am is the remote control to the TV. I guess I could spring for a new one].

Anyway, Sweet Marie's husband - (I forget his name) is an excellent welder. I had the TRX towed to him so he could tack the broken motor mounts in place while the engine was in the frame. Then I had it towed back. I removed the engine, towed it to him again so he could construct new frame mounts and finish welding the frame tubes. When he was done he said that it would cost me sixty dollars because it took so long. He started to explain to me the amount of time and effort it took (I was there and watched the whole thing. He worked for hours on it). Before he was through explaining the details to me I took out a one hundred dollar bill, handed it to him and thanked him very much for the excellent work he had done. I would have paid three times that much.

Late into the day I had the TRX put all back together. It was just getting dark and I was needing to ride real bad. Because of my experience that day I felt lucky to be able to ride at all. I decided I'd take it easy because I still had several more days of riding there. I made it to the ranger station when I said to myself "if it's going to break it's going to break - so screw it and go for it." WOT in the dark, all the way to vendor row without a rest in between to check for cracks. I stopped, grabbed a hamburger and looked over my bike. Everything was fine, tight and quite nifty. Nifty enough to race every day at Olds, every afternoon at Gecko and every night at Comp. About a hundred runs and seven to ten gallons of high octane race gas each day.

When things are going good - things are going good. When things go bad, things go bad. That's no big deal. What's most amazing about this is that since then there was never any reason to redo the welding that was done out there. I did replace the front two motor mounts which he had constructed because they are pieces that are available as replacements. But everything else is just as it was - I wouldn't change it because of the circumstances surrounding the way it happened. Some things are better left the way they are. History is something I always pay attention to and respect. Those welds remind me of a time when my TRX could go faster, higher, more sideways and wheelie longer than any time before it or since then. It happened that way that day.

Rick

Update - The name of the man who did the welding is Doug. Be sure to visit Sweet Marie (she really is sweet) and Welder Doug's (he really can weld) mobile shop/store which is located at the corner of Gecko road and Highway 78.

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