- 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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