From the June 2000 issue of Cycle World. “The best thing about Baja,” photographer Jeff Allen said just before our trip, “is that the U.S. doesn’t own it. Otherwise, it would be ruined.” Not everyone who visits this half-wild 1000-mile peninsula appended to the bottom of California norte would agree. But I do. I know exactly what he means. When you cruise down the freeways of Southern California, it sometimes seems our culture has evolved into nothing more than an opportunity to shop. You pass hundreds of car dealerships, chain restaurants and malls, repeated every few miles like microchips on a computer board. There’s a growing sameness that numbs the mind. Mine, anyway. South of the border, things are different. Predictability falls away and you re-enter an older version of the world in which life is a place where anything can happen. Architecture seems to have been built without the benefit of a straight edge, cars have more dents and street-smart dogs trot along and cross the highway. (Some fail.) No restaurant looks like any other, and the food seems homemade. There’s dust and smoke in the air and the sunlight looks different, like a memory of the Old West on fading Kodachrome. Personally, I love the place. I first explored Baja California almost 20 years ago, on a series of off-road motorcycle trips. Wanting to see more, I took a three-week Jeep trip in 1986 with my buddy Pat Donnelly, driving a CJ-7 all the way to the tip of Baja on dirt roads and trails. We camped in open army cots under the stars and drank tequila around campfires on balmy desert nights. After that, I took my wife Barbara down to explore Baja in the same spirit that you introduce two good friends who have never met, and we camped at the El Marmol ghost town built around an old onyx mine. All good times, but I hadn’t been back for 10 years. So When Beau Pacheco, former editor of Big Twin, now heading up Harley content for Cycle World’s special-publications department, called me in the depths of February and asked if I would like to get out of the Wisconsin winter for a week and ride a new Harley with a sidecar down into Baja, I almost laughed out loud at the sheer musicality of those words: “Harley”…”Sidecar”…”Baja.” He might have thrown “margaritas” and “sunshine” and “enchiladas” in there, but he didn’t have to. Some things are implied. One word that did catch me a little off-guard, however, was sidecar. When Beau phoned, I had actually been in the act of examining the new 2000 Harley-Davison sales brochure, which shows an FLHTCUI Ultra Classic with sidecar, complete, as part of the current product line. Price? A heady $30,000. It looked like fun, but my experience in driving one of these rigs was pretty limited. I’d driven one briefly about 18 years ago–just long enough to find out how weird they can be when you have no idea what you’re doing. And to learn they handle better with some weight in the car. 
“Will anyone be riding with?” I asked. “My son Travis, who’s a captain in the Air Force, is on leave right now and he’d like to go along. Jeff Allen and I will take the company van down with all Jeff’s camera equipment and meet you guys along the way for pictures. Travis speaks fluent Spanish. Also, he fits in the sidecar better than I do.” Perfect. A week later I was standing at the CW office in Newport Beach, helmet in hand, at 4:30 a.m. I shook hands with Travis, a friendly, easy-going guy (always a plus around amateur sidecar pilots), and asked if he would mind letting me do the first leg of the trip alone. The idea was that if I survived all the way to El Rosario without killing myself–or others–I would then be unofficially qualified to “give rides.” Travis didn’t seem to mind this suggestion at all. So with my duffel bag and a few gallons of drinking water in the sidecar for ballast, we lurched and weaved onto the road, o’dark early on a foggy, misty morning. A sidecar, of course, is not like any other vehicle. It doesn’t–as some have suggested–exist halfway between a motorcycle and a car; it’s simply a Third Way. It lacks all the saving dynamic virtues of both bikes and cars, so driving one (“riding” seems an inadequate verb) is an art form unto itself. In right turns, the car feels as though it wants to lift and flip over on you, while the motorcycle itself leans and groans vertiginously outward in defiance of all sound motorcycling instinct. In left turns… well, it doesn’t want to turn left. It prefers to go straight and can be made to change its mind only through brute force on the handlebars. Until you get used to it, both motions set off primitive alarm bells in your brain that Something Is Going Wrong, inducing the occasional cold sweat.
“Time doesn't quite stand still in Baja, but you have the feeling here that clocks are ticking at a much slower rate than our own, and that eras somehow seamlessly overlap.In straight-line cruising, inertia and wind want to hold the car back, so you have to keep a steady pressure on the right bar to hold it straight. In hard downhill braking, the car wants to circle the bike, unless you use plenty of rear brake–which on the Harley, is linked to a nicely effective disc brake on the outer wheel of the car. In other words, it’s more work than riding a motorcycle. But once you get used to the rig, you begin to relax and it becomes fun. It’s simply a unique and refined skill, like flying an airplane, or playing the dulcimer with a sledgehammer. After a sunrise blast through the growing commuter traffic of San Diego, we were waved through the border station into Tijuana, town of tacky hillside dwellings and business signs in lively Aztec shades of purple and yellow and red. We swung along the coast and took cuota, or toll road, down toward Ensenada, the excellent four-lane highway following seacoast cliffs with spectacular views of the crashing surf. We cruised through the port town of Ensenada, a favorite old weekend haunt for Barb and me when we lived in California. We’d come down to eat grilled garlic shrimp, have a few margaritas and walk around at night in the sea breeze. The first time we came here the thing that impressed me most was the dignified reserve of the merchants in the shops. In so many of the world’s tourist marketplaces–Tangiers or New Delhi, for instance–people get in your face and haggle loud and hard. But Mexicans leave you alone until you decide to buy something and then they will, perhaps, bargain quietly. In Ensenada, it’s generally the Americans who seem loud. Once you get away from the turmoil of the border towns, there is an Old World politeness and modest serenity to the culture that forces you to slow down a bit yourself. It’s one of the reasons I like Baja. People are calm and friendly. Even the children are nice. South of Ensenada you climb into the spine of the mountains that defines the whole peninsula and then descend into a valley of agricultural towns–Santo Tomas, Colonet, Camalu–sprawled along the highway in strips. These are not tourist places, but hard-working towns that smell like diesel and herbicides, with trash scattered everywhere. In America, we tend to gather all our trash in one place and then bury it. In this part of Mexico they produce much less trash, but they prefer to spread it out in a wide grid, so there is at least one empty bleach bottle, beer can or plastic bag about every six inches. It’s all a part of what Jeff Allen calls the STDP, or “Strategic Trash Distribution Program.”
But as you head south in Baja, the towns seem to get neater, cleaner and more charming, and by the time you get to El Rosario, 217 miles south of the border, things are looking good. We got fuel in El Rosario at a Pemex station, at 22 pesos (about $2) per gallon. Some stations have both 93- and 87-octane unleaded, but most have just the 87, which is not exactly rocket fuel. It is, in fact, a carefully formulated mixture of dishwater and special knock enhancers. Within minutes my Ultra Glide was pinging like a steel-drum band I once heard in Jamaica. I had to go light on the throttle and shift down a gear to keep it happy, especially on hills–and with a passenger. Yes, having survived 200 miles of freeway and mountain roads without hitting Armco or oncoming trucks, the Reign of Terror was apparently over and the sidecar was open for business. I moved all baggage to the saddlebags and Travis folded himself into the sidecar–a reasonably comfortable press fit. Travis was heavier than my luggage, so the car handled better in right turns, but wanted to understeer a little more turning left. Otherwise there wasn’t much change, except for added uphill pinging. And there were plenty of hills. South of El Rosario, the road cuts inland, winding through the heart of the central mountains and into some of the most beautiful and surreal landscape on Earth. It’s a 100-mile-long band of genuine Sonoran desert strewn with huge boulders, giant saguaro cactus and the magical “Boojum” trees of Baja. Known to the locals as cirio (or candle) trees, these strange plants look like colossal inverted carrots, with a single small flower on the tip, like the bow in Zippy’s hair. Assuming fantastic shapes, they can grow to be 20 feet tall or more, and they exist nowhere else on the planet. A Baja trademark.
“With the sun setting, we slanted southeast and dropped into a sudden green valley that hides one of Baja's most charming old colonial towns, San Ignacio. Built around a quiet, shaded square with a well-preserved mission church, the town is literally an oasis.When you camp here at night, the Boojum trees actually seem to move in the moonlight, taking small steps toward your campfire. No paranoia in my family. Despite the poor gas, the Harley Twin Cam 88 did remarkably well at hauling a loaded sidecar through the central mountains–better than the Evo motor on my old Road King would have done. The Twin Cammer revs smoothly to its 5500-rpm redline, so you can lean on it a little bit when you want to move out into traffic, or pass a truck before an uphill curve. It’s not scintillating, but just fast enough. In truth, the sidecar has a strange “retro-izing” effect on the Electra Glide. The side forces add a few creaks, groans and rattles that Harleys haven’t had for years, and also slow the bike down to about late-Shovelhead performance levels. Add a little more transmission clunkiness from the sidecar load and the Ultra Glide seems almost backdated to the old FLH Heritage I rode up the coast in 1982 But somehow it all fits with the sidecar theme, and idea that comes to us more through a sense of nostalgia than cold logic. With the sun setting, we gassed up at Guerrero Negro, then slanted southeast across high desert and dropped down into a sudden green valley that hides one of Baja’s most charming old colonial towns, San Ignacio. Built around a quiet, shaded square with a large and well-preserved mission church, the town is literally an oasis, a well-watered grove of palm and date trees that looks more like the Biblical Nile than the desert southwest. We got in late, checking into a nice motel called La Pinta, with an interior courtyard built around a pool. There, we hooked up with Beau and Jeff, who had just arrived in the van. We were a little hungry (i.e., starting to admire roadkill), but it was just after 9 p.m. and the hotel manager informed us that all the local restaurants were closed. “But wait,” she said “let me make one phone call.”
Miraculously, a restaurant called Rice & Beans, just down the road, agreed to fire up its kitchen again for us and turn the lights back on. We had our best meal of the trip, while the owner, an upbeat entrepreneur named Ricardo Romo Cota, joined us. Ricardo’s hospitality turned us into loyal customers, and we ate nearly all our meals there for the next two days. Ricardo’s fine margarita’s didn’t hurt our loyalty, either, and seemed to enhance our sense of cosmic oneness with the mild desert evenings. We spent a day of rest and exploration in San Ignacio, touring the church, checking out the stores (full of real goods, not just souvenirs) and hiking around the hills near the town. We stood on a ridge overlooking the mission square and Jeff said, “Except for the occasional car or motorcycle that rolls through town, I’ll bet this place doesn’t look any different than it did 300 years ago.” Walking down to the shady plaza we found Beau and Travis sitting on a park bench, smoking cigars and looking pensively at the mission church. Beau said, “This church was built in 1773…think of the weddings…” Nothing like a little dose of permanence to calm the mind and lower the heart rate. Time doesn’t quite stand still in Baja, but you have the feeling here that clocks are ticking at a much slower rate than our own, and that eras somehow seamlessly overlap. Even now, Pancho Villa could come riding into San Ignacio on his own famous old Indian and nothing would look out of place.
“If you can trust the person driving the motorcycle, a sidecar is the place to be. It's like a cross between a carnival ride and a low-flying biplane, but with a perspective on space and speed you never get from either. It’s addicting.Late that afternoon, we ended up giving local children rides around the square, their faces almost wild with joy. The same little girl and boy kept turning up over an over again for another ride. Funny, but we never would have done this in the U.S., not withstanding the nervous parents standing by and giving permission. Lawsuits, you know. In small-town Mexico, the kids are free to be children. Before we left San Ignacio, Beau gave me a ride in the sidecar, so I could see what it was like. No wonder the kids didn’t want to get out. If you can trust the person driving the motorcycle, a sidecar is the place to be. It’s like a cross between a carnival ride and a low-flying biplane, but with a perspective on space and speed you never get from either. It’s addicting. The next morning I came outside and found Beau in a heated argument with the hotel manager. Seems Beau had heard a dog crying piteously somewhere and discovered a wriggling cement sack in the back of a pickup truck. He untied the bag and found a small puppy inside. With large paws and big brown eyes. It turned out the pup was about to be “disappeared” because there were too many stray dogs in the neighborhood. Beau told the manager what he thought of people who toss small dogs into rivers, and announced he would take the mutt home with him. Which he did. This, Travis sagely pointed out, was the exact fulfillment of the term “lucky dog.” Before leaving, we had our mandatory dose of huevos con chorizo and then headed north on a sunny, windy day. Mileage had not been great, even under calm conditions (25 mpg or so), and it sank to about 20 mpg with a stiff headwind. With the Electra Glide’s 5-gallon tank, I flat ran out of gas after 110 miles and coasted into a Pemex station with the engine sputtering to a stop. By late afternoon we rolled into our motel at Catavina. This little town isn’t much more than a few houses, a nice motel and a closed-down gas station. We had to buy fuel from an enterprising old gent who was selling the stuff from 5-gallon jerrycans out of the back of his battered pickup, at a 50-cent markup.
Catavina may not be much of a town, but it’s nestled in the most beautiful part of northern Baja, and the surrounding countryside looks like a vast rock garden of giant cactus and pure white desert sand. At night we took a desert moonlight cigar-smoking hike and found ourselves under the pure industrial-diamond black sky of Baja. You could clearly see the Milky Way, and about a thousand more stars than you can near the ambient light of civilizations. This brilliant display set off a deep discussion in which we all revealed how little we know about the constellations. Without the Big Dipper to lean on, we’d have been out of luck. The problem is, Orion’s belt doesn’t mean much to us any more, as a visual symbol. What we need is a constellation called Sonny Barger’s Panhead, or maybe Cassiopeia’s Barcalounger. Something modern. Our last day on the road, we motored north into growing clouds and patches of drizzle. The Ultra bat-wing fairing and lowers kept most of the moisture off, so I didn’t have to break out the rainsuit. Travis reported weather protection in the sidecar was pretty good as well, except for a little wind buffeting at the sides of his head. In Ensenada, we found a vet who could give Beau’s new dog the necessary shots and certificates, but he was still worried the U.S. Customs agents might take her away for some reason, or put her in quarantine. As a smuggling experiment, we tried putting the dog in the dark, carpeted baggage compartment behind the seat in the sidecar and starting the engine just to see if she could relax in there. She immediately started yelping, quite audibly, over all the engine noise. “It won’t work,” I told Beau. “They’re gonna wonder why our sidecar is howling.” In the end, we needn’t have worried. Traffic was backed up at the Tijuana border station for an hour, and the overloaded customs officials waved Beau and Jeff’s van through without question, complete with dog. These poor guys had their hands full; the border is out of control.
“As a smuggling experiment, we tried putting the dog in the sidecar's baggage compartment. She immediately began yelping, quite audibly, over all the engine noise. "This won't work," I told Beau. "They're going to wonder why our sidecar is howling."It was early evening when we got back to the office in Newport Beach, the Harley still running like a clock–and much happier on American unleaded. It had been a long day in the saddle, but I wasn’t really tired. Between the wide fairing, cushy seat, comfortable bars and well-located floorboards, the Ultra Classic is, hands down, the most comfortable place I have ever spent four days seated. Also, I’d gotten used to the sidecar. The learning curve was over; the tension gone. By the time we got home, its presence was not much more novel than the right half of your car when you’re driving. I still cornered a little slower, but I did it automatically rather than experimentally. It got easy. And fun Also, you can drive off steep road shoulders or through sand and gravel without thinking about it, and you don’t have to put your foot down when you stop. In slow traffic, that’s more of a luxury than you’d think. You get spoiled. I’d still rather ride a plain motorcycle, without sidecar, on most trips. But if I had any incentive to have one at all–a bum leg, extra kids, beer keg duty, a passenger who’s not comfortable on the rear seat, etc.–I’d be perfectly happy to travel with a sidecar. There’s more to it than just roads and maps and reaching your destination. It’s a kind of time travel, really. Especially in Baja.
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