Escape from LA to Mexico. Choppersarego…
We first met Todd Blubaugh in Bike April 2017 as he confronted the hardest six months of his life aboard his Harley Shovelhead. Three years on and Todd is in a better place, heading from LA to Mexico with his buddies. Dodgy taco excepted…
Ihad just returned home and so frequent were my trips to the bathroom that logic compelled me to sleep there. From the toilet, I considered thoroughly the events and decisions that brought me here... and so I tried to recall the last 72 hours in Mexico… I can’t remember why, but we got a late start. It seems no matter the prep and planning we always leave LA at the worst possible hour... between 3 and 4pm. Snake, Chris and myself were heading south for EDR (the El Diablo Run), along with 23 million other drivers. The plan was to reach San Felipe around midnight, wake up on the beach, and cross the peninsula when we got tired of the pin-coladas. We only had 72 hours before we had to be back in the city and time can go fast on a slow bike. I was already irritated by our late departure... And beyond that I just don’t like having a plan. Highway 10 is shitty all the way to Morongo every hour of every day. You must bounce along its joints for 80 miles before you see anything interesting – the windmills mark where trac finally lightens up. We filled our tanks near Brawley. It appeared to be a cattle town because the streets were lined with feed stores and agricultural vehicles. We sat on the kerb and observed the landscape while our bikes cooled. This was only May and the heat was already tremendous. I watched a few mothers come in and out of the gas station with young children. They left the store with grocery bags and I wondered why in a place filled with agriculture do people buy their family meals from a gas station? Chris spoke out in his German accent, ‘this is the real America’. He went on to explain the rural sea of conservative poverty that covers most of the state and country; Los Angeles is not the majority of California, it is a bubble that floats at the top. We crossed the border in Mexicali and said goodbye to The Real America. Border cities are distorted places. You are made to think you belong on one side and not the other, but when you cross into Mexico you are greeted pleasantly. When you cross back into your own country, however, you are interrogated. I am not a guilty person by nature but whenever I get close to the border of my own country I become nervous, even distrustful of myself. I guess in The Real America you are more welcome to leave than return.
It’s better south of the border
Wealth here appeared in different ways… smiles were one of them. There was a recognisable surge of energy on this side of the border. People of all ages walked, ate and laughed in the streets. I thought about the despondent difference between here and Brawley, where people did not smile or gather. And Mexicans’ utilities appeared more practical then ours on the other side. Most storefronts supplied a secure resource: food; drink; shoes; fuel and cell phones. The fact their basic securities were being met seemed to enliven the atmosphere. And payments seemed to be exchanged more often in pesos not credit – perhaps they simply have less debt attacking their conscience? That would certainly make most Americans smile a little more. But of course I realise the proverbial grass is always greener… and cleaner on the other side.
We stopped at what we thought was an authentic taco stand only to discover one of the best burgers I’ve ever had – made by a fella from Philly. A truck full of armed Federales pulled up and ordered while a family with two young kids (a boy and a girl, both around 8 years old) lined up behind them. The kids were enamoured with Snake’s bike and he let them climb on it like a jungle gym.
South from there and we hit the infamous speed bump of Baja. It is a well know artefact of biker lore – an unavoidable, unmarked launch ramp that covers both southbound lanes. Snake and I landed smoothly but Chris, even with suspension, did not. We backtracked after realising he was no longer with us to find his battery had ejected out the side of his Shovelhead upon takeoff. We zip tied it back in and were on our way.
Wishing on a meteor
The next stretch of Baja had no gas for 100 miles. We did not know this… so the next 70 miles were amazing. There were no vehicles and no billboards – just a perfect ribbon of good highway pointed south at the blood red Mexican moon. It felt like we were riding through a black velvet painting. Suddenly a meteor shot across the sky. I looked at Snake for a reaction just to make sure I had not imagined it. He pointed and threw up both hands confirming the incident. Then we started running out of gas. First Snake who had an extra gallon and a half, then Chris who had to use half of my spare tank, then Snake ran out again so he and I split what I had left. There was no evidence of fuel in my tank when we finally reached the gas station just outside of San Felipe.
While we were fuelling up, a fraternity of fuel-injected bikes pulled up, mostly shirtless. I say fraternity because they all appeared to be about 20 years old. One of them rode in and bumped into Chris on his Shovelhead. Chris shot him a curious look, and the kid, without an apology, or a tip of his flipped-up hat, just shrugged and pulled his bike up to the next pump. Perhaps we would share a keg stand later, but at that moment I was not impressed.
The el diablo run
The scene at EDR is a huge adjustment after our outward journey. I felt overwhelmed by the crowds and music. Part of me wanted to keep heading south but we soon found our buddy Ty (from Lucky Wheels Garage) and joined the
‘In The Real America you are more welcome to leave than return’