TAMING BAJA (the uncut version)
By Kimberley Walker
Photos courtesy Mike Spangler
January/February 2007




“YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENCOUNTER A MOST INCREDIBLE ADVENTURE.
You must be alert that there are many cows, calves, bulls, horses, and goats roaming freely on and around the course. All competitors are reminded that off-road racing is an inherently dangerous activity that can result in serious injury or even death. Be advised that spectators on or near the racecourse may engage in malicious activities by building ramps, digging ditches, and placing objects on the course. Once the race starts – you’re on your own, or in other words, the lunatics will, indeed, be running the asylum.”

These are the words of Sal Fish, CEO of SCORE International, speaking about the Tecate Baja 1000

It all got started over a few beers and some vodka Red Bulls. Larry Nash, pro-class, off-road racer for White Knuckle Racing Team, had just received news that his partner and largest sponsor was sitting out for the Baja 1000 this year. I asked him what I could do to help. He chuckled and said, “Thanks Kimberly, but this is the Baja 1000, the NASCAR of off-road racing, and the most dangerous race in the world. Chicks just don’t do it …”

Two months later, I was in Ensenada at the starting line of the Baja 1000 with fellow racers Larry Nash, Roy Ogden, Mike Kyle, Tijim Mahan, and Mike Spangler. Our Class 12 race was about to begin. Neck brace, check. Kidney belt, check. Fire suit, check. Helmet, check. Oxygen, check. Radio transmitter, check. Depends™ (my version of the catheter), check. GPS, check.

The Baja 1000 is known as the world’s most prestigious and difficult race. Some teams race year after year without ever crossing the finish, and each year at least one driver or crew member will lose his life in that effort. This year, 431 vehicles from 38 states and 12 countries were slated to cross the starting line. Everything from multi million-dollar racing teams to Volkswagen Bugs held together with zip ties lined up to start from the same place with the same goal: to travel the 1,047.81 miles to the finish line in La Paz.

The starting line was overwhelming. With 300,000 spectators lining the course, the thunderous rev of hundreds of off-road engines, and cameras flashing at us from every angle, I’m surprised I didn’t break in my “diaper” during the first few miles of the course.

The cars started 30 seconds apart, each leaving behind a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Virtual blindness at 70 mph was my first real taste of the race that would envelope the next 32 hours of my life. Traveling in dust clouds meant spending a lot of time accidentally off course, which also meant falling off a five foot structure, running over cactuses, knocking down cattle guards, and flying over mounds of dirt.

Theoretically, hazards such as these are avoidable since they are marked with a skull and crossbones on the GPS, but that’s only if you stay entirely on course. It was one of these mounds of dirt that we got stuck on for the first time. My job was to dig us out and then push the car as my partner attempted to drive out of it. After a few unsuccessful attempts and being covered in pounds of dirt, I enlisted the help of a wandering spectator who enthusiastically came over with his whole family to push us off the mound. After 15 minutes of jacking, digging, pushing, and shoving, we were back in the race.

Each team has a support crew, usually following the race vehicle from pit stop to pit stop, performing any maintenance needed to continue. In addition to a couple of chase vehicles, we also had a chase chopper, which proved to be an invaluable asset throughout the race, our angels in the sky guiding the way through nasty silt beds, pile ups, and dusty salt flats.

At mile 177, after defeating some of the roughest terrain of the course, we lost our power steering. With the dark desert night quickly approaching, the helicopter landed, we switched out driving teams, and we chased Team 2 to the next pit stop at mile marker 866. The buggy now needed to complete the remaining 900 miles through mud holes, silt beds, 35 water crossings, long hill climbs, and the blinding dust thrown up by fellow competitors – without power steering. The team members hurled themselves into the void of the Mexican desert navigating for Larry Nash who drove an astounding 20 hours, almost 700 miles through the night. By the time the buggy arrived at mile marker 866, it had sporadically lost its lights, suffered ignition failure, been stuck in the mud for over an hour, lost one of its brakes, and run out of gas.

Once back in the car, the course seemed much easier since the cars had spread out taking their dust trails with them. We didn’t get stuck until the last major silt bed, but, thanks to a couple of enterprising locals, we were tied up and pulled out in less than 10 minutes for the bargain price of $20.

Fifteen miles to the finish line, in the absolute darkness of the desolate Mexican dessert, we had one more hurdle to overcome: traveling down a hazard-ridden, single-track mountain with almost no lights, no radio, no power steering, and practically no brakes. As we carefully made our way down the track, the car shut off. The starter had died. In the distance, a truck was flying down the mountain heading straight for us. I followed a bit of advice given to me by our pit crew: “When you’re stuck, just take off your helmet, smile, and ask for help.” The damsel in distress card was about to come in handy. I ran up the course waving the pro-truck down and asked for help. The driver bumped us down the mountain until the familiar roar of the engine exhaled from the car, and we were back in the race headed to the finish line.
By 8:30 p.m., almost 32 hours from our start time, we drove across the finish line of our first Baja 1000. We were one of only 237 vehicles out of 431 to actually cross the finish line, and we finished 11th place in our class.

At the finish line party, our team zealously recalled the details of every breakdown, hazard, jump, and water crossing. Given the opportunity and a good night’s rest, we would have repeated every moment of the entire journey the next morning. The last 32 hours made each of us stronger, more alive, and a little more intimate with the mystical desert we had just conquered.

Until next year, Baja. Vroom Vroom.

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