Just Passin' Through...

JUST PASSIN' THROUGH...

D. RANDY RIGGS

A 3000-Mile Peek Below The Border On Suzuki's RES

PEOPLE WHOSE PRIMARY passion it is to travel long distances on a motorcycle often indulge in what I call "sofa touring," a sort of derivative of bench racing. They love nothing more than to sit around with friends and talk about old trips and dream up new ones. But a lot of these new ones are nothing more than sofa tours, extravagant jaunts through the wilds of the world...letting the imagination take off and say, "What if...?" Most of these kinds of trips never go any farther than the living room sofa, but they're still fun to think about, and sometimes they give you an idea for a run that's not too far out of the question.

jilat. s icinua wiiat iiappeiieu io me last winter as I thought for awhile about riding to South America, through the Panama Canal Zone and the whole bit. But the time I had for such an excursion snapped me back to reality and a cold, hard stare at the maps. Just where could I go for a good spring ride, heading in the same general direction as Panama, with only two weeks to spare? Easy. Down the new Baja Highway to Cabo San Lucas, with a ferry trip across the Gulf of California thrown in for good measure, and a run up the Western Mexican coast to Arizona, then home ward bound to Southern California. Mileage? About 2500 to 3000 if all went according to plan. All I needed was the time and a machine.

Early spring turned into late spring; still I hadn't been able to pry myself loose from the magazine's chores and deadlines. Then the powers that be came up with a surprise. "Hey, you know that trip you've been wanting to take to Mexico? Well, there's a Suzuki Rotary being delivered with a complete touring package. Why don't you head south on that?" Whatever you say, gang.

Now 600-pound motorcycles are not my idea of the best way to get around

on two whee's, any more than 5000 pounds of automobile is my way of traveling on four. Motorcycles that size, however, are usually nice and comforta ble, so I wasn't going to argue.

A call to Suzuki was in order. "Guess I'd better have a few spare parts for Mexico.. .don't think there's an abun dance of dealers down that way." Basic ally, I wanted a couple of cables and plugs, some spare bulbs and assorted odds and ends. I wound up with every thing from radiator coolant to aerosol flat-tire fixer. "Terrific, but where do I put my gear?"

No problem there either. This RE had the touring package that consists of a full fairing and windshield, complete with storage compartments, a luggage rack with mounted trunk and two sad dlebags, all made from fiberglass. If this wasn't going to be enough room for my junk, then without a doubt I should've been traveling by car. I wound up strapping on a Baja Bag behind me and a Corona Tank Bag on the fuel tank to hold my maps and the items I'd have to get to often and easily.

Since I had spent a great deal of time on RE5s in the past, I knew I wouldn't be up to a lengthy jaunt on the hard standard seat. To ease the pain, I got a JML Products Travel Ease Water Cushion and decided to give it a try. Installation took only minutes and, as I found out later, was definitely worth the effort. Curiously, while I was at Suzuki picking up my spare parts, I got to see the prototype seat update, which is far thicker and felt much better than the present one.

The machine situation was definitely in order. I had the necessary spares, the comfort-related items, and could deal with most minor emergencies short of a head-on collision with a rabid goat.

Next on the worry list was insurance; if you do collide with that rabid goat and don `t have insurance issued by a company licensed to transact insurance in the Republic of Mexico, you will go to jail, unless you have money on the spot to pay for the damages. And it doesn't matter whether or not you are at fault. Jail anywhere is not a laughing matter, but particularly so in tortilla land. Buy insurance, although you'll probably not be able to get theft protec tion on a motorcycle. Apparently quite a few are stolen in Mexico, so carry a big chain and a hardened lock, and install a burglar alarm for added safety. I used a Dualock Alarm and Cable, which will be the subject of a CYCLE WORLD Product Evaluation in the near future.

You'll also need a tourist card if you plan to stay more than 72 hours or go into the interior sections of the country. I find the AAA Clubs very helpful in this type of trip planning. They'll line you up with maps and all the details for entering Mexico. In Baja a vehicle per mit is not needed, but it is on the mainland. They can be obtained at any port of entry along the border and are free. Certain enterprising Mexican offi cials have been known to charge for these permits, so watch your step. -

Actually, watching your step is a byword for travel in any part of this territory. Perhaps that's part of the appeal that lures many of us to cross its borders, which mark immediate differ ences in nearly all aspects of everyday life as we know it in the U.S. And that is why it's also a good idea to ride along with a buddy on a trip such as this. CW's editor, Bob Atkinson, volunteered for this one; he would ride our long term evaluation Kawasaki KZ400. We equipped it with several items from AMCO: a tank bag, crash bars, luggage rack, backrest and tote bag.

Departing the Friday just before the Baja 500, we made a last raid on all the drugstores in the area, stocking up on Terramycin, Kaopectate and Lomotil, and wishing fervently that we'd never have to use any of it.

The hour-long trip from my home in Laguna Niguel to San Diego on the Rotary in the early morning coastal overcast was uneventful. Bob and I ate and drank what was to be our last American food and water for quite awhile. I savored every last bit, too, wondering what gastronomic peril lay just beyond the border.

Getting into Mexico can be a lot easier than getting out, and we were waved quickly through the crossing by a couple of bored and paunchy guards who probably never realized we were on motorcycles. Any daydreaming I may have been up to was halted in an instant as I filtered into busy Tijuana traffic on the Suzy-Q, which now stuck out amid the derelict trucks, buses and ancient Chevies like a kangaroo in a ladies room.

Maybe it was the metallic blue paint, maybe it was the windshield and all the accessories, but whatever it was, the Suzuki had the Mexicans stopping what they were doing and staring at the passing motorcycle with amazing curiosity. I know one particular bus driver stopped what he was doing (which was driving) when he saw me and the Suzuki, because another foot and we would have nailed each other rather spectacularly. Perhaps the driver was without blame; after all, could I do better driving that particular bus, which was 25 years old, on its sixth engine (not necessarily rebuilt), with a passenger capacity of 32 and carrying 54, not including the six chickens, two pigs and the vicious parrot a wino from Ensenada had on his shoulder? I think not, especially when you take time to consider the five recapped recaps that would burst in an instant if the brakes were applied with any force, were there any brakes, which would leave him hopelessly stranded in the middle of noon hour T.J. traffic without a jack or spare recap. . . .

Again this could increase his susceptibility to the greasy offerings of weekold enchiladas from that lady passenger, the one who is hoping to meet up with her aunt from Hermosillo, not to mention the Indian who’s been trying to sell him a puppet of Pancho Tequila. And speaking of tequila, don’t forget that bottle of Jose Cuervo he keeps stashed under the wooden crate he calls a driver’s seat, of which he hasn’t been able to sneak a drop in nearly 15 minutes. Add to these considerations the fact that seeing out of the front windows of the bus could only be accomplished by sticking his head out the side window and peering around the blue angora fur pom-pom balls and the attempt at red pinstriping made by Juan, his third cousin, twice removed. Juan figured that the red striping might, in fact, hide the broken glass in the windshield, and if it didn’t, painting “Gonzales Gonzales,” the driver’s name, in white certainly would.

Let’s just say that on this particular day in Tijuana, the effectiveness of Gonzales Gonzales’ plastic Jesus, handlettered “Hail Marys” and masking-tape crucifix on the right windshield was tested. . .and found to work. Gonzales missed me.

We followed the signs that said “Ensenada Toll Road” and eventually Bob and I were rolling down it at 80 mph. The road is good, the tolls are cheap, and Ensenada comes up quickly. We ate lunch at the new El Presidente Hotel there, and it was becoming apparent that things are getting quite expensive in Baja. There are still bargains to be had in most of the border towns as far as items like leather goods and pottery go, but the essentials like food and lodging are quite a bit higher than in the past.

Our first contact with Mexican officials was at the check station just below Maneadero. This was a familiar stop for Bob and I, since we go through the check on our dirt machines when we off-road it in Baja.

One simply has to admire the method by which one of these cervezabellied gentlemen examines a document such as a tourist card. He may eye your presence for a few moments through a half-opened eye, at which point he’ll grunt once or twice, which means, “Gimme your tourist card.” Now mind you, this man looks at hundreds of these papers as part of his daily routine, but I have yet to see one who didn’t look at mine as though it were forged, counterfeit and totally false. At this point I usually get nervous and hand him my passport, which seems to have about as much effect as handing him a piece of Double Bubble. Finally, after what seems like hours, he’ll reach for his stamp, which he pounds several times on each copy, eventually handing me back the one I must carry with me. Feeling like a saved spy, I stumble clumsily away and get out of the man’s sight as quickly as possible, trying not to look suspicious.

We make a stop for fuel in a small town and Bob suddenly becomes the target for a handout. While he tries his best to refuse without making anyone unhappy, the remainder of the stumblebums around the pumps come close to inspect the Rotary. One man exclaims to his friends that the speedometer says 160 mph. Naturally they all assume that the Suzuki will go that fast. Sure, out the cargo door of a C5A at 30,000 feet. . .maybe. But down Mexico’s Highway 1, about an indicated 107 is where it signs off. Even considering the drastic speedometer error at these speeds, the big Suzuki motors down the highway at a very respectable rate, especially when you remember the fairing and the added weight of luggage and accessories.

Atter several hundred miles, what was impressing me most about the machine was its astounding stability and eagerness ot response in cornering. Through bendy switchbacks 1 could run the Suzuki into the turn very hard and flop it down aggressively when it was time to turn. Try a move such as this on many bikes and they’ll wiggle and try to wobble themselves and rider right into the pavement. And there was no fear of dragging or scraping appendages; virtually the only limit to lean angles on the

RE is tire adhesion , a rare —and pleasing-feature on a bike of this type. At times, the RE5 will lull the rider into a sensation of traveling on rails it is so stable and smooth, particularly on the long Baja road stretches.

The Baja Peninsula offers much in the way of varied beauty, and the change is dramatic from winter to summer. I’m especially fond of the desert, and this one abounds in such treats as circio trees, cantu palms, ocotillo, cardon and sagaro cactus. Even lush pine torests can be found in portions of this country. In the past, in order to enjoy this beauty, one had to ride a dirt bike, hike or four-wheel-drive it. But now that the highway has been completed, much oí Baja becomes accessible to the motorhome, car or street motorcycle.

And that, of course, worries me. In fact, if I really wanted to be selfish and not encourage more visitors to the area, I shouldn't be writing this article, though my true wish is to share it with other motorcycle people. Take it from me, Baja is worth the effort, and now is the time to see it, before things change too drastically down there. Change is coming, a perfect example being the new and lavish El Presidente Hotel chain, financed by the Mexican government.

There are plans for several of these all over Baja; many are not yet completed, but will be in the near future. We spent a night at one in Santa Ines and inspected yet another at Guerro Negro. There is everything that you would expect from a first-rate American motel, with the exception of television and Muzak, and the prices for lodging and meals are about what they would run in the U.S. at a top-notch establishment. Atkinson and I were charged $28 for one night in a double room, which was equipped with such accouterments as hot shower, proper stationery, and mattresses that didn’t bend in the middle. We didn’t try the pool, though it looked inviting, and everyone was quite friendly and eager to please.

Don’t, however, expect to have people jumping at the snap of your fingers anywhere in Mexico. This is particularly true of waiters and the aforementioned federales. Waiters, in particular, have an exquisite knack of delaying everything when they sense that you are in any sort of a rush. And they can sense it like gifted ’coon dogs.

Park yourself in the relaxed atmosphere of an open-air restaurant, and let’s just say that you have a mild case of the blind nibblies. The old stomach is just beginning to growl and your mind is using those impulses from the olfactory nerves to its best advantage. The waiter spots you, skids around a corner and delivers a tall, cool glass of ice water to the table and vanishes before you can even begin the utterances of a clumsy gracias. Oh well. The menu is probably on its way. Sure bet. And you can beat Jimmy Connors in a tennis match too.

So you reach for the glass of cooling liquid that is at your fingertips and are about to let it glide down your parched throat when you remember that wondrous axiom: “Don’t drink the water!” The thought hits you like a 14-in. crescent wrench in the forehead. To think that you were only a split second away from the dreaded Mexican peril.

Fifteen minutes later the menu is accidentally placed before you. Taking full advantage of the situation, you seize it like a ravenous lion. Of course, all the delights of Mexican dining are printed there before you, and not a one sounds anything less than sumptuous. However, in your hungered haste, you order too authentically from the first mesero who happens by, which is a point taken to heart when the initial large mouthful is gulped down. The selection, which was euphemistically labeled a la mexicana, is saturated quite thoroughly with mole verde, and you’ll remember the moment vividly for the next two weeks. Mesero Julian, of course, has not as yet delivered your Coca Cola, so there is no choice but to drown the fire with what you assume to be contaminated H2O, which turns out not to work anyway. Zucaro you fool. . .you should have used zucaro! Sugar is the only remedy for alimentary tracts set ablaze by mole verde.

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Suzuki

RE5

$3044.40

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You manage to recover sufficiently to wolf down the beans and rice that have thankfully escaped the wash of mole verde by virtue of their being served on a separate plate. By now an hour and a half has passed, and you’re waiting impatiently for the check.

But it doesn’t come and you never lay eyes on your mesero again. Perhaps he has taken a vacation. Again you must accost yet another mesero, this time demanding la cuenta. And you get it in time. . .a long time usually.

At which point you wonder.

You wonder why you ever left the U.S., why you’ve subjected yourself to the seemingly indifferent proprietors, why you’ve tormented your palate and no doubt allowed the famed bacteria turista to enter the very innards of your susceptible system. The Mexicans then wonder about the strange gringos, while you go about wondering about the Mexicans. The point is, one must remember that he is no longer in the U.S. and think about doing things their way, not the way he is accustomed to. With that in mind, the trip becomes much more enjoyable.

Once Atkinson and I started across the peninsula at Guerrero Negro, the temperature started climbing and the air became more humid. Past San Ignacio I had to take a break; the hot air blowing out of the RE radiator was literally baking me. The fairing kept the cooler frontal air from reaching me, all I was getting was radiator air. If the optional fairing were designed with detachable lower panels, it would be far more satisfactory for summer use. Then in winter the panels could be bolted back.

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My temporary solution was to duct tape my spare helmet face shields in position to act as deflectors for the hot air. Without the makeshift shields, it would have been impossible to continue in the 100-degree weather. I left the shields in place all the way back to California.

By the time we got to La Paz, after a night’s rest in Loreto, there was a decision to be made. Should we go on to Cabo San Lucas or take the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlan? The problem rested with the ferry schedules. The Cabo San Lucas/Puerta Vallaría run happens only twice a week, while La Paz to Mazatlan trips are made everyday except Monday. So in the interest of time, we decided not to go farther south, but to take the next available ferry, which turned out to be one of the highlights of the entire trip.

The ships are new and one can travel first-class or tourist and ship his vehicle along with him down below. A firstclass cabin, which includes a shower and very comfortable quarters, along with passage across the Gulf, runs about $32 in U.S. currency. The motorcycles made the 15-hour run for $7 each. Air conditioning makes the trip across the humid summer Gulf far more bearable. And if you’re eager, there are generally memorable sunsets and sunrises to view from the deck or first-class restaurant windows.

Changes from Baja to the mainland were dramatic. Suddenly there were far more people, and traffic density picked up accordingly. Roads were in worse shape, due mostly to the high rate of truck and bus traffic. By this time road grime had made its mark on the big Suzuki. Gas mileage climbed marginally as speeds dropped from the 80 or so average we were running on the smooth and lightly traveled highway in Baja. At every second fuel stop I would check chain adjustment and lubricate it with Bel-Ray Chain Lube. We had blocked the automatic chain oiler. The only hassle doing the chain or checking the oil was getting help each time the machine was put on the centerstand, a two-man job. Suzuki should redesign it, along with the sidestand, which allows the bike to lean too far to the left.

At roughly 1000 miles into the trip, the Rotary started consuming what I felt was an excessive amount of oil from the sump. The oil tank, which supplies yet another lubrication system, required only two quarts to the sump’s six, for an average of nearly three quarts of oil per 1000 miles of riding. Gas mileage was hanging between 28 and 32 mpg.

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Mazatlan was about what we expected, a dirty town with a nice beach and lots of tourists. Good place for a little R&R, though a poor place to sample the true-blue Mexico. But a detour into any small town or down any side road will solve that problem in a hurry. At times it’s almost like going into the past, where some communities live quite primitively.

Sticking primarily to the mainland’s Highway 15, we spent nights in Los Mochis and Bahia de San Carlos. Riding was done only during daylight hours, as there are many animals on the roads at night, particularly cows and the like. If someone found it necessary to ride at night in Mexico, we’d recommend some high-power quartz lights to help out a standard headlight. The latest REs have headlight switches that are fixed in place so the rider can’t turn the light off and on. It stays on whenever the ignition is on, a feature I detest. But if one removes the Phillips-head screw on the thumb knob, it’ll come off, at which point one can clip off the tab molded to its bottom. When reinstalled, the switch can be operated in the normal manner.

Just before Hermosillo we ran into the marijuana check we had heard so much about. There are all sorts of horror stories about these checks and many of them are very true. The best advice is to be clean and watch the police carefully should they search your belongings. The more unscrupulous ones have been known to “plant” evidence in luggage in order to attempt monetary bribes. Be alert and be cool.

When the Suzuki and I crossed back into the U.S. at Nogales, I was both relieved and unsatisfied. The trip was nearly over, yet I had not seen what I had set out to, Cabo San Lucas and Puerto Vallaría. Sometimes it happens that way, but it’ll be a good excuse to use when I want to go back someday. . . and I will, on a motorcycle, of course. Those looking for adventure and new experiences on two wheels would be well advised to head south of the border at least once during their riding days. Baja is my preference over the mainland side of Mexico, because of the rugged beauty and lack of population. Either way, however, will give you lots to talk about on that living room sofa. . .especially if Gonzales Gonzales happens into view...