Dune Quest

Dune Quest

In Search of Adventure

JIMMY LEWIS

IT HAS TO RANK AS ONE OF MY TOP TEN RIDING experiences. I planned it as another nothin' trip, a Jimmy-&-Company-go-riding adventure, like so many others. This time, Honda's Johnny Campbell, winner of a bunch of Baja l000s, came along. Add one dose of star power. Also in tow, staff photographer Jeff Allen, but only because he really wanted to go. Fine by me, he could snap a picture when needed. Hey, that sorta makes this work, right boss?

So, where did we go? It wouldn’t take much for you * to figure it out, but like those secret spots in the surfing I magazines, I’m not telling.

Okay, a clue. From SoCal, it’s more than a truck’s j tank of gas away. We were in search of desolation and I excitement-a certain North African solitude without J the terrorizing sidelights of warring nations with land^ mine problems.

g Timing is everything, and the quick-approaching J summer heat had a way of kicking this trip into gear.

I First, some research on the area, weather trends and I contact with others who had explored this zone. One j group of hearty trekkers in Unimog 4x4s even invited I us to tag along, serving as our refueling rigs and chuck wagons. I didn’t make that trip, but will in the future.

My GPS loaded with vital waypoints-the few towns we thought might have gas, various roads, railroads and I the all-important city with hotels-Johnny, Jeff and I J cracked it early and found a way into this sea of sand.

I But it wasn’t easy. A gale-force wind was blowing up a j haze-like ground layer, limiting visibility and making § the GPS an even more useful tool. Fortunately, after four 5 Dakar Rallies I’m instrument-rated! A flat gravel road j became ever softer and slowly sand spits collected, caus| ing the road to twist around them as the dunes grew bigI ger. The road became more faint, giving way to a trail and then, amazingly, to a beach, but with no ocean nearby. Instead, huge waves of pure sand lay in front and to the side for as far as we could see.

Excitement had us-there was that entering-into-the-unknown feeling. We had no true plan, our destination defined by an arrow encased in an electronic clump on my handlebars reading 93.2 miles straight ahead. But there were questions: How soft is the sand? What will it do to fuel mileage? Do the dunes get bigger? Are there really roads out here? How much water did we bring? What’s the chance there’ll be gas? Did you see that rabbit? Wait a second, rabbits don’t have fangs!

We had in our backpacks a change of clothes, plenty of water and some food, but no sleeping bags. We weren’t planning on camping out in the desert, though that’s always an option. Our XR650s had nearly full tanks. It was point-and-shoot time.

Riding in sand is a chore. Add oversized gas tanks and it gets more difficult.

Bonus points for heavy backpacks, especially if one of them is full of camera gear. Johnny and I have a lifetime of sand-riding experience from our Dakar outings, but poor Jeff was still operating under his learner’s permit.

Having no idea of what lays over the next lip is what makes dune riding so exhilarating. It’s as intense as lanesplitting through rush-hour traffic in L.A., but with much softer consequences. You have to be ready for the steep drop off, the undetectable soft spot, that “witch’s titty” you don’t see.

Riding with heightened anticipation, you know that a mistake in judging the speed needed to make a crest will cause the bike to dig in, punishing you through the physical torture of extracting it from the soft stuff and trying again. Too much speed may send you

oil the backside too hot—flip or fly, you decide. Most of the time, your buddies don’t run you over. And it’s easier to follow than lead: Watching the bike in front drop case-deep into a soft spot provides an early-warning system. Try not to roost the poor s.o.b. as you power on by!

All the while, we were crossing an untracked and uninhabited territory-unless you count the millions of caterpillars inching to more hospitable places to make cocoons and, hopefully, butterflies. Green and yellow and persistent as hell, they were all headed in a similar direction, leaving lines in the dunes. And we thought the place looked big! Try it at .04 mph!

For about 40 miles, we slithered through the passes and valleys of sand, mountainous dunes giving way to more hill-like formations. Finally, everything just went flat, shrubbery defining a border of sorts along the dunes. Every so often, we’d see traces of tire tracks from 4x4s. They were few and far between, disappearing in the sand as quickly as

they’d appeared.

Then, out of nowhere, a dirt road running straight out into desert. “Must go somewhere,” we figured, hoping for a gas station in the very near future.

Then we found a train track and a larger road and a bigger road yet ’til we came upon a sleepy little fishing town.

Gas? Luckily, yes-we just had to wake up the attendant.

With our bikes again full of fuel, it was time for food. Unfortunately, the town didn’t appear to be open today, so we dug into our packs for a real trail meal: tortillas (flat, easy to pack, no smashing), meat nuggets (well, beef jerky) and cheese wiz (in the can).

Presto, a trailside taco and, oh, so deli-

cious! A Coke, some water and we were fully replenished.

Opting for a different route out of town, we rode along the beach. Because the resort town we were heading to was surfside, maybe we could ride straight there? Maybe, if it hadn’t been for the tidal flats, impassable pools that fill and empty with the tide. In this instance, they happened to stretch nearly 20 miles inland. So we altered course, hopping old tracks left by others who must have thought the

same. Every so often, a more defined track added confidence to our route. We meandered about 40 miles inland and finally came back to the railroad tracks. There, we

decided to utilize the dirt roads paralleling the tracks to get to town.

Make that city, with all the stuff cities are made of: hotels, restaurants, lots of people, even fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them. Just missed Spring Break, we heard. Oh well, I’d rather gas up, grab some grub, have some suds and hit the sack. Okay, I’ll admit, eating dinner on a nice balcony overlooking the ocean beat hell out of our backpack tacos. It would be the fourth time we’d enjoyed a sunset that week, the second time into a different body of water. And yes, that’s positively the last hint I’m handing out.

Besides, adventure to me is like art. Explaining it to someone else only convolutes what he might see-or expect. Go out and find your own adventure.

Because the trip is in getting there-or not-in finding a new place through planning or by mistake.

So, if you ever ask me where I’m going and I tell you, “I don’t know,” don’t think I’m blowing you off.

I might not know the answer.

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