El Diablo Run 2021 Part 1
We ran a feature recently on Biltwell's last wild El Diablo Run that took place in 2019, a biannual baja San Felipe run that's been going since 2006 and since it was now time again we saddled up and set a course back west for another EDR adventure. What we found was much like any experience in life, in 2 years a lot can change. The world was different and so were we, and even though the faces and the roads are familiar, you find yourself having a whole new set of experiences, some good, some bad, but always worth their weight in gold. If you've ever heard stories about the EDR well, they are all true and even though the destination is the same, everyone's journey there is quite different. Its all part of what makes it worth every second of unequivocal blissful agony it takes to reach that moment when you get to share the tales of your struggles with your fellow riders. Dipping your toes in the Sea of Cortez, clanking bottles of cold cerveza and locking arms in celebration of the moments that got you there. This weeks feature will bring things full circle to the 2021 run and those moments that came to pass.
The run begins in Temecula California and for this time in late April Temecula oddly had a bit of a cold spell with temps in the 50s leaving many of the riders searching for layers of warmth and gloves to start the day which would turn very quickly into one of the hottest runs in the history of the event. Like any adventure, you have to be prepared for the unexpected, and that's certainly what was in store for many. This year the bulk of the Biltwell crew ended up taking a separate route and going down a bit earlier than the large gathering of riders (to get their new all terrain vehicle through border checkpoints) So Cary Brobeck from Choppers magazine led a large group from the runs starting point, Mo's egg house just off the highway in Temecula. Very quickly it seems though it's pretty hard to keep a pack of several 100 riders together so just by necessity many riders begin branching off into smaller groups themselves. A stoplight that broke them up or a wrong turn or a breakdown can quickly segregate those smaller groups even further. This usually all works out for the best with several riders making their way to meet up later at the two main gas stops in southern California. These gas stops become quite a "moto happening" spot with sometimes bikes pushing 100+ riders converging and funneling in all at once. Crowding the pumps, quickly filling each others tanks, lending a tool, scrambling for shade or sharing a quick sip of water, there's a universal sense that you are in good company in every direction. Everyone knows they are there for the same reason, the same common goal, which in turn forms a strange bond that is somewhat unspoken. You are all there to lay down some solid miles and see this party through till the very end.
As the different groups break from the first gas stop and continue to head South the landscape becomes quite a bit different changing from fast paced highways into into beautiful California winding countryside snaking it's way into switch back mountain roads lined with beautiful lush pines. Absolutely just the type of riding that we really came to enjoy.
In our little group we closely followed some of the Kansas riders who we had done the run with back in 2019. Timmy Marr, his girlfriend Jaqueline and friend Wayne "Dizzle" all showed up on their unique sportster choppers. This year actually saw a huge uptake in evo sportys as a ride of choice for many, being that it makes a perfect dependable and affordable EDR worthy machine. Something that for many would later be a big factor once we reached the more wild parts of the day, because unfortunately when traveling on two wheels on foreign soil, dependable beats out style if style cant take you the extra mile.
The second gas stop began showing that not only evo sportys but blockhead evo bigtwins were dominating the run this year with some seriously killer customs. The vintage bikes still made for the most interesting stories and photos oozing with patina and character in every crevice.
After the last gas stop the roads begin to flatten out into massive long stretches and you realize you're getting closer to the Mexican border as the heat begins to take effect, upper 90's tip the 100 mark and the reality is ever present, this is the real deal. Having little to no sleep the night before myself and still rattled from my 34 hours of travel from the midwest this now had become somewhat of a Hunter S. Thompson moment where the "drugs" began to take hold (except in my case not actual drugs but over caffeinated sleep deprivation induced mania). Heat exhaustion can also do very interesting things to you, and when you mix that with the effects of over caffeination, little sleep, and dehydration, the result is one that makes for a wild ride. Many riders experience this type of trip usually when returning hungover back to the states after binging and purging the whole weekend but I got it out of the way on day one.
Powering through and equally feeling the weight of the heat we make it to the Mexico border. Oddly welcoming and very much different than the experience trying to get back in later of course we roll freely past the gates and we are set loose. Instantly bombarded with Spanish billboards and businesses and signs of bustling life all around, you realize you arent in Kansas anymore. The strange thing that no one tells you or wants to openly admit also is that when you cross the border from Mexicali and get not even a solid mile in towards the city the overwhelming stench of unattended sanitation begins to take hold of your ol' factory senses and you realize you are truly riding your motorcycle in a foreign country. That feeling alone adds an extra element of heightened state of danger and alarm as your actions now have very different consequences than if they were to be engaged on American soil. Something one of our fellow riders we met with later found out quick being struck by another motorists in town then had to actually pay the federalis bribe money to let them go. Another factor, the pot holes, which are merciless and big enough to swallow an entire front wheel are something you have to keep a close eye on. There is simply no calling a tow truck home, that danger is real, the fear is gripping you at times, and the smell is even more real as we get deeper into the little towns. All those signs of bustling life become very present around you and you begin to feel that sense of danger fade into the calming acceptance that with the help of your fellow riders no matter what happens you are gonna make the best of it. This sense forces the seperate groups of riders to stay even more tight with one another. Something everyone begins to do very quick the further we get into Mexico. By the time we reach the infamous Hwy 5 that leads all the way to San Felipe the temperatures are taking a turn for the extreme. Reaching well above 105 degrees Fahrenheit with a heat index of God only knows how insane, the air becomes hard to breath and the ride becomes even more difficult. Exhaustion begins to set in and our tanks are already again starting to run low, physically and literally as well as metaphorically. As we make our way to the first gas stations in Mexico we pull in and the unthinkable happens, signs that read "NO HAY GAS" are plastered over each of the pumps. Theres no bribing for a drop of petrol, just like your bike, their tanks have also run dry. Oversized water bottles quickly become gasoline containers once a good portion of the sportster tank hooligans discovered the true treacherous nature of being stranded in a 105ﾟdesolate desert landscape. Anyone with larger Harley split tanks or spare fuel containers lends a gallon here or there to their fellow riders however they can contain it.
The threat of becoming stranded in the Mexican desert becomes very real and the quest for shade became the only way to battle the scorching heat but the limited real estate under signs and trees began to fill up fast making each stop important to everyone's sanity and well being. At times you watched the asphalt twist and bend in the distance like some type of waverimg mirage and the Sun was so hot on your bike that every metal surface became like the burner of a stove top radiating the heat the more you stood still. However the air while moving wasnt much relief feeling like somewhat of massive hair dryer set on high. There was no turning back, you were way past the point of no return and the fact remained you might not even make it if you even tried to turn back now, the only thing you could do is press on.
The only place along Hwy 5 to stop that would offer any shade was the La Ventana Market. A small mom and pop convenience style store with a very limited amount of goods. As we pulled in and one of the riders in our group was feeling the extreme effects of heat exhaustion, she scrambled for any semblance of shade available and we attempted to buy cold water. We then discovered that the riders who had come before us had bought almost every last drop of bottled water in mear minutes, actually anything that was liquid in a bottle or a can was gulped and just like that it was gone. Unprepared for the hordes of thirsty biker the store owner shrugged his shoulders and sold us what he could. You walked out of the market and saw either riders passed out in the tiny slivers of shade beside their bikes or scrounging for any spare gas anyone could lend. The vibes were heavy, things were tense but we all knew the only way you could feel the cool breeze of the ocean in San Felipe was to make it another 85 kilometers to the beach. Just before we were about to leave we encountered two Mexican riders come in, one with a single cylinder Buell blast chopper and one with a mismatched Honda's swing arm chopper, just a wild little bike and we later saw them putting down miles on both of their smaller displacement bikes screaming at top speed down highway 1 as we got closer to San Felipe. Shortly after a sign we were in the home stretch where the 2 lanes increased to 4 but with strange ominous clouds of smoke and fire in the distance. Like an apocalyptic scene, different riders broken down on the sides of the road one after another so close to redemption. We even came across a rider tightly gripping his handlebars as an old Jeep Wrangler pulled his broken bike via a long tow strap. The different creative ways to complete the run just kept getting more creative as we got closer and closer to the shoreline. The words "Bienvenidos A San Felipe" became present in the distance and as we crossed the metal archway we finally had made it.
Once in the town of San Felipe riding toward the water's edge, the streets were lined on all sides with the sun gleaming reflections off black and candy coated, chrome dipped machines of muscular fortitude, dripping puddles of oil for kilometers in every direction. The oil and piss stained concrete that would later serve as a rugged sandpaper slumber surface for many was covered with motorcycles for as far as you could see. It's the kind of thing that would bring fear to some and yet joy to many. We had arrived and we came get wild.
Riding into Ruben's camp you realized there were already motorcycles parked in every direction with each bike more wild than the next. Some that would even leave you asking "how in the hell they even made it here on that rusty old machine" that somehow just made it a solid 300+ miles into the desert unscathed. Venturing further into the beach side camp between rows of towering palapa huts, every inch of ground space whether it be sand or concrete is scattered with a jungle of twisted chrome handlebars and sissy bars poking out atop a sea of well weathered motorcycles. You find a tiny crevice between the madness to park your bike and walk further in and smell the fresh taco meat steaming on the grill fills your nose while shouts of excitement ring in your ears and then you see just above the horizon of all that twisted steel the actual sea itself, the sea of Cortez, the beautiful payoff, with the sun setting just above the water reflecting an amber glow onto the sweat covered, sun withered faces of riders who are all embraced arm-in-arm together celebrating their victories over the Dunlop melting asphalt of baja's highway 5. That first night is the real payoff, it's a sense of accomplishment, of pride, something that money cant buy and you cant put a price on, it's what we were all here for, and if you earned it, well, now you get to cash in. From the outside, it looks a bit like something out of an old biker movie where the wild hooligans dusted and busted take over a small town in search of shelter and kicks for the night, but this party would go on like that for 3 days straight and it was deeper than that, this was our proverbial pot of gold at the end of a dusty rainbow.
After a solid night of dancing and debauchery you woke up to the same party but a different vibe, a lot of crusty eyes and people wrenching away working on their motorcycles every few feet. You now in different light got a really good chance to understand that there was just a bit of every brand of bike that you could imagine there, not just Harley's (while those did tend to outnumber most) vintage Japanese, European, British and everything in between filled all the nooks and crannies and spaces in Rubens and Kiki's camp. You could toss of coin in any direction and bounce off vintage gold of one kind or another. Many of the bikes plastered with stickers from El Diablo runs past, and oddly many of those same people riding those bikes were also marked with EDR tattoos from years past. It is then that it begins to sink in that this experience goes much deeper for some than others. It's not just your average run, its something they want to remember for life, and for good reason.
The morning begins to ramp up and everyone lines up awaiting the opening of the Biltwell merch booth, as all the gear is exclusive only to the riders who completed the run, you have to be in person there to get it. Above all the coveted El Diablo Run mini rocker patches are always a badge of honor worn proudly, proving that you accomplished the run to get it. The fearless riders also lined up in a separate line registering their bikes for the "circle of death" races just across from Rubens and Kiki's with no bike too big or small, no weight classes, just a run what your brung free-for-all for anyone wild enough to take to the dirt.
The festivities began across the street with some moto games that started off with a plank challenge where riders had to attempt to ride a good 16' over a 2 x 4 while keeping their front wheel steady, something that seems real simple until you try to get out there and do it on a 10 foot chopper. After that the slow races were a nice traditional touch and then ending with a pretty rowdy kick start race to get the dirt stirred up real nice. The paper number plates started popping up on bike after bike and it was time for the main event, the infamous "circle of death" races. The racers began lining up on starting line that begins on the paved street above the circle, then dips hard-and-fast right into the 1st turn of the dirt track. So each racer starts with an equal advantage and then skill takes hold once they hit the dirt. As the racing begins it becomes evident right away that the performance Dyna riders were putting up some stiff competition. However the vintage riders with Honda twins and inline four Suzukis were hot on their tails putting up a good fight but regardless of the bike two elements remained an important factor over engine size or torque output, tire traction on the rugged, rocky dirt track and rider ability were the main two things that would proclaim a victor. While the circle of death does not discriminate in terms of racing experience it becomes clear a couple laps in who the seasoned veterans are real quick. The track is roughly ungroomed, dusty, rocky and sometimes even littered in spots with broken glass. The type of surface fit for a traditional Mexican cock fight but just good enough for a rowdy moto race. The loose dirt leaves a cloud of dust in the path of the next racer and a good solid mouthful for the braver close up spectators on the track to swallow.
The danger is quite real and I think that's part of what makes the circle of death so exciting for everyone to admire. However that can often times come with a price. It's very rare that you see anyone get hurt even though that danger is ever present but this year for reasons unknown one racer actually split the crowd like a set a bowling pins and went hard into the first turn striking one of the spectators. You enter the circle at your own risk and no one expects any different, you came for a thrill and thats exactly what will be delivered. While a motorcycle flying into a pile of people at high speed sounds like a recipe for disaster, the onlookers and racer both escaped with only minor injuries and after a quick brush off Rob, the injured spectator later was seen smiling and in good spirits and took his dirt lashing with a sense of pride for having seen the wild nature of the circle of death and lived to walk away to tell the tale.
That is the well calculated risk that we all take unfortunately when entering the circle and truthfully the anarchy of it all and the real present danger are one of the most alluring aspects of the race itself. When it's all said and done whether you were racing or watching on the wild sidelines your adrenaline is pumping all the same. Bill, Otto and the Biltwell crew capped off the day with some free merch and awards to the winning riders. Everyone walked away with something and took to their bikes or the beach to watch the sun set yet again on another great day in the rugged yet beautiful San Felipe.
..........to be continued.
Photos and words by Mike Vandegriff
The run begins in Temecula California and for this time in late April Temecula oddly had a bit of a cold spell with temps in the 50s leaving many of the riders searching for layers of warmth and gloves to start the day which would turn very quickly into one of the hottest runs in the history of the event. Like any adventure, you have to be prepared for the unexpected, and that's certainly what was in store for many. This year the bulk of the Biltwell crew ended up taking a separate route and going down a bit earlier than the large gathering of riders (to get their new all terrain vehicle through border checkpoints) So Cary Brobeck from Choppers magazine led a large group from the runs starting point, Mo's egg house just off the highway in Temecula. Very quickly it seems though it's pretty hard to keep a pack of several 100 riders together so just by necessity many riders begin branching off into smaller groups themselves. A stoplight that broke them up or a wrong turn or a breakdown can quickly segregate those smaller groups even further. This usually all works out for the best with several riders making their way to meet up later at the two main gas stops in southern California. These gas stops become quite a "moto happening" spot with sometimes bikes pushing 100+ riders converging and funneling in all at once. Crowding the pumps, quickly filling each others tanks, lending a tool, scrambling for shade or sharing a quick sip of water, there's a universal sense that you are in good company in every direction. Everyone knows they are there for the same reason, the same common goal, which in turn forms a strange bond that is somewhat unspoken. You are all there to lay down some solid miles and see this party through till the very end.
As the different groups break from the first gas stop and continue to head South the landscape becomes quite a bit different changing from fast paced highways into into beautiful California winding countryside snaking it's way into switch back mountain roads lined with beautiful lush pines. Absolutely just the type of riding that we really came to enjoy.
The second gas stop began showing that not only evo sportys but blockhead evo bigtwins were dominating the run this year with some seriously killer customs. The vintage bikes still made for the most interesting stories and photos oozing with patina and character in every crevice.
After the last gas stop the roads begin to flatten out into massive long stretches and you realize you're getting closer to the Mexican border as the heat begins to take effect, upper 90's tip the 100 mark and the reality is ever present, this is the real deal. Having little to no sleep the night before myself and still rattled from my 34 hours of travel from the midwest this now had become somewhat of a Hunter S. Thompson moment where the "drugs" began to take hold (except in my case not actual drugs but over caffeinated sleep deprivation induced mania). Heat exhaustion can also do very interesting things to you, and when you mix that with the effects of over caffeination, little sleep, and dehydration, the result is one that makes for a wild ride. Many riders experience this type of trip usually when returning hungover back to the states after binging and purging the whole weekend but I got it out of the way on day one.
Powering through and equally feeling the weight of the heat we make it to the Mexico border. Oddly welcoming and very much different than the experience trying to get back in later of course we roll freely past the gates and we are set loose. Instantly bombarded with Spanish billboards and businesses and signs of bustling life all around, you realize you arent in Kansas anymore. The strange thing that no one tells you or wants to openly admit also is that when you cross the border from Mexicali and get not even a solid mile in towards the city the overwhelming stench of unattended sanitation begins to take hold of your ol' factory senses and you realize you are truly riding your motorcycle in a foreign country. That feeling alone adds an extra element of heightened state of danger and alarm as your actions now have very different consequences than if they were to be engaged on American soil. Something one of our fellow riders we met with later found out quick being struck by another motorists in town then had to actually pay the federalis bribe money to let them go. Another factor, the pot holes, which are merciless and big enough to swallow an entire front wheel are something you have to keep a close eye on. There is simply no calling a tow truck home, that danger is real, the fear is gripping you at times, and the smell is even more real as we get deeper into the little towns. All those signs of bustling life become very present around you and you begin to feel that sense of danger fade into the calming acceptance that with the help of your fellow riders no matter what happens you are gonna make the best of it. This sense forces the seperate groups of riders to stay even more tight with one another. Something everyone begins to do very quick the further we get into Mexico. By the time we reach the infamous Hwy 5 that leads all the way to San Felipe the temperatures are taking a turn for the extreme. Reaching well above 105 degrees Fahrenheit with a heat index of God only knows how insane, the air becomes hard to breath and the ride becomes even more difficult. Exhaustion begins to set in and our tanks are already again starting to run low, physically and literally as well as metaphorically. As we make our way to the first gas stations in Mexico we pull in and the unthinkable happens, signs that read "NO HAY GAS" are plastered over each of the pumps. Theres no bribing for a drop of petrol, just like your bike, their tanks have also run dry. Oversized water bottles quickly become gasoline containers once a good portion of the sportster tank hooligans discovered the true treacherous nature of being stranded in a 105ﾟdesolate desert landscape. Anyone with larger Harley split tanks or spare fuel containers lends a gallon here or there to their fellow riders however they can contain it.
The threat of becoming stranded in the Mexican desert becomes very real and the quest for shade became the only way to battle the scorching heat but the limited real estate under signs and trees began to fill up fast making each stop important to everyone's sanity and well being. At times you watched the asphalt twist and bend in the distance like some type of waverimg mirage and the Sun was so hot on your bike that every metal surface became like the burner of a stove top radiating the heat the more you stood still. However the air while moving wasnt much relief feeling like somewhat of massive hair dryer set on high. There was no turning back, you were way past the point of no return and the fact remained you might not even make it if you even tried to turn back now, the only thing you could do is press on.
The only place along Hwy 5 to stop that would offer any shade was the La Ventana Market. A small mom and pop convenience style store with a very limited amount of goods. As we pulled in and one of the riders in our group was feeling the extreme effects of heat exhaustion, she scrambled for any semblance of shade available and we attempted to buy cold water. We then discovered that the riders who had come before us had bought almost every last drop of bottled water in mear minutes, actually anything that was liquid in a bottle or a can was gulped and just like that it was gone. Unprepared for the hordes of thirsty biker the store owner shrugged his shoulders and sold us what he could. You walked out of the market and saw either riders passed out in the tiny slivers of shade beside their bikes or scrounging for any spare gas anyone could lend. The vibes were heavy, things were tense but we all knew the only way you could feel the cool breeze of the ocean in San Felipe was to make it another 85 kilometers to the beach. Just before we were about to leave we encountered two Mexican riders come in, one with a single cylinder Buell blast chopper and one with a mismatched Honda's swing arm chopper, just a wild little bike and we later saw them putting down miles on both of their smaller displacement bikes screaming at top speed down highway 1 as we got closer to San Felipe. Shortly after a sign we were in the home stretch where the 2 lanes increased to 4 but with strange ominous clouds of smoke and fire in the distance. Like an apocalyptic scene, different riders broken down on the sides of the road one after another so close to redemption. We even came across a rider tightly gripping his handlebars as an old Jeep Wrangler pulled his broken bike via a long tow strap. The different creative ways to complete the run just kept getting more creative as we got closer and closer to the shoreline. The words "Bienvenidos A San Felipe" became present in the distance and as we crossed the metal archway we finally had made it.
Once in the town of San Felipe riding toward the water's edge, the streets were lined on all sides with the sun gleaming reflections off black and candy coated, chrome dipped machines of muscular fortitude, dripping puddles of oil for kilometers in every direction. The oil and piss stained concrete that would later serve as a rugged sandpaper slumber surface for many was covered with motorcycles for as far as you could see. It's the kind of thing that would bring fear to some and yet joy to many. We had arrived and we came get wild.
Riding into Ruben's camp you realized there were already motorcycles parked in every direction with each bike more wild than the next. Some that would even leave you asking "how in the hell they even made it here on that rusty old machine" that somehow just made it a solid 300+ miles into the desert unscathed. Venturing further into the beach side camp between rows of towering palapa huts, every inch of ground space whether it be sand or concrete is scattered with a jungle of twisted chrome handlebars and sissy bars poking out atop a sea of well weathered motorcycles. You find a tiny crevice between the madness to park your bike and walk further in and smell the fresh taco meat steaming on the grill fills your nose while shouts of excitement ring in your ears and then you see just above the horizon of all that twisted steel the actual sea itself, the sea of Cortez, the beautiful payoff, with the sun setting just above the water reflecting an amber glow onto the sweat covered, sun withered faces of riders who are all embraced arm-in-arm together celebrating their victories over the Dunlop melting asphalt of baja's highway 5. That first night is the real payoff, it's a sense of accomplishment, of pride, something that money cant buy and you cant put a price on, it's what we were all here for, and if you earned it, well, now you get to cash in. From the outside, it looks a bit like something out of an old biker movie where the wild hooligans dusted and busted take over a small town in search of shelter and kicks for the night, but this party would go on like that for 3 days straight and it was deeper than that, this was our proverbial pot of gold at the end of a dusty rainbow.
After a solid night of dancing and debauchery you woke up to the same party but a different vibe, a lot of crusty eyes and people wrenching away working on their motorcycles every few feet. You now in different light got a really good chance to understand that there was just a bit of every brand of bike that you could imagine there, not just Harley's (while those did tend to outnumber most) vintage Japanese, European, British and everything in between filled all the nooks and crannies and spaces in Rubens and Kiki's camp. You could toss of coin in any direction and bounce off vintage gold of one kind or another. Many of the bikes plastered with stickers from El Diablo runs past, and oddly many of those same people riding those bikes were also marked with EDR tattoos from years past. It is then that it begins to sink in that this experience goes much deeper for some than others. It's not just your average run, its something they want to remember for life, and for good reason.
The morning begins to ramp up and everyone lines up awaiting the opening of the Biltwell merch booth, as all the gear is exclusive only to the riders who completed the run, you have to be in person there to get it. Above all the coveted El Diablo Run mini rocker patches are always a badge of honor worn proudly, proving that you accomplished the run to get it. The fearless riders also lined up in a separate line registering their bikes for the "circle of death" races just across from Rubens and Kiki's with no bike too big or small, no weight classes, just a run what your brung free-for-all for anyone wild enough to take to the dirt.
The festivities began across the street with some moto games that started off with a plank challenge where riders had to attempt to ride a good 16' over a 2 x 4 while keeping their front wheel steady, something that seems real simple until you try to get out there and do it on a 10 foot chopper. After that the slow races were a nice traditional touch and then ending with a pretty rowdy kick start race to get the dirt stirred up real nice. The paper number plates started popping up on bike after bike and it was time for the main event, the infamous "circle of death" races. The racers began lining up on starting line that begins on the paved street above the circle, then dips hard-and-fast right into the 1st turn of the dirt track. So each racer starts with an equal advantage and then skill takes hold once they hit the dirt. As the racing begins it becomes evident right away that the performance Dyna riders were putting up some stiff competition. However the vintage riders with Honda twins and inline four Suzukis were hot on their tails putting up a good fight but regardless of the bike two elements remained an important factor over engine size or torque output, tire traction on the rugged, rocky dirt track and rider ability were the main two things that would proclaim a victor. While the circle of death does not discriminate in terms of racing experience it becomes clear a couple laps in who the seasoned veterans are real quick. The track is roughly ungroomed, dusty, rocky and sometimes even littered in spots with broken glass. The type of surface fit for a traditional Mexican cock fight but just good enough for a rowdy moto race. The loose dirt leaves a cloud of dust in the path of the next racer and a good solid mouthful for the braver close up spectators on the track to swallow.
The danger is quite real and I think that's part of what makes the circle of death so exciting for everyone to admire. However that can often times come with a price. It's very rare that you see anyone get hurt even though that danger is ever present but this year for reasons unknown one racer actually split the crowd like a set a bowling pins and went hard into the first turn striking one of the spectators. You enter the circle at your own risk and no one expects any different, you came for a thrill and thats exactly what will be delivered. While a motorcycle flying into a pile of people at high speed sounds like a recipe for disaster, the onlookers and racer both escaped with only minor injuries and after a quick brush off Rob, the injured spectator later was seen smiling and in good spirits and took his dirt lashing with a sense of pride for having seen the wild nature of the circle of death and lived to walk away to tell the tale.
That is the well calculated risk that we all take unfortunately when entering the circle and truthfully the anarchy of it all and the real present danger are one of the most alluring aspects of the race itself. When it's all said and done whether you were racing or watching on the wild sidelines your adrenaline is pumping all the same. Bill, Otto and the Biltwell crew capped off the day with some free merch and awards to the winning riders. Everyone walked away with something and took to their bikes or the beach to watch the sun set yet again on another great day in the rugged yet beautiful San Felipe.
..........to be continued.
Photos and words by Mike Vandegriff