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This story begins in the previous post, so if you haven’t already you may want to start there…

November 17th was race day. We had shacked up with a couple other shooters on cots in the luxurious Ojo’s Negros Motel (if you’re curious what that looks like check out the 360 panorama in the previous post).  Jim Ober, head of Trackside Photo and head Chief of our Baja adventure, came banging down our door at 4:15 am. Typically I don’t get up this early. Lucky for me, situated directly next to tour motel is a small ranch, or at least a tiny shack with a few roosters outside. Apparently Mexican roosters, in an attempt to get a real jump on the day, get started crowing even before the sun comes up. This worked to my advantage and I was up and ready to roll when ol’ Leadfoot Jim came a knockin..

Less than 10 minutes later we were on the road. It was pitch black and surprisingly frigid in the high-desert of central Baja.  My scribbled mess of mileages and landmarks from the day before really came in handy and we were at our shooting location 30 minutes later, arriving before the sun. There were remnants of bonfires from the night before, and cars and tents littered the desert.  Brett made coffee on a borrowed Coleman camp stove and we sat and speculated as the sun made its way over the distant mountains.  Neither of us had shot, much less been to a real off road race, we had no idea what to expect.

At 6:30 am our borrowed radio crackles to life “this is Weatherman Diablo, we have the first bike off the line… over”.  The “Weatherman” is really not a weatherman at all. He runs the official race radio and is the voice of the Baja 1000.  He is also our only source of info throughout the day on what’s happening on the other thousand miles of the race course. Motorcycles leave the starting line every 30 seconds for the next hour or so, then quads, then golf-cart-on-steroids looking vehicles and everything else smaller than an actual car.  We figure we are about 75 miles from the starting line so the front runners will get to in less than 2 hours. We begin to prepare and anticipate, far earlier than we need to, but it’s our first off road race and we don’t want to get caught with our pants down.

The first bike arrives at our jump at 8:07.  By now the crowd of race fans had managed to drag themselves out of their tents and cars, dusted off their jeans and boots, and are brimming with excitement.  90% of those in attendance have a Tecate in hand. For many of them this is not the first of the day, and for none of them will it be the last.  The bikes come flying by at speeds that don’t seem safe, hit the jump, land 10-15 feet past it and speed off to attack the remaining 940 miles they will cover in next 30 or so hours. The crowd cheers wildly for each one.   By the time the last motorcycle reaches us 3 hours later our race photography skills have improved significantly.

There would be a couple hour break before the trucks are released from the starting line, presumably as some type of safety net for the bikes, quads, and other extremely exposed riders ahead of them.  This left just enough time for a couple PBJ sandwiches, a few Tecates of our own,  a short horseback ride for Brett, and a 15 minute siesta for me.

At 11:30 the first truck leaves the line.  An hour later we start to hear helicopters in the distance.  Clouds of dust shoot up in plums across the desert. Each of the first 10-15 trophy trucks has their own chase helicopter. Combine that with several official SCORE helicopters, media choppers, and an IMAX film helicopter and it becomes questionable as to whether we came out for an off road race or an air show.  The first chopper gets close as we watch the cloud of dust below it approaching fast, cameras ready in anticipation.   Suddenly you can hear the sound of a second engine over the roar of the helicopter. Imagine the loudest truck you have ever heard then multiply that several times.  Seconds later a truck comes flying around the corner and it’s time to get back to work.

All morning we were impressed by the sights and sounds of the lower class vehicles racing by us. Now they all paled in comparison. The trucks seem to be moving twice as fast, making 5 times the noise and kicking up 10 times the dust. You have approximately 3 seconds from when the truck comes into site, hits the jump, then races off into the desert, leaving you blinded in a brown-out dust storm that takes about 30 seconds to clear, just in time for the next one to show up.  Before you are engulfed by the dust you have to fire off at least three good, clear shots of each truck, preferably in the air.

The excitement doesn’t stop for several hours. After the incredibly beautiful (and expensive) trophy trucks make their way past us we are hit with a whole slew of various four wheeled vehicles. Buggies, custom fabricated race vehicles, and finally the VW bugs. These guys gotta have heart. Racing against trucks costing more than a half million dollars, most of these stock Volkswagens can’t cost more than a couple thousand.  One of the VW’s veers off the side of the track in front of us and is immediately swarmed by locals. The driver and his co-pilot (who we later find out came all the way from Alaska) climb out and start fidgeting with the engine compartment at rear of the car. Within seconds, before they can even begin to think about how to ask for help in Spanish, a couple of the locals have pulled tools from the rear of the VW, jacked it up, and are repairing a head gasket.  This kind of repair would take days and cost thousands on my car. Somehow they have it it wrapped up in less than ten minutes. After the Alaskan’s realize that the 2 extra quarts of oil they brought wasn’t gonna cut it, another local produces a giant 5 quart bottle, tops off their engine, tucks the rest in the tiny compartment behind their seats and gestures them to get back in the race.  In less than 15 minutes, in the middle of the desert, in a foreign country, with a foreign language, and not a peso spent, these guys got a head gasket repair, oil change, and even a couple extra snacks for the rest of their journey.  This is the kind of community spirit racing fosters.

As the last of the racers make their way past us the sun begins to set. 30 minutes later we are on Mexican Highway 1 headed up the coast of the Baja peninsula to the comforts of home. We sit at the boarder for a while, thinking about whirlwind day and about the drivers who were still racing full speed across the desert in the pitch black of night, who would still be racing across the desert as the sun rose the next morning, and some who would continue to through the next night… until they conquered the 1000 mile off road adventure that is the Baja 1000.

This was my first Baja Race, but I can assure you it will not be my last. If you ever have the chance I highly encourage you to get out there and experience it for yourself. Maybe all that dust will get to you like it did to me, and turn you into a race fan for life..

CLICK HERE for a full gallery of our Baja 1000 adventure.