J2 races Baja: The rescue

A buggy cruises through the cut that John missed, taking a more abrupt route down

The Baja 1000 has ended prematurely for J2 Racing, and now the team needs to retrieve their fallen teammate. Jason Hill continues the story. Read yesterday's installment here.

Ash and Liz helped Rod clean up the site as I stripped off the long johns that were binding me up beneath my riding pants. The cool morning air warmed up quickly as the sun rose higher. We locked down the trailer and made our way to the pavement, bound for RM80. But we didn't even make it the couple miles back to the main road when Rod's phone rang out. It was John. "Awww F*&%" was all Rod said. We knew it wasn't good news. Then he pulled away from the phone and said "It's John, he's over a cliff and thinks he's broken his wrist."

Our 40-foot transport couldn't manage a quick turn-around on the access road so we continued ahead to the pavement. We turned left and had to pass through the military inspection point that blocked the road back to Ensenada. Once through that we pulled into the Pemex station and gassed up the quad. I put my gear back on, ready for the rescue run.

We passed through the military inspection point again then turned up the dirt access road back to the RM40 swap point. Rod stomped the gas pedal. At one point we had both the truck and trailer airborne over a couple big whoops along the road. Even though we were concerned for John's safety we were joking that Rod should enter the truck and possibly the trailer, in next year's race. Both seemed to be handling rather well.

Reaching RM40, we unloaded the quad (CanAm Renegade 800--a big mother), then gathered first aid kits and sat phone. I hopped on the back, holding onto Rod with my right arm, which I'd later use for signaling him when to move over to let trucks and buggys pass. I held on for dear life to the left rear fender with my left hand and just gripped the pegs and plastics as tight as I could with my legs to keep from falling off the back as Rod buried the throttle, doing a wheelie for about 50 yards, as we tore ass down the course. Along the way, the crowd cheered us on as if we were actually in the race. I don't think there was a class for quads with tandem riders, nor would I ever want to run Baja that way. I thought for sure he was gonna dump us, but we kept on trucking.

I was looking over my shoulder every two seconds checking for the big dogs, and they caught up to us very quickly. I told Rod I'd whack him three times with my right hand when we needed to get over. The first time we had to move over, I saw the spectators on either side waving their arms frantically for us to move right, I looked back to see what was behind us and came face to face with the angry maw of a quad-chomping buggy. I felt like a baby seal being chased by a Great White.

I pounded on Rod and yelled as loud as I could for him to "MOVE RIGHT!!!! MOVE RIGHT!!! BUGGY!!!!!"

He was confused at first, not realizing it was only about 15 feet behind us. He told me later that he thought I was just backseat driving. Ha ha ha. The buggy driver honked and blared his ear-splitting siren a few times as we moved right, then stomped the gas as he went around, showering us in thick dust and rocks. This scenario would repeat itself a few more times before we reached John.

We had no idea how far down the course he'd gotten, or even if there was anyone around to help him. He never indicated his disposition during the initial call. Rod continued to pin the CanAm's throttle and I did my best to hang on, trying to adjust somewhat because the heat from the muffler, over which I was sitting, was starting to sting my left hamstring. It never touched the plastic, but it didn't have to. I knew it was there.

John's rescue party--emphasis on "party"

I finally told Rod to stop once we reached a fairly populated area so we could ask about 299X. One guy asks "Yoo lookeeng for John?" "Yeah, 299X?" He pointed to a group of guys on a small knoll to the left just a few yards away. We rolled down the slope that had been carved between the "cliff" walls where we found John sitting in a lounge chair in the tent shade drinking a Tecate with the guys who'd just dragged him and Grunt off the course to avoid being run over.

John later said he was just going too fast and couldn't brake to hit the slope correctly. He went over the sheer portion of the cliff instead, bouncing Grunt ass over tea kettle a couple times. He had already put his arm in a sling by the time we got there, so we spent a few minutes making sure he was OK, then called back to the truck to let Jaime, Liz, and Ashley know we had reached him and what our status was. We then spent the next half hour or so just resting, talking, and joking with the rescue party guys, and generally figuring out how to get back to the truck without backtracking up the course.

There were plenty more trucks and buggys headed our way. The girls were texting vehicle numbers as they would pass and we'd time them to see how fast they were moving. It was taking about 7 minutes for them to pass by. I scampered back up the cliff to ask if there was another way back from that spot. A local on a quad pointed across the course and said there was "road" that we could take which lead back to the "main road." In broken Spanglish again, I asked if that's how all the spectators made it to that location. He said yes and then said he'd escort us out a little ways to make sure we got on the right track.

I went back to Rod and John to relay the news about our exit plan. Rod said "See if you can get Grunt started. You'll have to ride her back." I hopped on and she fired right up after about three kicks. Without my helmet, I checked to see if any trucks were rolling through, then headed down the course a little way before turning around. As soon as I did, though, here they came, 800 horsepower of pure hell-fury bouncing like bucking broncos through the delta of sandy whoops that opened up just after descending the slope.

I moved aside to let them pass, then crossed over to where John and Rod were. I said "She's fine, the left side handlebar is a little cockeyed, but she's running like a champ. Steering’s not out of whack. We’re good to go." Only real damage Grunt suffered was a bent left brush guard and slight maladjusted left side handlebar.

I strapped my helmet, chest protector, and backpack on again, thanked all the folks who'd helped John, then watched in horror as he and Rod began crossing the delta on the CanAm. I say "delta" although there was no water. It was an either-or section with three routes to choose from after coming down the narrow slope. It reminded me of a river delta. The big dogs were moving through again and they got caught in the middle of it in a thick haze of dust. Everyone was screaming at them to stop or get out of the way.

The dust cleared and they began moving again, and made it across without another incident. Then I took off and rolled up behind our escort on his quad and another group in a Nissan Pathfinder.

Next: The long way home, an adventure in itself