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missed as impractical, I was still on the course after all. I kept following orange rib‑ bons until the course came to the famous silt beds of coastal Baja. Silt is like baby powder only softer. It levels like water, and hides the ruts and rocks trail and put the side stand down. I kept on all of my gear on, including my Oakley goggles. I sat and snuggled up close to the engine, wrapped my lov‑ ing arms around that beautiful warm engine, and entangled I woke up about two hours later freezing my ass off. 1-2 feet beneath the surface. Riding them in the middle of the night, after being in the saddle for 20 hours is dangerous at any speed. . I finally stopped about 3 AM at a shack made with sticks wired together near the trail. Hmmm, an indication of civilization, if nothing else. Happy Birthday... I woke up about two hours later freezing my ass off. It was my birthday. I was in the mid‑ dle of nowhere. My two sons were home with my child ex‑ pectant wife. If you’re going to die, die on the bike. I started it and slowly rode for another ½ hour or so, and having put the petcock on re‑ serve. I soon devised a plan to sleep and stay warm. I stopped on a nondescript part of the my fingers in the throttle cable and fuel and vent hoses, where they enter the carburetor. I woke up when the sun came over the Eastern ridge, with my entire body in the same position as it was when I closed my eyes. There was no wind. There were no crickets or ocean sounds. There was deathly silence. Quiet can be as much a reality check as an unexpected sound. The theme of my favorite Moody Blues album, ‘To Our Children’s, Chil‑ dren’s Children,’ came to mind. It would be great to listen to that album in this environment, but especially not in this cir‑ cumstance. I started the bike, and slow‑ ly, very slowly, rode on, follow‑ ing orange ribbons. DIRT ILLustrated \\\\\\ Vol. 1 + Issue 4 + Page 56 I knew I had to be on fumes by this point. All my time on the bike, for the past 8 hours anyway, was concentrated on fuel conservation. By honing my racing skills on So Cal MX tracks, that require super throt‑ tle control, because they are so hard and slippery, did the trick. As the trail was following right next to the surf, over fairly rough terrain, I came to a flat delta about ¼ mile wide, with stone and thatch roof huts scat‑ tered about. Not unlike some‑ thing you’d see in a documen‑ tary about the African bush. Saved by a local... I rode up to the door of the first one I came to. A Mexican came out of the hut. I said to myself under my helmet, “Man am I glad to see you” He re‑ plied in common So Cal Span- glish, “Did you spend the night in the desert?” “Yes” I replied. “Are you hungry?” he says. “Yes”, I said. I followed him inside the hut and sat down on the only chair. There was a bed and a heat/ cook stove, and a shelf or two. He blew the fire to life and put the coffee pot and a few rolls on the cooking surface. When the rolls were warm, he handed them to me. I almost chipped a