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tooth on the crust. It was good. He poured hot water in a cup, with instant coffee, and handed it to me. I didn’t ask for cream. I asked him where he learned English. He said that he used to live in Pico Rivera, near Los Angeles, but got sick of the Rat Race and came down here to work in a fish camp. I sus‑ pected ulterior motives for his move but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Of course my predicament had to be discussed. He easily surmised that I was pre-run‑ ning the race. Heck, the orange ribbons went right through his front yard, if you could call it a yard. I said I needed gasoline. He said, “Well, the freezer truck that comes by twice a week to “peek” up our catch is coming later this morning but I don’t know if it’s diesel or gasoline,”. Of course, I’m tired as hell, but the first thing that goes through my head is, “Where do you keep the fish for the days in- between, when you catch them, and the freezer truck comes to pick it up when there’s no elec‑ tricity here for refrigeration?” I rested. The truck pulled up to his door. The Mexican from Pico Rivera translated for me and got a short hose from the driver and I mouth siphoned Pemex gasoline from his truck tank into my bike. I learned the importance of that one paved road I crossed, and got direc‑ tions for a short cut back to it. I decided to follow the or‑ ange ribbons and take the long way back to where the course crossed it. Made it back... It took about an hour to get back to the paved road. I got to the paved road and turned North. I was going to stay on that road, and bum gas from tourists, until I got back to Ensenada. I put in ½ hour of ride time due North on the highway and happened to see Dave Holeman passing me go‑ ing South in the chase truck. Dave and I went back to where the course crossed the highway, and waited for Tom and Kem. They showed up and couldn’t believe that I was there. They had figured out early the night before what had happened, and never could catch me to straighten it out, as I kept going on the beach loop with no fuel or towns. Suicide Highway Bombers... They went to bed and left early in the morning, with gal‑ lons of gas strapped to their tool belts. They needed gas to complete the loop, and knew I would too, so they carried enough for all of us to get back They were suicide bombers, without a fuse, I am not sure who was more relieved. He said he was about an hour from calling the US Coast Guard for a search. He was beyond dread at the thought of having to call my wife. Imagine this scenario, “We were going to have a Hap‑ py Birthday for your husband today, Mrs. Reid, but we don’t know where the hell he is?” to the highway. They were sui‑ cide bombers, without a fuse, but a crash at the wrong time or place, would have ignited them, literally in a flash. We rode 300 more miles that day and continuing to haul ass. This isn’t motorcycle en‑ thusiast hauling ass, this is Baja 1000 speed winning pace