I had a crumpled, flattened, brown paper sack on which I was writing notes to record the following events, but I lost it—not sure where—probably somewhere around the US-Mexico border, so you'll have to take the following on faith.
The plan was, meet at Cook's Corner at nine, knock back a couple of bloodies and hit the freeway by ten. With thirteen of us going, it would be important to keep on schedule, lest the shit fall apart. Naturally, the shit fell apart. Hey, we're talking about the Mountain Bike Mafia, Orange County Chapter. I'd give you a little background on us, but screw it, that's none of your business, and the less you know, the safer you are. Anyway, this is a story about one of the funnest, biggest, best organized bike rides in the world: the bi-annual Rosarito-Ensenada 50 Mile Fun Ride.
Each April and September this thing goes off, and I've yet to read about it in any credible national news organization. Which is good: any time 15,000 of my closest friends and I can do what we like to do, at the same time, in the same place, while improving the local economy and meeting others who like the same thing, well, it is what it is. I'm just telling a story here, not inviting your ass into my world.
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Mountain Bike Mafia O.C. chapter doing what they do best - drinking.
This year Rosarito-Ensenada was slated the same weekend as the Sea Otter Classic, giving me the perfect excuse I needed to avoid the annoying company of a bunch of leg-shaving, Gu-pushing, whining XC dickheads (my friends at Bike Magazine excluded.) No, I was going to spend the weekend doing what I do best—pound beers day and night and get a little riding in. Of course, nothing makes a good thing better than a dumb decision.
In this case, the dumb decision found light when Johnny Fuel decided an unused Trek frame hanging in his garage might do better damage elsewhere. You've got to understand, Johnny Fuel had status: the man could climb. According to him, the red plastic Marlboro gear bags he carried his stuff around in were "from before." All we really knew was, the SOB used to ride, a lot. So when he suggested taking a perfectly good hardtail and shit-canning the transmission, we got excited. "Dude," I probably said. "Let's ride our singlespeeds in Mexico."
Anyway, as I said, the plan was screwed. I think it was around noon when someone noticed we were still standing around Cook's, picnic tables littered with empty pitchers and Bloody Mary glasses, and the rest of our crew hadn't even arrived: a few guys were held up at work (some people are so serious about work), another guy was on his way in from the airport after a week-long drinking binge in Chicago, and a coupla yahoos still had to go by the bike shop and get tubes. No one was sure who was riding with whom, and all the cars were out of gas.
The rolling chaos finally split the Shell station around one, and with two-way radios in every car, we promptly broke up, losing all radio contact by the time we hit the freeway. With a no drinking rule in effect until we crossed the border, we actually made good time and rolled into the Las Gaviotas Housing Compound, just south of Rosarito with daylight to spare.
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