Baja Motorcycle Tour
On a recent month-long Baja motorcycle tour, I faced an unexpected self-reckoning. Through moments of struggle, self-reflection, and conversations with fellow travelers, I discover that sometimes, letting go isn’t an end—it’s the start of a new journey.
Adventure motorcycling has always been my passion. The hum of the engine beneath me, the open pathway stretching endlessly ahead, the smell of dust and freedom—this isn’t just something I do; it’s who I am. But lately, the road has begun to feel different. Each journey is a story, proof of resilience, curiosity, and strength. Now, though, I feel that identity slipping through my fingers like sand.
This motorcycle tour to Baja, Mexico, was supposed to be like all the others—thrilling, rejuvenating, transformative. Instead, it became a reckoning.
Navigating Baja’s Rugged Terrain
From the border crossing at Tecate, the ride to Rancho la Bellota is everything I expect: remote, rugged, and beautiful. The dirt road leading to the ranch demands skill and focus, the kind that once felt like second nature. I am thrilled when my navigation app leads me to a lonely dirt road winding into the mountains.
But then the road narrows sharply, curving hard to the right before climbing steeply uphill. Anticipating loose dirt and gravel at the curve’s center, I shift into low gear, slowing and committing to keeping my tires on the left outer edge. All good so far. But when I accelerate uphill, the back tire catches the edge of the washout, spinning and jerking me dangerously to the right. Instincts take over and I overcorrect, leaning sharply left while giving the bike more throttle. The bike straightens out and I make it to the top.
From there, I can see nothing but nature rolling out in every direction. I cut the engine, letting the silence settle in, and stepped off to recover. My hands burn, my wrists ache, and my thumbs feel bruised from gripping the bars and working the brake and throttle. For the first time, I feel trepidation where I normally would have felt exhilaration.
When Doubt Creeps In on a Motorcycle Tour
Had four years between trips like this really made such a difference? We like to joke that 60 is the new 40, but here I am asking myself, “Am I too old for this?”
At 5 feet 8 inches with a 32-inch inseam, my feet touch the ground on most bikes, which has given me a lot of confidence. But it was the weight that challenged me. The Kawasaki KLR weighs 400 pounds. Add 100 pounds of gear for this motorcycle tour—clothing, camping supplies, electronics, and food. Lately, I’ve noticed that it is harder to heave it upright, especially if it leans too far over on the sidestand. When did this happen?
Pushing Through the Struggle
I check my navigation again and realize I have no cell service. The stakes are higher now. If I fall, I’ll be walking miles to get help. For a moment, I consider turning back, but it doesn’t feel right. After all, I’d just navigated a very tricky, rutted curve on my loaded adventure motorcycle. How much worse can it get?
Exhausted, I roll into the ranch, a beautiful valley scattered with oak trees. I find Rosa, the ranch cook, who shows me where to set up my tent. I unload the bike, inflate my mattress, top it with my sleeping bag, and go for a short hike. One of the ranch dogs accompanies me, trotting just ahead, patiently waiting when I lag behind.
The landscape is breathtaking—rocky hillsides, wildflowers going to seed, and a vast open sky. There is no road noise, no generator hum, not even a jet flying overhead. Just the sound of my own breathing, my footfall, and the whisper of the wind through the canyon.
Reckoning With Identity
Back at camp, I cook some noodles and pop a Corona. Even the small effort of tearing a packet, pressing the ignition button on my JetBoil, and pulling a beer tab sends shooting pain up my fingers to my wrists. I can’t imagine riding on, or even riding back.
As the moon rises over Baja’s wide-open sky, a question presses harder: “Is there bravery in letting go, too?”
Conversation That Changed Everything
The next day, I meet Raul and Caroline, the ranch owners. Raul shares stories of Baja’s misunderstood beauty, its resilience, and its culture. Caroline, his partner in life and work, speaks of her own adventures and the power of embracing change.
Sitting by the lodge’s wood stove, Caroline coaxes me to speak my fears out loud. I confess my struggles—the difficulty of getting here, my fear about the changes in my body, and my uncertainty about the ride back. I am surprised, even embarrassed, to feel tears welling in my eyes.
After gaining control of my emotions, we sit in silence, listening to the fire crackle. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with Rosa’s cooking is comforting. The big moon pours white light into the room through the windows.
“Sometimes,” Caroline says, “change opens a door to something wonderful you don’t expect.”
What's Next For Motorcycle Touring
The next day, I can’t ignore what my body is telling me and turn toward home. Riding through Valle de Guadalupe, passing vineyards, restaurants, and hotels, I think about the alternatives—a smaller bike, a vehicle that can carry a bike, or maybe short fly-and-ride motorcycling destinations.
Letting go of long motorcycle tours and journeys doesn’t erase the miles I’ve ridden or the places I’ve seen. It doesn’t undo the strength or joy those journeys have given me. This change simply means I’m being called to redefine what adventure means for me now.
For Those Facing Their Own Shift
I never thought I’d face this crossroads, but here I am. If you’re feeling the same, know this: You’re not alone. Whether it’s age, injury, or life’s demands, the loss is real, and the grief is valid. But so is the opportunity to evolve.
My tears fog my helmet visor as I consider this change. I feel betrayed by my body, resentful, and silly because I hadn’t planned for this. But we don’t stop being who we are because we can’t do what we once loved. The courage it takes to get out there and push your limits—it’s still yours. That courage will help you navigate this transition, too.
A New Journey Begins
At the U.S. border crossing in Tecate, the guard smiles as she scans my passport.
“I’d love to learn to ride a motorcycle, but I’m too short,” she says.
I laugh. “No, you’re not! Start with a Motorcycle Safety Foundation class—they use small bikes—and maybe try a Honda Rebel.” She smiles and writes it down.
This trip might be my last big adventure on two wheels, but it also feels like the beginning of something new. Trading my motorcycle for an overland vehicle might let me carry a paddleboard or bike for other adventures.
