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from rec.motorcycles Mini-Trip Report 440 miles 1993 Seca II L.A. - Tijuana - Tecate - Julian - Lake Elsinore - Laguna Beach -L.A. After a chain lubing and tire pressure check, I pushed off from my West Hollywood hacienda just after 9 a.m. It was already about 75 degrees, and the weather forecast had hinted at the possibility of thundershowers in the mountains to which I was heading . Undeterred, I made the tedious 140-mile trek down the 405 and 5 freeways to San Ysidro, where I stopped to buy the obligatory (though not mandatory) Mexican insurance policy. And what I was told was that theft insurance is NOT AVAILABLE for motorcycles. I asked the insurance man whether anyone offered it, and he said that to his knowledge, no one did. So I was left in a quandary. To ride into Mexico or to park the bike at the border and walk, leather-clad, in the midst of a crowd of sweltering tourists and taxi touts? I did the least sensible thing and bought the policy. At least in the event I caused severe damage to a pedestrian, I would be covered. (Though the same would not apply to any severe damage caused to me. I could only hope that any nastiness would transpire within crawling range of la línea.) The cost was a hefty $10, of which $5 was a flat-rate policy charge. Based on what the policy says, I'd figure a week's worth of this highly inadequate coverage would cost about $30. Suitably paranoid, I headed south. The border crossing consisted of being waved through a tollbooth-type structure. Immediately visible on the left (northbound) side was the snarl of traffic waiting to cross into the U.S.A., along with a solid wall of cheap curios tended by men who had a disconcerting habit of darting across the eight-lane thoroughfare right in front of me. Cautiously I scanned the signs for my first destination, the Plaza Rio Tijuana shopping center. Luckily the way was very well signed, and the pavement was good too, so I could concentrate on avoiding the highway-crossers. I exited onto Paseo de los Heroes, a modern, six-lane boulevard which almost immediately came to a glorieta, or traffic circle. When the light changed to allow five lanes to funnel into two, I discovered that I was in precisely the wrong lane. So some very fancy hand- and foot-work amidst a skirmish of honking, smoke-belching vehicles was required to maneuver myself into position to enter the mall parking lot. My insurance-less status made me loath to leave my bike unattended any longer than necessary, so I completed my pharmaceutical purchases quickly and got back on the highway. The signs for Tecate led me onto a quasi-freeway parallelling the leveed Tijuana River. The pavement was smooth, but extremely oily -- remind me not to be riding in Tijuana when the first rain falls. Traffic was fairly heavy, but quite sane. An interchange on the eastern side of Tijuana put me on Blvd. Insurgentes, a chaotic four-lane thoroughfare lined with auto-related businesses, making this a great place to break down if you're in a car. The hybrid Spanglish word "yonke" was much in evidence (translation: junk). The side streets were mostly unpaved. Gradually the valley narrowed, and the buildings thinned to an occasional cluster of shacks. And despite patches of severely broken asphalt, the road surface was mostly pretty decent. The speed limit, though, was quite low -- 60 kph, or 35 mph. As I exited the Tijuana metropolitan area, the road entered a scenic, but increasingly hot, area of dairy farms and boulder-strewn hillsides. Traffic was still heavy, but moving... until a point about 10 km west of Tecate, where traffic slowed to a standstill. Although I had seen Mexican moto riders lane-splitting (bareheaded), I saw no point in tempting fate, and so resigned myself to a sweaty crawl into Tecate. But on the right there materialized an on-ramp to the cuota (tollway) which connects Tecate to the Otay Mesa border crossing. A moment later, I was fumbling to come up with a larcenous $1.75 for the 6-mile trip into Tecate -- or TKT, to use the cheeky phonetic appellation common locally. The road was excellent, with call boxes and virtually no traffic, but a rather low speed limit (80 kph). (Later I discovered, upon reading my toll receipt, that by purchasing passage on this swank thoroughfare, one is automatically covered for liability and personal injury by the tollway company's insurance.) My passage on Mexico Highway 2-D ended all too soon at the exit for the southern access point (via Hwy. 3, which runs to Ensenada) to Tecate. The town was clogged with traffic, much of it consisting of gringo RVs flocking to the (comparatively) lightly used border crossing. I poked around in the side streets near Tecate's eponymous brewery, finally parked and had a papaya licuado, which the server deftly mixed in a blender without a lid. Again, paranoia prevented me from seeing too much of Tecate on foot (besides, it was very hot, probably in the mid-nineties), so after a circuit of the pretty plaza, I got back on my trusty Llamaha and headed for the border. Which I had a ludicrously hard time finding. I insinuated myself into the gringo caravan, but was directed away from the border crossing by a frazzled cop. I tried the highway east of town, but couldn't find the crossing there either. Finally I headed back west, and found the Tecate P.O.E. a couple blocks west of where I had started. A sympathetic policeman waved me into a gap between two lumbering RVs, and gave me a peace sign in response to my grateful head-nod. So I only had to wait a total of about 5 minutes to get across... some cages probably had to wait 15-20 minutes. Still not bad compared to the San Ysidro crossing. Once on the California side, I was suddenly in deserted countryside. Right smack on the border were some essential businesses, like a Payless Shoe Source (the sight of which justified my decision not to go boot-shopping in Tijuana). But north of there, nothing but sun-blasted chaparral. I took the scenic way home. East on CA 94 to Campo, then north on county highway S-1, which becomes the spectacular Sunrise Highway north of I-8. At one point you can look from a pine-scented hillside 6000 feet up and see the barren wastes of Anza-Borrego State Park and beyond, the Salton Sea, elevation minus 200. From there I was joined by an FJ1100 jockey, with whom I shared the remaining twisties to the Vermontoid town of Julian, as well as lunch upon arrival. Then it was Highway 79 through some of the loveliest hills and valleys you could imagine. It was hot, though, and I was glad to reach Lake Elsinore and the eastern terminus of infamous Ortega Highway. Mercifully, I was neither tailed nor blocked during the initial, highly giggle-inducing twisties. Later, though, I came upon an unpassable Tempo, and resigned myself to a leisurely cruise through the verdant Riverside and Orange County mountains. At San Juan Capistrano, rather than hit the freeway, I opted to continue down Del Obispo St. to the Pacific Coast Highway, the better to enjoy the deliciously cool ocean air. And cool it was, through Dana Point and traffic-choked Laguna Beach. But the Seca got me through it all like a hot knife through butter. From there it was simply a matter of another tedious freeway slog (through the surprisingly sparse Labor Day evening traffic), and by 7:15 I was enjoying an ice-cold beer and the knowledge that henceforth I'd be able to start sentences with, "When I rode my bike down to Mexico..." |