The Biltwell 500

ANTICS AND ANARCHY IN BAJA CALIFORNIA

Stir up two dozen men, women, and man-children on chopped XS650s and semi-custom Harleys with four months of Internet chatter. Chase with a truck full of booze, surfboards and dirt bikes. Mix in four feisty bitches, shake over 250 miles of crusty Mexican tarmac and what do you get? Not much, really, which is why runs like the Biltwell 500 are so goddamned fun. In a sea of flannel-clad fashion shows and MoCo-approved chrome-a-thons, laid-back adventures like this one are a breath of fresh air.

Vivo Libre

Because thousands of hardy chopper freaks were expected to be at the Born Free bike show in Long Beach on Saturday, June 12, Biltwell 500 organizers Billdozer and McGoo chose the Lord's Day on the 13th as the start of their trip. Riders from as far away as Utah, Colorado, New Jersey, and Canada were making the trek to Born Free, so a 250-mile ride to Baja seemed like icing on the chopper cake. Come Sunday, however, fewer than 30 guys were assembled at the Denny's parking lot in Carlsbad, the jump-off point for the ride. This was fine with chase truck driver and grillmaster Matt Frick-fewer people meant more carne asada tacos for everyone at Monday's barbecue. Maybe the current crop of chopper freaks aren't so hardy after all.

Andelay, Culos

After helping to plug an oil leak on pro BMXer Eddie Cleveland's Sporty, Billdozer led the 90-mph charge down the I-5 freeway. First stop: the last Chevron in San Diego. Next stop: the first Pemex in Rosarito. A hard-charging cat named Eric was committed to the mayhem, but the teacup-sized gas tank on his offensively loud Yamaha XS was good for less than 40 miles. Fuel stops may have been frequent, but nobody was in a hurry. Once everyone got to mile marker 147 Sunday evening, the only things waiting for them were 10 miles of dirt road, cold beer and a warm fire. Well, that and two carloads of surfer chicks and frisky hipster girls. Newport Ninjas frontman Chris Huber was on the ride, and he always comes prepared. His lady friend Colleen brought surfboards and a wing girl, and Audrey was on the prowl for bearded weirdos. Plenty of those on this trip, my friend.

Peligroso!

Cuatro Casas is a surf spot a couple hours south of Ensenada. A gringo named Richard runs the hostel on the cliff that overlooks the famous point. Despite being 11 miles via dirt road from anything remotely civilized, Richard's well-maintained motel for surf bums has plenty of beds, a clean kitchen, cable TV, satellite radio, and, most surprising of all, a skate bowl. Cuatro Casas provided 500 runners a base camp for two days of surfing and skating and three nights of booze-soaked shenanigans.

Night one ended with a bang when Chris "Mad Dog" Moeller and Pedro the Bandito tried talking some sense into a kid who simply refused to stop firing bottle rockets at the friends while they were chilling by the fire. When Pedro stood outside the guy's tent to talk him down, drunk bottle rocket boy aimed his last missile in El Bandito's direction. Pedro's outstretched hand deflected the fiery projectile into the guy's tent, where it lit up the nylon confines like a thousand Bates repop headlights. Satisfied he made his point, Pedro returned to his seat by the fire. After several minutes, bottle rocket boy emerged teary eyed from his smoky tent and confronted Pedro and Chris.