BAJA 1000

[Music] This is the Baja Peninsula, a land of granite and sand, a desert whose forbidding topography has fiercely ly resisted human habitation. Evidence of man consists of machinery that has been broken and abandoned, roads that lead to nowhere, and the crumbled adobe walls of deserted houses. But in this place where survival itself is an issue, man's crixs nature has led him to undertake one of the most hazardous forms of human activity, off-road racing. Once a year, driving highly specialized vehicles like this 140 mph pickup truck, more than 250 men and women will shatter the emptiness of the desert in a race they call the Baja 1000. [Music] [Applause] The paradox of the Baja is that this arid barren land could contain such a variety of terrain. The course over which the race is held is 1,000 km, 660 mi. And in that distance, the racers will cross the peninsula from the Pacific Ocean on the west coast to the Sea of Cortez on the east coast and back again. They will traverse silk beds, streams, dry lakes, even a forest of pine trees. The drivers will not only have to be able to survive terrific physical punishment, they will need a wide range of specialized driving skills. Roger Mir is a professional racing driver from Bakersfield, California. He explains why the Baja Thousand is so special to him. >> To me, uh, off-road racing, it's the best. It's total concentration for a,000 miles, and you're dealing with something different constantly. Every foot of the way is something different. There's no two turns the same, no two humps the same, no two rocks the same. >> The race begins and ends at the sea coast town of Ensanada, 90 mi below the US Mexican border. The afternoon before the race, the competing vehicles are brought to an impound area for tech inspection. In all, there are 18 classes, ranging from dune buggies with VW engines to motorcycles to four-wheel drive trucks. As different looking as these machines are, each is built with ruggedness in mind as much as speed. Here, Roger Mirs describe his Jeep honcho truck. >> We have add shocks to it. We add bracing in the frame. Uh, and then a lot of safety features like the roll cage and the seat belts. And to try to get this thing tough enough to last 1,000 mi isn't easy, I'll tell you. >> The race began just after dawn in a thick mist that had rolled in off the Pacific. The motorcycles went first, not all at once as in a normal race, but at timed intervals. Thus, even at the start, the character of the event was established. A race not so much against the other competitors, but against the Baja itself. Roger Mirs edged slowly forward in line. Beside him in the passenger seat was Texas oil man Mike Moore. At 8:43 a.m. Their race was on. With deliberate caution, Roger eased away from the line and headed toward the first turn. In the next 50 mi, he planned to take it easy, let the truck warm up fully before really running it hard. His major concern, however, was his own physical condition. 6 weeks before in an accident in a different form of racing, he had broken both of his arms. Because the Baja Thousand is the most famous event of its kind in the world, Roger had willingly undergone specialized treatment in order to be able to race. No one knew how long he could last, and the team had looked for a driver to replace him if and when it became necessary. They didn't have far to look. Their choice was another member of the Mir's family, Roger's father. At age 52, Bill Mirs was said to be just as tough and fast as his son. The first miles of the highway were easy. Then came the turn off the pavement, and the beating began that would last without relief until the end of the race more than 14 hours away. As he drove the changing road surfaces of the first 100 miles, Roger studied the subtle nuances of the way the G Poncho was handling. Pushed to its limits, any racing vehicle develops a sort of personality to which a driver adapts his style. As his confidence grew, Roger began to step up the pace. With the first range of mountains behind them, Roger and Mike roared east across a wide valley. The sun was up, bright and intense in the thin desert air. Ahead lay a section called the pine forest. Abruptly the road took on a different feel. In the soft sand ruts, the truck rolled smoothly like a boat meandering across a lake. The art of driving the pine forest requires precise control. The sandy road sloms between the menacing trunks of trees. And the danger lies in the fact that a car's front wheels riding in the ruts can pull the truck off its intended course just as if someone unexpectedly grabbed the steering wheel. The Pine Forest was claiming a share of victims. And for Roger and Mike, there was the fear that they would become involved in someone else's crash. And suddenly it happened. Two VW powered dune buggies collided. And Roger coming fast through the dust didn't see them until the last moment. He was able to stop quickly backed up and skirted the scene. The buggies were left to perform a maneuver that looked like the mating dance of one of Baja's strangest forms of life. [Music] As the leaders headed out of the forest onto a high mountain plateau near the center of the peninsula, the race was just 3 hours old. But already it was taking a remarkable toll. Some suffered failed engines, others lost wheels and had to try to struggle on the pits that were hours away. A few would make it, most would not. Of the 252 starters that left Ensanada, only 102 would return. For the top teams like Roger Mir's Mike Moore, the odds were maybe a little bit better. But luck and circumstances could affect anyone. And as Roger navigated a narrow rock strewn canyon, he found the road totally blocked. Two cars were wedged side by side in a narrow ravine, and a dozen others were stacked up behind them. Putting the jeep's four-wheel drive to use, Roger inched his way around the log jam. But vital minutes had been lost. Now there was a real sense of urgency. In the pileup, Roger had actually caught sight of his most feared competitor, Rodney Hall, in the lead. As they headed north toward Mexalei and the US border, Mike Moore estimated they were 8 minutes behind Hall. The terrain had changed again, this time to a series of dry stream beds. Fast driving of this kind is Roger's specialty, and mile after mile, he held the jeep to over 110 mph. Rod Hall had to be caught. By the checkpoint near Mexalei, Roger, driving brilliantly, had cut Hall's lead to less than 3 minutes. And as the course once again reversed direction, this time heading south, Roger would pass Hall and take the lead. In the lead, for the first time, Roger poured it on across the vast sandy stretches of the Colorado River Delta and soon reached a brief stretch of public highway on the coast of the Sea of Cortez. It was midafternoon. [Music] The relief brought on by the smoothness of the highway was momentary. And then the brutal pounding of the Jeep and its occupants began again. After 8 hours of non-stop driving, Roger was tiring. It wasn't his broken arms, he would explain later, but rather his lack of overall fitness brought on by his weeks in the hospital. His mind was made up. He would turn the driving over to his father at a fuel stop 20 m ahead. Meanwhile, he was closing in on a motorcycle and would have to make a difficult pass on the narrow road. Soon, he had the biker in his sights. Suddenly, the biker's balance seemed to falter, and Roger veered slightly to the right and hit a sharp rock. Not just one, but both right side tires had been destroyed. In their exhaustion, Roger and Mike moved almost like figures filmed in slow motion as they labored to change the wheels. In the silence of the desert, they could hear the sound of Hall's truck in the distance. A low growl increased in intensity as he drew closer, then burst by into the lead. >> Bring it down. Okay, just a second. Okay, go ahead. Bring it down. Bring it down. >> In the pits 20 mi ahead, Bill Mirs anxiously scanned the desert, unaware of what had delayed his son. When the truck finally pulled in and the crew started work, Roger, obviously relieved to be handing the driving over to his father, explained what had happened. The Jeep honcho was refueled and carefully checked over. The shredded tires were replaced with fresh spares, and then it was time for bills to go. Ahead lay the last stages of the race. In the late afternoon light, the shadows began to stretch across the desert floor. So few cars were still in the race that the passage of the jeep was a solitary rush of dust and sound. Then the desert silence closed in again. Slowly, the gap between Hall and Bill Mirs was lessening. Rested and fresh, Bill made the turn away from the Sea of Cortez and headed west. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the world quickly became gray and cold. It was dark as he raced across Diablo dry lake. A vast, utterly featureless expanse of sand 20 m wide. Following another car's tail lights in the black void, Bill drifted off the course. Critical minutes went by before he realized he was lost. At his next pit stop, he was 45 minutes behind. And sonata was still 4 hours away. Relentlessly, Bill Mirs made up the time. And when he turned the truck back to Roger for the final miles, second place was assured. For Roger, this meant victory in the overall season championship. When the G poncho crossed the line, it was 2:43 a.m. 18 hours to the minute after the start. For Roger and Bill and for Mike Moore, it had been a long day. They had teased the forbidding Baja, and now they could sleep. [Music] [Applause] Heat. Heat. [Music]