Baptism by Dust - Conquering My First Baja Rally

In early October, I participated in the Baja Rally®, a grueling 1985 km race through some of the most rugged and stunning terrain imaginable. This was my first rally race ever. For six days, I battled across washes, rocky trails, and loose stones, transitioning from two-track paths to no track at all, often navigating desolate stretches of desert that felt both harsh and beautiful. It was one of the most challenging things I’ve done—pushing my physical and mental limits—but I loved every minute of it. Days later, I’m still sore, my hands ache, and I’m deprived of sleep, but none of that matters. I’m already planning my next rally event. It’s addictive—there’s no better word for it.

But what exactly is rally racing? If you break it down, it’s a unique combination of high-speed geocaching and off-road endurance, where you navigate through deserts, dunes, and beaches, all while riding a motorcycle—and, crucially, without the aid of GPS. Each day, you're handed a roadbook, which is mounted on your bike’s tower. This is your lifeline. The roadbook is filled with instructions called tulips, each one containing the distance and hieroglyph-like notations that indicate what to do at that specific kilometer. The instructions can be as simple as making a turn, or as complex as going off-road, climbing a dune, and then making a sharp turn to avoid an obstacle, like a cactus or cows. The level of detail in the roadbook is entirely up to the race organizers, and part of the challenge is adapting to how much or how little information they provide. As a rider, your task is to hit all the waypoints while following this secret route, with your progress tracked by the organizers’ supplied device mounted on your bike. While it sounds simple in theory, at race speed, it’s anything but.

Riders are released from the starting point at staggered intervals, meaning for most of the race, you’re riding and navigating alone. Being the first rider comes with its own set of challenges—there are no tracks from previous riders to follow, and you’re entirely dependent on your navigation skills (luckily I was never the first starter). For those who start later, there’s the advantage of dust clouds from other riders ahead, providing a visual cue for where to go. But rally racing is tricky; blindly following another rider’s tracks can lead you astray because everyone gets lost at some point. The trick is to trust your own roadbook and odometer rather than relying on the tracks left by those in front of you. I used the tracks as a confirmation of my good navigation.

When you inevitably get lost—and yes, it’s a matter of when, not if—you have three options to find your way again. The first option is to return to the last cleared waypoint, which means backtracking and resetting your odometer to try to figure out where you went wrong. The second option is to open the next waypoint. However, this comes with a hefty time penalty, which is added to your overall time. Opening the waypoint provides you with an arrow pointing toward it, but the arrow only shows the direction “as the crow flies,” meaning you still need to navigate obstacles and terrain to get there. The third option is to skip the waypoint altogether, which also carries a time penalty but doesn’t offer any guidance on how to get back on track. Each option comes with its own risks and rewards, and a big part of rally racing is developing the strategy that works best for you in the heat of the moment. The strategy you choose depends on how much time you’ve lost and how confident you are in your ability to find your way back on course. For example, if you just cleared a waypoint and got lost right away, you will lose less time going back to the already cleared waypoint and figuring out your bearings rather than opening or skipping the next waypoint.

But navigation is only one piece of the puzzle. Rally racing also requires significant riding skill, especially in a desert environment. Deserts aren’t flat by any means—except when you’re lucky enough to ride on a dried-out lake bed, known as a playa. Otherwise, the terrain is often unforgiving, and the variety can be startling. Steep, rocky ascents, loose sand, and boulder-strewn tracks are just a few of the challenges. Personally, I struggle with rocks when I’m tired. At the start of the day, when I’m fresh, I can glide over rocky sections relatively smoothly. But as fatigue sets in, I find my tires bouncing uncontrollably over the rocks like a ping-pong ball, which only adds to my exhaustion. I’ve seen pro racers pass me on these sections, their bikes seeming to float effortlessly over the terrain, while I fought for every inch. The level of control, balance, and sheer cojones it takes to ride like that at those speeds is astonishing.

Rally racing is as much about endurance as it is about navigation and riding skills, it is a mental battle. The fatigue from long hours of riding builds up quickly, and any lapse in concentration can lead to mistakes—both navigational and physical. During the Baja Rally, we faced an unusual heatwave, with temperatures soaring to 116°F. Mornings would start off cool and comfortable, but by midday, the heat was oppressive. I found myself distracted by the discomfort, my thoughts drifting to abstract ideas or, more often, fantasies about a cold drink, while sweat poured into my eyes. In those moments, I had to focus on one thing: reading the roadbook and the track ahead of me. I repeated a mantra to myself over and over: ‘stay focused and read the road’. I wasn’t the only one struggling—everyone out there was battling the heat and exhaustion, making it a shared experience of suffering.

Aside from navigation and riding skills, rally racing also demands a certain level of mechanical expertise. Sure, you can have a team check over your bike when you return to camp each evening (if you brought a team with you but that’s a story for another day), but if something breaks down in the middle of the desert, you’re on your own. That’s why every rider carries essential tools, spare parts, hydration, snacks, a first-aid kit, and a satellite radio for emergencies. While safety is a top priority in these races, rescues can take time, especially considering how remote some of the areas are. Riders also watch out for one another. It’s common practice to give a simple thumbs-up to a passing rider if you’ve stopped on the track to indicate that you’re okay. This small gesture prevents other riders from stopping unnecessarily to check on you, saving them valuable time in what is still a race against the clock.

The blend of navigation, riding skill, and mechanical know-how is what makes rally racing so thrilling—and so unpredictable. There’s always an element of uncertainty, and that’s where the fun comes in. If you were to create a Venn diagram, the winner of a rally would be the rider who sits at the intersection of all three skills. For someone like me, with relatively average riding abilities, I focused on my strengths in navigation to compensate for my slower pace. I didn’t have to open or skip waypoints and only got lost a few times for not that long. This approach helped me place in the middle of the pack in the overall results. At one point, I even managed to pass a Dakar qualifier, though only briefly, as he quickly fixed a mechanical issue and overtook me again. Still, it felt like a small victory to have passed him, even if only for a moment.

After each day of racing, I would return to camp to work on my bike and chat with other riders—both amateurs and Dakar veterans. The camaraderie in rally racing is one of its most appealing aspects. Everyone is eager to share advice, trade stories, and learn from one another’s experiences. In the evenings, we gathered for rider meetings where the race organizers would explain the next day’s stage. These moments, filled with shop talk, laughter, and anticipation, added a social dimension to the rally that balanced out the solitude of riding. It was during these times that I realized how unique and tight-knit the rally community really is. Despite the competition, there’s a sense of shared experience and mutual respect that makes it unlike any other sport.

The week flew by in a blur of action, heat, sweat, and exhaustion. The intensity of the race left little room to think about anything else. Between the riding, the camaraderie at camp, and the constant learning, there wasn’t much headspace left for anything unrelated to the rally. Each day was a cycle of challenge, fatigue, and recovery, but also of excitement, learning, and the satisfaction of overcoming obstacles—both literal and figurative. The suffering, the heat, the long days in the saddle—all of it was worth it for the sense of accomplishment and the sheer thrill of the race.

Rally racing is a true test of endurance, skill, and adaptability. It brings together a unique group of people who share a passion for the challenge and the thrill of riding in some of the most remote and beautiful places on earth. The shared struggle, the unpredictability of the terrain, and the constant push to improve make rally racing one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had. I can’t wait to do it again.