The oil that keeps these old bikes running is like the camaraderie of our crew—a well-oiled machine. That’s how I would describe our journey to Baja, Mexico—a place south of the border that promises open roads, remote skate spots, fresh tacos, and empty surf breaks.

Our plan was simple: reach Cuatros Casas, a destination that checked all the boxes for the adventure we sought. With 14 old choppers and a ’64 Ford F100 loaded with boards, tools, parts, and camera gear, we headed south to the Tijuana border, crossing into the Wild West.

Excitement mixed with uncertainty—we didn’t know if we’d make it back in one piece. Could the hardtail bikes handle the loose dirt roads and pothole-ridden highways? Would the federales try to plant drugs on us at checkpoints, or would they wave us through? What if a rabid dog bit our feet off while we waited at a stoplight? Would the remote gas stations even have fuel, or would the Cartel decide to steal the knucklehead just because they could, leaving us helpless? Some surfers met a dire fate while we were there—wrong place, wrong time. We dodged death a few times ourselves, but what we found was great people, rich culture, authentic food, and a small taste of uncharted territory.

Heading down to Baja can be the best trip of your life or the worst. Don’t go looking for trouble, and it will generally leave you alone. But if you want to dance with the devil down there, remember the classic Waylon Jennings lyric: “Ain’t no God in Mexico. Ain’t no way to understand. How that border-crossing feeling makes a fool out of a man.”