The Baja 1000 takes place in the desert on the Baja Peninsula. It is the most prestigious off-road race in the world, but it is also one of the most dangerous, especially for motorcycle riders like myself. The distance is grueling enough, but racers are also constantly combatting fatigue from riding for hours straight through the course of multiple days. While there are different classes and divisions for the race, all the racers compete at the same time on the same course, making motorcyclists the most vulnerable. If the constant threat of being crushed by 2000-ton vehicles wasn’t enough, spectators will often intentionally interfere with the course by making steep ramps, obstacle courses, and even fire pits to cause havoc for the racers. But none of that danger compares in the slightest of ways to the horrors that I experienced when I last competed.
I had competed in the race once before, so I wasn’t a rookie, but I wasn’t even close to placing the first time. Having a few wins at other competitions under my belt now, and having placed fourth in the Baja 500, the second time I entered the Baja 1000 I entered with the expectation of at least coming in the top 10.
The race started like any other off-road race. I pulled out toward the front early and maintained a position close to the front until darkness fell. Night in the desert is colder than most people realize, so I had to battle to stay awake and also stay warm. I was in the middle of thinking about taking a quick nap when I saw that the main course a little ways ahead had been booby trapped by spectators. One of the riders had apparently wrecked his bike, and as a result other riders were deviating from the course in the hopes to avoid the trap. I decided to do the same. I tried to make a shallow bend, but an ATV boxed me out and I had to go further to the right than I had planned.
Just as I was rounding the end of the turn to head back toward the main path, the desert sand dropped away and I fell head over wheels. I flipped one full circle and landed on my tires with a thud in a mound of sand. The drop wasn’t very far but it was enough momentum to drive my head into the handle bars. The impact made my ears ring, despite the fact that my helmet absorbed most of the impact, and I tipped over into the sand. I groaned for a moment before jumping to my feet as thoughts of finishing the race flooded my mind. The hole I’d fallen through was smaller than I’d expected, about the size and shape of a pickup truck. I sighed and realized the only way I’d reach the hole to climb out was if I found something to stand on.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I realized there was no way I’d be able to get my bike out without help. The race was over for me.
“Somebody help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, but the sound of revving engines and wheels kicking up sand was all I received as a reply.
I pulled out my phone and used the flashlight to survey the hole I had fallen through, realizing it was supported by some sort of chiseled stone. As I continued to examine the area I realized I was looking at a ceiling. My survey allowed me to conclude that I was in a larger structure that had been swallowed by the desert. The sand on the ground was at least a few feet deep, and the walls were covered with Aztec-like carvings and symbols. As far as I knew Aztecs hadn’t lived on the Baja Peninsula, but I was no historian. In the distance I saw two circles of light pointed at the wall.
It was then that I realized I wasn’t alone. The two circles were headlights. Someone else had fallen through! I circumspectly headed toward the headlights, checking the ground for hazards. When I reached my destination I discovered a trophy truck had indeed fallen into the hole. The vehicle had three large gashes along the passenger side, and the door had been ripped away. I initially assumed this had somehow happened during the crash, but when I saw a trail of blood leading from the driver’s side, out the door, and away from the vehicle my heart started to beat faster.
As I moved away from the hole I had fallen through, the area grew quieter and quieter. Pretty soon I could barely hear the raspy breaths of someone or something else. I thought about running back to the hole and trying to climb out, but the thought of an injured person needing my help pushed me to continue.
The further I went from the trophy truck, the wider the room became until I could no longer see the walls. The breathing grew louder and raspier, as if sand had entered the person’s or thing’s lungs and was interfering with each breath.
When I found the driver of the truck I froze dead in my tracks. He was hoisted upside down above a stone platform, supported by one of his legs. The supporting leg had been forcibly wedged between two narrow stones, and it was obvious the leg would no longer be useable even if I managed to free him. Directly below his head was a stone jar. Every second or so a couple drops of his blood dripped into the jar. It was half full. The raspy breathing continued.
Beside the jar was an old, unrolled scroll that had been smeared with lines of blood. A few rolled up scrolls were beside it. On the open scroll was a large triangle. At the top of the triangle was a jar. At the bottom left of the triangle was a disembodied mouth with the tongue pointing down from between the teeth. At the bottom right of the triangle was a man with all his limbs bent outward. At the center of the triangle was a scorpion.
I saw the upside down guy take a breath, and it put a rock in my gut. The breath sounded normal. The raspy breathing continued to reach my ears and I turned my head to find the source. There on the ground a few feet away, half buried in the sand, was a human head. The one eye above the sand glared at me.
Shocked at first, I did nothing, but the guy hoisted above the platform took another breath and I reached up to free him.
My attempts to free the guy roused him from his dazed state and he started screaming, looking up at his leg and screaming louder still.
“Get me out of here, man!” the guy said in between cries of agony.
Almost on queue with the end of his sentence, the half-buried head jerked up so that the entire head was above the sand. Both eyes glared at me now, and the mouth parted to speak, freezing me in place.
“En el polvo!”
The voice was as raspy as the breaths it had been taking, and each word expelled a cloud of dust from the mouth and nose. I stared blankly back at it. The head seemed to recognize my confusion, opening its mouth to speak again.
“Into the dust!”
As the last word came out, the head began to rise. The neck was exposed, and I expected a body to follow shortly thereafter. Instead, the neck just kept going. The head moved forward a little and I took a step back as the head and neck continued to extend toward the dangling guy. The neck finally stopped extending and the torso pushed through the sand. It was identical to a normal human torso, except the arms bent backwards at the joint, and the legs did as well. When the creature was fully exposed, I could see that in place of the crotch was a set of large jaws, and situated on on both the elbow and knee joints were large pincers.
My mind instantly reminded me of the image of the scorpion at the center of the triangle. By now the dangling guy was sobbing hysterically, and I felt tears welling into my eyes as the thought of gruesomely dying crossed my mind as well.
Still connected by slender, grotesque limbs of sorts, the pincers on both knees extended. They reached out, and the flat ends pressed against either side of the dangling man, squeezing more blood from his body. The dangling man gave a pained grunt.
“Into the dust!”
I turned tail and ran. I heard no signs of pursuit, but I still surprised myself and hopped so high out of the hole in the ceiling when I made it back that my abdomen was on the ground of the Baja desert. I heaved myself the rest of the way out and ran toward the crowd of spectators, screaming bloody murder like a small child.