Every day is clear and sunny, every day is hot. Leaving water, any water, for the interior requires a girding of the psychological underpinnings that typically eludes us. If it’s 95 here on the coast, inland it must be, what, 150? Throw in the fact that the only bike rides our research turned up were long, grueling climbs on dirt roads and it’s not surprising that days go by without the bikes ever moving off the roof.

“Sinuhe, why did we bring bikes?”

“Uh, because we’re victims?”

“Precisely.”

But even a blind pig finds a truffle every now and then, and we come

into the possession of a crude, hand-drawn map of a network of singletrack on the coast of the Gulf, just outside Los Barriles. It leads us to a ridge above shining waters, and we sweat and grunt our way along the top.

The trail is magnetic, the distant mountains alluring. David is fit–he’s run two marathons–but is a fledgling mountain biker and as day becomes evening he has the good sense to turn back. Sinuhe and I, though, chase each other to catch the sun, hammering to see as much as we can before the light is gone, and then we’re slaloming between 20-foot cacti under pink, fish-scale clouds. In seconds, it seems, the clouds turn gray, then black, and then we’re without lights a long way from the truck and a longer way from home.

We turn downhill, and ride fast, Sinuhe in the lead, me a bike length behind. Cardon cacti line the trail, lazy cholla branches droop at the apex of every turn. We blur in the thickening dark through a gauntlet of a million tiny needles, but we ride without fear because whoever built this trail knew what they were doing: It is absolutely simpatico with the unique rhythms of a fast-moving mountain bike.

Sinuhe shouts in pain, then I do, too, both of us victims of a hanging cholla branch that rakes our right arms with spines. Moments later a patch of a stinging plant known as caribe sets our shins on fire.

There’s no time to stop, so we suck it up and keep rolling, even faster than before. More chollas slap me in the dark, but now I’m flowing with the swooping speed and catching glances of the waxing moon climbing out of the Gulf of California and I’m abuzz with the knowledge that even with the pain and darkness–maybe because of the pain and darkness–I can’t possibly imagine this ride or this moment being any better.

The next day, five of our six bike tires are flat and my index finger is swollen from a stubborn spine. It’s funny: We’d crossed the border in fear of getting bit by the police, but it’s biological Baja that’s laying la mordida on us. I’ve been stung by jellyfish, poisoned by a plant, punctured by cactus. Sinuhe is covered with mosquito welts, has had a tooth yanked, and suffered broken blood vessels in both eyes from scuba diving. “You know, I really love the desert, but I am getting tired of being bitten, pricked, and stabbed,” he says.

Me too. On the other hand, I’ve been nuzzled by a wild sea lion. I’d say I’m still way ahead.

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