We took a room at Alfonsina's Resort Baja Hotel on the north side of the bay. It was a beautiful setting, but Brad was absolutely sick with worry that he might have scuttled the trip almost before it began. We ate fish tacos on the tiled terrace, talked over our options, and drowned our sorrows in cold Tecate. The next day, Brad hitched a ride back north, he and the BRP sharing a pickup bed with a rather surly mutt while I rode close behind. We eventually found a moto-mechanic, Jaime, in San Felipe and, despite my poor Spanish, managed to convey that the bike had run out of aceite. Jaime listened to the knock and opined that it merely needed a valve adjustment and, despite our skepticism, the BRP ran perfectly after 20 minutes of top-end tweaking. By the time we got back to Gonzaga Bay, though, the knocking was back. While I set up the tents, Brad readjusted the valves, and the Honda again ran fine. Still, as the moon came up over the Sea of Cortez, we worried that we hadn't seen the last of our troubles with the Big Red Pig. We were right.