There is a pounding sensation on my head, as I pay closer attention, I think it might be Morse code. I turn, and through the dark tinted face shield of my new helmet I make out a human figure. The tapping continues, and as I lift the face shield, I notice that it is Steve Campbell mumbling something in my direction. I take off the helmet so I can hear what he is saying.

Now if you have ever been to a newsboys show then you have been to a Steve Campbell show. Steve is the man who makes things happen. Things like lights, sound, rising and spinning drum kits, smoke on demand and ultimately the man responsible for the confetti in your hair the next day in home room. That’s why they call him Road Manager, Production Manager, Lighting Director, Animal handler, and to you and me, Mr. Campbell Sir! He is also the man in charge of making the motorcycle side of the Baja trip happen!

The legendary Baja motorcycle trip, which usually follows a huge show in late spring in San Diego, is the most sought after invitation on the Habibi calendar. It is kinda like receiving notice from American Express that you have been invited to membership of the “Black Card”. If you make the list, you are basically invited to join the guys on their well-deserved vacation. To make it even more exciting, you also have the possibility of loosing your life keeping up with your favorite band as they race through he Mexican desert. I am not bragging, but let’s just say the Lord has blessed Habibi with three scratches in his helmet, if you know what I mean!

Back to Steve Campbell. Steve is an avid motorcrosser / adventurer and has been riding hard and fast since about the time you and I were learning our first memory verses in Sunday School. Steve tells me to be in the lobby at 9:30 sharp, bike and body ready to go. I put my helmet back on and climb into bed. I am the only guy on the team sleeping in full kit, boots and all. I have been waiting for this trip all year!

I finish my omelet and my devotions ahead of schedule, and since I am already dressed, I walk out and pray over my bike, which I have named Giselle. I pray with one eye open, (Lord that is one hot bike, thank you for it Lord, and please help me not to die in the desert…), and one eye closed, thoughts focused on the ride that will take us across the border through mirages, sandy canyons, and deep into Baja, Mexico.

The coffee machines are dry, a sign that our crusty crew of bikers have come through the lobby just moments ago. I am not worried because I have stashed away in my bike box (sits behind me until I find a wife to ride with me) a cold 6 pack of Starbucks double shot espressos, a newsboys treat enjoyed by Habibi as well. Think of these as emergency juice when stuck in the desert. I have been offered a twenty just for one can under harsh conditions.

A quick and muffled group prayer through a motocross helmet by our leader and the ignition sequence begins on a set of yellow German rockets. The BMW R1200 GS is a sophisticated lady. You are sitting on 1200 cc’s of pure Euro power pumped fresh via two massive cylinders, a drive shaft, and monitored by more electronics then those of the control tower on the USS Nimitz sitting out in the San Diego bay. There are two headlights, wicked and wickeder, and we have all switched to nobbies, or nobblies as the Kiwis call them, for all terrain action. I am so excited to have been invited along on the infamous annual Baja Bike trip. The only thing more intimate for a super fan would be to be invited to live in the recording studio from start to finish of a newsboys album!

Riding on the trip this year is Peter, the Campbell Brothers (same parents, different bikes), Wayne, the good looking Aussie gent you have met at the merch table, and Monty, who is Peter and Paul’s ace guitar tech. Legend has it that if Monty was taken hostage and beaten, with hands tied behind his back and feet in cement shoes and blindfolded, he could tune Peter’s guitar and change strings on Paul’s in under 8 seconds flat! And then there is myself, the recently spotted, Habibi, a simple fan trying to keep up with his favorite band.

I try to stay mid pack, somewhere just behind Peter as my speedometer continuously reads slow down in Deutche. We hit the 805 and head for the back door into Mexico down by Tecate somewhere between two cacti and a bounty hunter’s trailer. The crossing is as smooth as enchilada sauce one ice cream as we make our way through the border pueblo. We are like a band of crusty Mariachis on mechanical burros, dropping courteous helmet nods to all the federales sipping on warm horchata, fanning themselves with their sombreros in the mid day heat. We do this all the way down Calle de los Gringos Locos to the Plaza de la Revelucion where Eduardo Ramirez is taking pictures of the newly wed couple from Chihuahua, the city, not the dog . . .

My hands have gone numb from over extension of what GI Joe called “Kung Fu Grip”. I flick the switch on the handlebars with my thumb and instantly feel the life bringing warmth of the heated handgrips. Eventually feeling in my hands return, as I start to feel the sweat running down my fingers inside my gloves. I have been told to caress the handle bar grips as though holding sparrow’s eggs, I think I just made an omelet . . .

Steve has just paid cash for my sins at the tollbooth and we are off again in the direction of Mexicali on the newly completed autostrada. We have chosen the “Cuota” route so as to avoid those locals who might still be under the influence of the night before. We are rewarded by open road for miles, a biker’s dream. One by one the bikes flicker away and are consumed into the desert mirage ahead of me. I am alone again, like at the end of a newsboys photo shoot, my road riding skills separating me from the pack of experienced professionals.

I catch up with the team at a little taco restaurante on the edge of the plateau cliff which leads down thousands of feet into the desert below. I have learned to eat when the newsboys eat, sleep when the newsboys sleep, and you know... rock when the newsboys rock! It is time for lunch. Peter loves Mexican food as do the others. There is a testosterone-fueled duel to the banjo on who can eat the hottest salsa picante hot sauce. Peter goes for the still smoldering darker salsa marked “Fuego del Diablo” and lays it on thick like an encore at a stadium. I am using my broken Spanish to keep the grill fired up, tortillas flippin, and the queso melting. Out of respect to our ladies (the bikes) and the others in the band who are not with us this year, we each have one last taco, bringing the total order up to twenty five odd tacos, carne asada, the way Aussie bikers eat em! We leave the empty bowls of salsa picante and gargle the last drops of coca cola. With throttles open as wide as the Hoover dam (I hate to use that kind of language) we are off. There is a mesmerizing vibration that comes from the precision BMW motor which stirs the heart, and later the bowels. It feels good to be back in Baja.

We head down off the plateau into the depths of the dried lakebed that awaits us at the bottom. The road twists and winds its way at a steep decent through channels cut in the rock and around corners no one’s mother would ever allow. I feel like the black pearl as it swirls in the whirlpool in that storm scene in Pirates 3. There are crosses and plastic flowers on the side of the road indicating where others have unexpectedly ended their voyage.

I look out through my helmet and over the swaying autobus passing me going down hill around a corner on its way from Tijuana, to one of the most magnificent sights on the whole trip, the panoramic view of the valleys we are descending into. The land of Baja reminds me so much of the Sinai where my brothers and I would go scuba diving in the Red Sea at the foot of the mount where Moses received the 10 commandments. The valley that I am looking at in particular reminds me as well of Wadi Rum in Jordan where Laurence of Arabia fought. I am brought back to reality by the blast of wind that hits me as the guys pass me, Wayne honking twice as if to remind me to be at the Oasis across the dried lakebed before sundown. As if Habibi wouldn’t be there… I honk back at him and wind up lurching forward, up shifting instead of downshifting by mistake, what ever… in a split second they are gone.

Having prayed my way down the “Calle de los Muertos”, as I call that stretch, I am now ready to cross into the dried river bed, a 40 odd mile desolate flatland littered with the carcasses of Chevy’s and Fords not as fortunate as I. I pull up next to our white pickup parked at the top-secret spot in the desert, indicating a turn in the sand. The F-150 is driven by Dave Wagner, InPop Records label manager and Habibi lifesaver. In fact, Dave has saved my life so many times that they have made him a second crown in heaven made up of all the gems taken out of my crown! Dave greets me with a nod to the massive white cooler which contains an ice cold Red Gatorade with my name on it. I love red, but purple and blue are good too. Dave notices my gloves are smoking and asks me if I have been riding in the desert with my handgrip heaters on…how does he know this stuff. He also suggests that I take my helmet off before trying to drink that Gatorade. Ok, it’s been a hard ride keeping up with the NB crew.

Dave informs me that I am the last man to cross the dried lake bed and that I better get on it as the sun will be setting in a couple hours. He reassures me that Peter is probably already at the camp in the oasis, hours away, and might even be sitting in the natural hot springs enjoying the aguas calientes as we speak. Ok, I get the picture!

I give my camera to our friend Tommy who is riding with Dave this year and not on his own BMW, due to a crash earlier in the day totaling his new bike and his wrist. We know God answers prayer because Tommy is alive and looking like a movie star (look for him in Oceans15). I give him my D2x and ask him to shoot a couple frames to prove to the kids in home group that I rode Baja with the newsboys. I take off leaving them in a could of dust and dried lake bed pebbles, or was that them in front of me, leaving me with an almost empty tank of gas and some large black birds circling overhead.

The two track that I have been riding in has now become a trail of soft powdered sand. This is danger for me, I hate the soft sand, it is my weakness in the desert, I think you know what kind of problem I am facing knowing where we are riding. I flash back to previous trips with the lads when Duncan and Jeff told me how to ride in sand, moments before running me through cacti, accidentally of course, friendly fire is what was written in the report… I ride out of the two track looking for harder ground.

With no luck, I am forced to return into the sandy ruts of the only trail to the oasis. I edge Giselle over the lip of the first rut and into the soft sand. In an instant I am thrown to the ground going from X miles an hour (Habibi’s mother might be reading) to 0 miles an hour in 1 second. The impact is horrific. I land face into the sand, hip into the rut. I see stars so clear that I can even see little people in space colonies on them. It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up with my fallen body. A wave of pain drifts across my back, crawling across my skin like heard of crabs. Just like in the Moto movies we have been watching on the tour bus, I summon all the strength I have, and stumble to my feet. I feel like Godzilla trying to stand after being shot so many times.

Just then the white truck pulls up beside me sliding to a halt in a cloud of dust, those pesky pebbles ricocheting off my new helmet now scratched and dented. I hear the rapid clicking sound of my camera’s motor drive and then the laughing voices of Tommy and Dave as they come to my rescue, again!

“How’s yer bike dude?” “That was some nasty fall, man!” “Habibi, I got some great shots of you going down bro!” “Here’s your blinker light!” “Quick Habibi, how many songs on the GO album?” “Eleven” I say. “Plus 3 previously unreleased tracks.” “Aw yeah, you’ll be fine!” “See you at the oasis…” These words of comfort spin around my throbbing head as though notes going through Paul’s Wha-Wha pedal.

The truck takes off again as a drop of water falls from my camelback hydration system and lands on the toe tip of my dusty boot as though reminding me that time and water are running out. I lift Giselle to her nobbied feet and rub her on her gas tank and say sorry. She lights up on the first try and we are off again to the dusty shores of the dried lakebed.

A strange phenomenon happens as I start ridding into the heat waves of the mirage I am chasing, I hear music in my ears, it is the melody to the NB hit “Your love is better then life”. It gets louder and louder in my helmet and now there are words, “I don’t know why I’m out here riding alone in a great big desert”, “I don’t know if I’ve got gas to make it all the way home”, “I don’t know where I’m headed or if I will regret it”, “I don’t know why those big black birds are circling over my head”, “Am I alive or am I dead”, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know”, “One thing I do know”, “Your love is better then life” . . . Focus Habibi!

The desert changes colors as I bounce across the sea of rocks the size of bowling balls. This is the only indication that you are nearing the secret entrance into the newsboys oasis hidden in the Canyon de Guadalupe. I stop to take a drink and see what time it is, we must be getting close to sunset. I pull back my riding jacket to look at my watch and to my greatest horror, my watch is gone! Adrenaline is injected into my collapsing veins and my heart beats as fast as Duncan’s kick drum mid spin cycle on the flying drum kit. I franticly search my body in hopes of finding the watch that has circled the globe with me for 14 years and survived missions trips to over 100 countries, not to mention a couple near death experiences with the boys. One of which includes falling in the oatmeal a day or so ago, and others only my parole officer will ever hear.

Just as Dave had predicted, there was Peter covered head to toe in that kind of fine sand blasted dust, the kind that only comes at certain desert speeds unlawful in 38 states. He is sitting in a collapsible camping chair, relaxed, looking just like he does after a raging show, backstage in the green room. There is a dusty smile on his face as he watches me park my beloved GS beside a crooked palm tree. News has traveled quickly across the desert, perhaps the circling black birds have whispered in Peter’s ear that Habibi has crashed in the massive dried lakebed.

“Habibi mate! Howareya Mate?” There is laughing, exhausted, dehydrated, laughing throughout the camp. They are all there, the Campbell brothers, Wayne, Dave, Tommy and the rest of them. Some are fixing bikes, others heading to the hot springs, and others just sitting and resting. We are all together again like family, surrounded by desert palms and massive Baja boulders, a beautiful sunset, Tacos on the Barbie, and a thatched roof out house. Yes, welcome to Paradise!

“I lost my watch Peter”, I mumble, hobbling closer to the chairs and the promise of rest in a chair that doesn’t move. “I know ya did!” “Let’s have a look at the picture of your crash”, He says. “Nice work Habibi, proper crash you’ve got there, mate!” “Thanks Peter.” Then Peter says something I will never forget. Now what was it? Oh yeah! “I’ll find your watch for you, zoom into that last picture and lets have a look round in the sand.” “I betcha you’ll find it!” “Impossible!” Someone cries out from behind a bike, trying to be an encouragement! “It’s like trying to find a needle in a hay stack mate!” “Yeah Habibi, your watch is gone for good.” “Thanks guys”, I respond. A final “No worries!” echoes from the hot springs a quarter mile away.

Peter hands me the camera back and I thumb through a series of switches as I zoom into the shot, tight, and tighter again, kinda like how they investigate the crime scene on CSI. My heart races as I zoom in even tighter, scanning all corners of the shot. Bam! There it is! My watch is sitting half barried in the sand right between my boots as I am stepping away from the bike!

My heart is pounding with excitement as I thank Peter and robble (cross between run and hobble) for my bike! “You’re not going out there now are you Habibi?” “You’ll kill yourself 5 times in the dark before you even make it to the dried lake bed!” “Besides that mate, there’s a wind storm coming up, your watch will get covered in sand by the time you get your britches and boots on!” That’s true, who ever said that, that’s true! “Thanks!” I yell back. “No worries mate!” Echoes back from the hot springs again, this time in a gargled voice, indicating that someone’s body has totally cramped over in the hot water.

The others decide to help me in the search by riding on away from the oasis to Mike’s Sky Ranch first thing in the morning so as to not interfere with the recovery process! Peter tells me that we will pray about it tonight and then he will ride back with me in the morning. We will look for the watch together. I pass him a fully loaded carne asada taco, hot sauce and all, the one I was hiding for myself in my moto x fox boot, and say thank you!

That night I pray for my lost watch, just like I have prayed for a hot wife for years. If I could syndicate that prayer on reruns, I would be a millionaire! That night I dream that the vultures have landed and eaten my watch. I twist and I turn all night waiting for sunrise. I awake somewhere just past midnight to see someone’s motocross jersey as it blows across my sleeping bag, a reminder that the windstorm is at full rage.

Sunrise could not have come sooner! Pain shoots across my entire body as I remove myself from the sleeping bag and crawl over to my bike box. I pop the lid open and shuffle around in the contents until I feel the cold metal can of a double shot espresso. I pop the lid and empty the contents. Like hitting the nitro on a rice rocket, instantly I have feeling in my legs again! I hobble over to where I believe we have left Peter to sleep pre-storm last night. I find him, bed hair and all, laying in his sleeping bag. He is still asleep and so I quietly place a double shot within sniffing range. He smiles back, eyes closed.

Peter has sacrificed his off-road adventure continuing through the desert with the other guys up the mountain to a place racers call “Mike's Sky Ranch”, a legendary stop on the Baja 1000 race, in order to help me find my watch. I can’t believe that the singer of my favorite band is going out of his way to help me sift through a dried lakebed large enough to be visible from space (for real). This is yet another reason why the NBs are my favorite band!

We saddle up the GS’ and head out of the safety of the oasis. We ride through the bowling ball sea, my teeth clattering like I were riding through the Antarctic in a Speedo. We cross through the sands of time and eventually find ourselves back on the dried lakebed. On a good day I can hardly remember at lunch what I had for breakfast. How am I ever going to find my crash site? Once again I turn to prayer. This trip has turned into a 24-hour devotions marathon! I ride on using the stars as guides and wind up riding like a drunken pirate. I focus my attention on the road, looking, searching, and praying (eyes open of course).

Ben Walton, whom you have met before in HR, think Ralph Lauren model meets spinning drum kit and smoke. Remember the guy with the chewing gum at the begining of tour… Yeah, that Ben! Well, that Ben, is driving a sweet SUV support vehicle, stereo blasting, with sunnies bouncing on his nose as he flies across the lake bed and surfboards strapped to the roof. He is there for us with Gatorade, sun block, and surf wax should we need either while deep in search and rescue mode. We ride forever until we get to the part where the two track turns to powder.

Ok Lord this is it! Are we going to find it or not? Peter lets me lead and in many ways I feel like the blind leading the blind! I shift my body weight back a bit and power up, you almost have to think like you are riding a snowmobile in soft sand. We pass dried bones and bounce over a rusty brake drum off a disintegrated mobile taco stand. I think we are getting closer! I am searching for skid marks leading to a crash site in the sand. Up ahead I think I see some messed up sand and so I bring the massive bike to a delicate stop. I put the kickstand down and take my helmet off. I imagine myself like Charlton Heston as he walks away from the crashed spaceship in Planet of the Apes. My heart beat races with each step in the scorching sand. I am as focused as a sniper’s scope and I am praying like I am in line at a breakfast club meet and greet hoping to make it past security before the band leaves

I pause as I retrace my tire tracks as they enter the two track and then become part of a huge web of chaos in the sand. I follow the boot marks and rewalk my steps to where I think the picture was taken. There to my great surprise lays my Rollie, mashed, half buried in the sand. The impact of the crash has torn the metal bracelet, the point where we were separated for the first time in 14 years.

I am reminded in that instant of the story in Sunday School on the flanograph of the Shepard who lost one sheep and searched and searched until it was found. I kneel down and pick up my watch, my little lost sheep, still ticking, just like the kick drum on stage at a NB show, strong and steady rockin! I pick up the watch and look up into the sky and thank the Lord for answering my prayer. A prayer that seems so trivial to someone else but of massive importance to Habibi. How awesome is it that God loves us so much that in all his power and majesty, He still makes time to hear our strangest prayers! “Like a needle in a haystack mate” runs through my head as I start to laugh!

I robble back to Peter and Ben who have parked, opened a Gatorade, and are waiting for me to return. I look at Peter and wave the watch at him like a hypnotist, “I found it, I found it!” “I knew you would” he says smiling, “I have been praying for your watch all the way from the oasis!”

“Well Peter, what do you want to do now?” I ask, my eyes glued to my watch. “Guys, I really feel like we need to get to the coast and have a bit of a surf!” “Amen”, I agree!

We ride across the desert until we reach the coast and head towards a secret NB surf spot about 55 clicks from the US border. Peter, Ben, and Anthony (Bens Dad, think Red Bull meets…) surf all afternoon taking advantage of perfect endless waves and the fact that they are the only guys in the water. I take a couple pictures and catch my smiling reflection in the sapphire crystal of my watch. I want to kiss my watch, but if the guys catch me doing that, this might be my last Baja trip.

That night the Campbell brothers, Wayne and Monty, ride into the hotel arriving in a massive noisy cloud of Baja desert dust. We sit around tables and share stories from the ride. Chips and salsa fly in every direction as the animated stories turn to desert legend. I wait my turn and then ask the group if anyone knows what time it is! A sparkle shines from my tooth as I smile as wide as a Bentley grill.

“No way mate, did ya get ya watch back?” “Awwwwe Yeah!” “And let me tell you about it!”