One Tank of Gas and a Reminder to Live

There’s something about the hum of a motorcycle engine on a Sunday morning that makes me feel as though I’ve got my whole life together - even when I absolutely don’t.

At 7:45 AM last Sunday, Puerto Vallarta was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes, but Omar and I were already throwing on our helmets like protagonists in a movie about rediscovering joy through a semi-impulsive road trip. The plan? Ride to Tehuamixtle. Population? Who knows, but definitely outnumbered by pelicans. On a whim and a tank of gas, away we did go.

Let’s be honest, Sundays often morph into beige blobs. They’re the kind of days that start with good intentions (laundry? check! meal-prepping? check!) and end with three hours of scrolling, two naps, and a questionable amount of cheese. But not this time. This time, we chose the road.

If you’ve never heard of Tehuamixtle, it’s a tiny fishing village tucked away on Jalisco’s Pacific coast, and getting there feels like driving through a dream filtered in warm sepia tones (with the occasional potholes the size of existential crises).

The road out of Puerto Vallarta is a scenic flirtation with jungle-covered mountains, cliffs that drop dramatically into the ocean, and sleepy towns that smell like woodsmoke and tortillas. Somewhere after El Tuito, the pavement becomes more…ummm…interpretive. Let’s call it a lumpy, jostling, offbeat back massage courtesy of Ma Nature and indifferent roadwork crews. But what it lacks in comfort, it makes up for in charm. And let’s be real - if your teeth aren’t chattering at least once on a motorcycle trip, are you even road-tripping?

By 10:30 AM, and after a few stops and waving at dogs that seemed to have inherited entire intersections, we rolled into Tehuamixtle. The town greeted us not with fanfare, but with the kind of calm that makes you exhale without realizing you’d been holding your breath since Tuesday.

Tehuamixtle is one of my absolute favourite places in Mexico. It isn’t a place you visit; it’s a place you quietly become part of. Within five minutes of arriving, our helmets were off, and our flip flops were doing that half-hearted shuffle in the sand like they weren’t ready to commit to walking but were considering it.

This place! This hidden cove, carved between cliffs and sea, is absurdly beautiful. The water is a mirror of aquamarine, broken only by the gentle arc of a fisherman’s net or the flapping wings of birds who seem entirely unbothered by time or tide. Boats bob lazily in the bay, and the salt in the air feels like seasoning for your soul.

We snagged a spot at our favourite beachside hut (read rustic tables, plastic chairs, million-peso views), and we ordered seafood so fresh it may still have had opinions. They arrived garnished with lime and the smugness of knowing they were exactly where they were supposed to be. Like us.

We didn’t do much. We sat for ages. We swam a little. We watched pelicans dive-bomb the surf like they were auditioning for a documentary. We talked, but not urgently; rather happily. We watched kids jump in and out of the high waves with the kind of joy you forget is free.

And for five and a half hours - from 10:30 AM to 4:00 PM - we just were. Not working. Not achieving. Not scrolling. Not planning. Just being. It was magic disguised as simplicity.

There was this quiet moment, sitting with my face to the sun and watching the sea nuzzle the shore, when I realized how rare it is to actually live a day. Not survive it. Not get through it. But really, actively, consciously live it. I smiled when I realized that all it took was a tank of gas, some sketchy curves in the road, and the willingness to trade my too-often Sunday stupor for saltwater and sunburn.

At 4:00 PM, with mild reluctance and very full stomachs, we climbed back on the bike. The ride home felt different. It was like the road itself had softened, or maybe we had. Even though the deluge of rainy season hasn’t arrived yet, the golden-hour sun lit up the jungle in shades of green that would make an emerald jealous. Everything felt warm, from my shoulders to my sense of purpose.

We were back in Puerto Vallarta by 6:35 PM, just in time to see the city trading day for night, lights flickering on like a wink from the universe. And we’d only been gone for twelve hours. Less, even.

I keep thinking about that. About how when the weather starts getting warmer, I often spend Sundays in a standoff with my couch and my vague guilt about not “doing enough.” But this time, I did something. Not something huge. Not something expensive or life-altering. But something real. And that changed everything.

It reminded me that life doesn’t have to be bucket-list big to matter. It can be a short ride, a cheap meal, a swim in warm water, and the smile you didn’t know you needed. It can be a twelve-hour reminder that the world is still out there, waiting, patient, and incredibly beautiful.

I love big trips - new cities, passport stamps, scenery that makes the perfect dramatic Instagram post. But there’s something incredibly grounding about small adventures. About micro-escapes that don’t require planning or packing cubes. They force you to see what’s close, what’s real, what’s been quietly waiting for our attention just down the road.

Tehuamixtle wasn’t just a destination, it was a mirror. It showed me how much time we can all waste by not living. It reminded me that sometimes, the only thing standing between me and joy is my own inertia.

So, here’s my new “Sunday Summer Rule.” It’s a rule I live by for the six months a year when the sun doesn’t feel like it’s standing six inches from me in all its fiery glory, so why not add it to my summer list of things to do?

Once a month - minimum - I’m doing something like this. Heat be damned! I’m hitting the road, finding a view, and eating something delicious while sand sticks to my calves. No excuses, no overthinking. Just motion, and the memory of how alive it feels.

Because life doesn’t always hand you big adventures. Sometimes, you have to go and find them - on bumpy roads, behind faded menus, and under shady palms. Thai summer I say, “Screw the couch. Let’s ride.”

Oh, and if you’re reading this on a Sunday, still in your pajamas at 2:00 PM, wondering if it’s too late to “do something” - it’s not. Get out of your jammies and into some clothes, grab your phone, open whatever map app takes your fancy, and just go. Somewhere. Anywhere. 

You don’t need a week off to feel alive. Just a tank of gas, a sense of curiosity, a little bit of road dust, and a reminder that the world doesn’t stop just because we forget to notice it.