Sometimes, You Just Gotta Ride

Every now and then, you just need to get out of your own head. Not because you’re burnt out or spiraling (although, sure, that too). Sometimes it’s just, well, it’s just because. Because the walls are starting to feel too familiar. Because you’ve had the same conversation with your computer four times this week. Because your partner looks up from their phone and says, “Wanna go for a ride?,” and that suddenly feels like the most reasonable idea in the world.

That was us yesterday. No plan. No packing. Just helmets on, bike fired up, and a vague goal of “up that way” toward Ruta 23, the winding road into the mountains behind Puerto Vallarta. And all of it in the hopes of stumbling across something that wasn’t on a to-do list.

There’s something about a road that gently insists you stop thinking so much. Ruta 23 doesn’t rush you. It’s not flashy. It just says, “Hey! Turn when I turn, and look up once in a while.” So we did. And the further we climbed, the quieter everything else got; emails, errands, and the weird guilt that can come from not feeling all that productive.

The wind was soft. The sky went on forever. We weren’t saying much, and didn’t need to.

We rolled past sleepy streets where dogs lounged in driveways and kids chased soccer balls. Then the houses thinned out, replaced by forest, cliffs, and long, empty stretches of road that felt like they were waiting just for us.

We stopped whenever it felt right. No schedule. No pressure. Which, let’s be honest, is how every truly good memory begins.

Eventually, we pulled over at one of our favorite viewpoints, Mirador Mojoneras. It’s not the kind of place that’s touristy, which might be why we love it so much. Just mountains for days, valleys folding through them like soft fabric, and light moving like it had all the time in the world.

We looked out, helmets off, sun on our backs. Just breathing and occasionally blurting out things like “How is this just here?” and “Look at where we freakin’ live!”

After the kind of pause you don’t realize your body’s been begging for, we hopped back on Dora (the motorcycle, as she’s one hell of an explorer). We decided to keep going, because the road didn’t feel finished with us yet.

Somewhere past the viewpoint, just as the road narrowed and ducked deeper into the hills, we met cows.

Not just a cow. Not even a couple of cows. A herd. Big ones. With horns. Casually blocking the road like they owned stock in it. They weren’t aggressive. They weren’t scared. They were just chilling. But I was terrified, because they were doing it powerfully, like bovine bouncers deciding whether we were cool enough to pass.

Under normal circumstances, this would’ve been hilarious. But we’d made the rookie mistake of watching Clarkson’s Farm the night before, specifically the episode where Jeremy Clarkson gets aggressively stalked by a bull. Apparently, that scene left a deeper mark on me than I realized, because the moment I saw those horns, my fight-or-flight system went into overdrive.

I clung to the back of the bike like we were about to enter a matador arena, then hopped off and made a run for it when one especially smug-looking cow turned its head and locked eyes with me. Slowly. Dramatically. Ominously.

After what felt like a multi-act negotiation, the herd finally parted enough for me to inch my way back to Dora at a sloth-like pace and jump on. We then managed to slip through, deeply relieved, and 96% certain we’d been hazed.

Eventually, we reached the very end of Ruta 23 and landed at Rancho Las Vegas. Now, this isn’t the glitzy one with neon signs and roulette wheels, but a quiet little spot where the world slows down and your shoulders drop before you even realize it.

There’s a creek there that I adore. It babbles through the rocks like it’s been doing the same thing for centuries and doesn’t care who’s watching. We left the bike and wandered along the bank until we found a flat rock just right for sitting and doing nothing.

We passed a Topo Chico back and forth. We laughed about the cows. We said “What a day” about seventeen times. No background music. No agenda. Just water, sunlight, and the feeling that maybe we’d found the reset button we didn’t know we were looking for.

It wasn’t a big trip. It wasn’t planned or grand. But we ended the day lighter. Dusty, sure. A little tired, absolutely. But closer to each other, and ourselves. Because that’s what a good road does. That’s what a soft afternoon and a quiet creek can give you. If you let them.

So, if you’re sitting there wondering whether you need a reason to disappear for a few hours, take a turn of the beaten track, or pull over somewhere that only half exists on Google Maps, the answer is no. You don’t need a reason at all.

You just need an open road. And someone special who doesn’t mind unexpected detours, cow-related delays, and sitting quietly creekside with you.

And if you do find yourself in a slow-motion standoff with a herd of large, unimpressed cows, don’t do what I did. Instead, just breathe. Stay cool. Respect the horns. And for the love of flan, keep going. Because the best roads never rush you. They patiently wait.