Throttle therapy in the hills of Jalisco

Sometimes, you don’t need a full-blown reason to jump onto a motorcycle and ride off into the horizon. There doesn’t have to be some dramatic burnout or emotional unraveling. Sometimes it takes nothing more than a simple tug in your gut that whispers, go. And if you’re lucky enough to be in Puerto Vallarta, that whisper turns into a roar the second your boots hit the pavement.

Recently, it was just one of those days. The house felt too quiet, my inbox was too full, and my brain was too loud. So when my boyfriend, Omar, looked at me with a smile and said, “Wanna ride?” There was only one acceptable answer. “Absolutely!”

Forget the tour buses crammed with sunburned strangers and selfie sticks. There’s a different Puerto Vallarta for those of us on two wheels. You won’t find it in brochures or day-trip packages, but it’s there. It’s waiting just beyond the last set of traffic lights, where the cobblestone gives way to asphalt that winds into the hills like a promise.

We headed south out of town and then turned east, picking up Ruta 23 just past the Mojoneras area. It doesn’t look like much at first, just a narrow stretch of asphalt, patched here and there, rolling through the outer edge of the city. You’ll pass local buses, tiny tiendas, and families sitting on stoops watching the world roll by.

But give it a few miles, and Ruta 23 starts revealing itself.

Into the mountains

The road climbs slowly, not in a showy, dramatic way, but with quiet confidence. It’s not built for speed, but rather for looking up. It’s built for leaning into curves without needing to conquer them, and for remembering that the best rides are less about the destination and more about the way your shoulders start to drop with every turn.

The deeper into the hills we got, the more everything else faded. Notifications, work, and that’s vague sense you should be somewhere else; doing something more productive. Out on the road, none of that holds up. The world simplifies into nothing more than throttle, curve, breath, and repeat.

We passed through tiny ranchos so quiet we half-wondered if we were dreaming them. Dogs napped in the road, and kids played barefoot soccer in front yards that opened right into jungle. Sometimes we’d get a wave. Sometimes just a nod. But always that sense that we were guests in something slower and more grounded than the city allows.

We weren’t part of any tour group, and there were no signs in English. We were miles from any artisan markets or souvenir stands, and instead surrounded by a raw, beautiful Mexico that sometimes feels elusive after too long in a resort.

At one point, we pulled over at Mirador Mojoneras, a wide lookout where the mountains fold into each other like layers of green velvet. There’s no plaque and no fence, just a view that’ll gut punch you if you give it a second. We killed the engine, pulled off our helmets, and just stood there with the sun on our backs. Not talking, just breathing.

It’s wild how quiet it can get just thirty minutes from Puerto Vallarta’s bars and beach umbrellas. Up here, the sky stretches wider, and the wind is cooler. The road forgets the city, and so do you.

Watch out for beef

We didn’t time anything, just rode until something told us to stop. The ride becomes the destination, which is exactly the kind of therapy no guided tour will ever give you.

And then, the cows.

You always hear about animals in the road, but nothing quite prepares you for a full herd of horned cows parked across Ruta 23 like they were on strike. They weren’t in any rush, and they weren’t scared of us in the slightest. They were just a great wall of beef blocking our path.

One especially massive bull looked at me like he was sizing up my soul. And maybe he was. I remembered, way too vividly, an episode of Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm where a similar bovine stare led to full panic, so I made a tactical jump and retreat behind Dora (our motorcycle, because it’s “the explorer”) while my boyfriend laughed and attempted slow, non-threatening negotiations with the herd. Eventually, we made it through with a little more humility than we had going in.

Not long after, the trees got thicker, and the road rougher. There’s something adventurous about being on a motorcycle when all around you are potholes, mud patches and loose gravel. Dora handled it like she always does, sure-footed and stubborn, like she was born for this kind of backroad freedom.

At the far reaches of Ruta 23, we reached Rancho Las Vegas. Not to be confused with its neon-lit American cousin, this place is the opposite of flashing lights and ringing slot machines. It’s quiet. It smells like pine, and dirt, and something cooking somewhere in the distance.

There’s a creek that runs nearby. It’s nothing fancy, just water dancing over rocks and roots. We found a flat spot, took off our gear, let the silence wash over us, and passed a cold bottle of Topo Chico between us.

We sat there longer than we meant to, saying things like “How is this just here?” and “We should do this more often,” even though we already knew we wouldn’t wait long before coming back.

We rolled back into the city covered in dust and grinning like two kids who got away with something. We were tired in the best way; that full in the soul kind of tired instead of full in the stomach. We felt a little more connected to each other, to the road, and to the parts of ourselves that don’t get much airtime in the noise of everyday life.

Ruta 23 won’t be on most tourist maps. It’s not a major highway, and it doesn’t lead to a famous beach or a UNESCO heritage site. But if you’re on a motorcycle in Puerto Vallarta, and you’re craving something real, somewhere the road takes you deeper than a brochure ever could, this is it.

Don’t overthink it. Don’t over-plan it. Just get on the bike and go. The open road will handle the rest.

And if a herd of cows decides to test your nerve along the way? Smile, breathe, and for the love of all that’s holy, respect the horns.