The world had been pressing down on me for days. A weight had settled deep in my chest and refused to move. It wasn’t dramatic, just persistent. An accumulation of noise, responsibility and unanswered questions. 

That morning, I didn’t want to talk it through or think my way out of it. I needed a task clear enough to occupy my body and mind fully, where attention narrowed and everything else could fall away. 

I needed motion.

Throttle therapy 

We left Bucerías just as dawn began to thin the sky. The streets were quiet, washed pale by early light, the air heavy with coastal humidity. He rolled the bike onto the road smoothly, and I settled in behind him. Chest to back. Arms around his waist. Familiar and functional. The engine came to life beneath us, steady and contained.

As we picked up speed, the first rush of cold air cut sharply across my face. It sliced through the fog of my thoughts and demanded a response. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs, and something in my chest shifted. Not gone, but loosened.

We headed toward Las Juntas. The road was slick from the night air, and I could feel it immediately in the bike’s behavior. Everything was measured. Inputs were clean and deliberate. Each lean into a curve carried intention. The tires held, the suspension absorbed small imperfections, and the machine passed just enough information upward to keep us alert without becoming intrusive.

As he shifted gears, the engine surged cleanly over a slight rise. I leaned with him, letting the pulse of Dora, our Honda XR190, travel through my spine and settle into my limbs. 

This wasn’t intimacy in a sentimental sense; it was coordination: two bodies responding to a single set of decisions, one line through the road. Trust built not from words, but from the consistency of predictable braking, smooth throttle and precise timing.

Rolling into Ixtapa

By the time we reached Ixtapa, the road demanded more focus. The switchbacks tightened, arriving more quickly now, and he downshifted fluidly, the engine answering with a deeper, more purposeful note. 

I pressed slightly closer, feeling the pull through each turn, force translating cleanly through the frame and into my core. On one corner, a patch of loose gravel hugged the inside line. My grip tightened instinctively, my heart rising for a brief moment before settling again as the tires tracked true.

The air grew colder as we climbed. Each inhale stung a little more, and I welcomed it. The cold narrowed my focus further, and with every kilometer, the weight I’d carried for days receded. Not erased, but pushed to the margins.

Highway 544 unfolded ahead of us, a narrow ribbon threading through El Colorado and Las Palmas de Arriba. Pines and oaks crowded the road, and shadows stretched long across the asphalt. 

The surface changed constantly. Rough patches buzzed faintly through the seat, smoother sections let the bike glide. It wasn’t one sensation, but many layered together — rubber meeting road, suspension loading and unloading, posture adjusting with each bend.

Gear changes settled into a steady rhythm. Down to third for tighter corners, back to fourth on gentle climbs. Braking points became predictable. Entry speed felt right. 

The mirador outside San Sebastián

The engine hummed steadily as we gained elevation, neither straining nor lazy, just doing its job. 

I inhaled deeply. Pine resin and damp earth filled my lungs, and I realized how much tension I’d been carrying without noticing. My shoulders dropped. My jaw unclenched.

We stopped briefly at the mirador near the bridge outside San Sebastián. The valley dropped away beneath us, layered hills folding endlessly into haze. The wind cut hard across the overlook, tugging insistently at jackets and helmets. 

He steadied the bike while I stepped closer to the edge, lifting my chest, letting my muscles uncoil. My legs felt solid beneath me. The ride had already done most of its work.

From there, we continued into San Sebastián de Oeste, parking near the quiet plaza. Red-tiled roofs and cobblestones felt suspended outside of urgency. 

The town moved at a different pace. Coffee warmed my hands. Bread filled my stomach. The stillness settled in. Not heavy, just calm, like a held breath released.

El Cerro de la Bufa was waiting.

El Cerro de la Bufa

The hike began gently, the trail winding through pine and oak forest. The rhythm of walking echoed the ride in its attention to footing, breath and balance. Each step required presence. Rocks shifted slightly underfoot. Roots crossed the trail at awkward angles. 

Halfway up, the town below looked impossibly small, folded neatly into the valley. The wind grew stronger as we climbed, crisp and unrelenting, and I leaned into it rather than away.

The final stretch steepened sharply. Loose stone demanded care. Our lungs burned, and our legs ached. My sweat cooled immediately in the cold mountain air, raising goosebumps on my arms. 

When we reached the summit, the wind tore across the ridge, fierce and exhilarating. The Sierra Madre stretched endlessly in every direction, ridgelines dissolving into distance and haze.

Standing there, the weight I’d carried felt scaled. Still real, but no longer dominant.

The descent required focus. Gravity reasserted itself, reminding us that momentum cuts both ways. 

Back on the bike

Back on the bike, he guided us through hairpin after hairpin, braking early, releasing smoothly, rolling on the throttle at the right moment. My body aligned instinctively with the machine’s arc, trusting the process. 

The wind whipped hard across our helmets, colder now, sharper. I laughed. Not from joy, exactly, but from the clarity of being entirely, unapologetically present.

By the time we returned to the plaza, my breathing had steadied, my shoulders were relaxed and the internal noise had quieted to a manageable hum.

The ride back to Bucerías followed the same road, now familiar but no less engaging. 

The road home

Downshifting into hairpins. Tapping the throttle through long sweepers. Feeling subtle changes in grip as the temperature rose and the elevation dropped. Noticing the scent of pine fade, replaced gradually by warmer air and hints of dust and coastal vegetation. The engine’s steady thrum carried us downhill, reliable and even.

Conversation returned in fragments of observations, logistics and half-finished thoughts. But mostly there was the sound of the motor and the wind rushing past. I noticed details I’d missed earlier. The way the light broke through the trees, the texture of patched asphalt, the slight change in engine note as we rolled back toward sea level.

Throttle therapy doesn’t always need an explanation. It exists in throttle inputs, braking points, lean angles, line choices and the constant feedback between road and machine. It asks for attention and rewards it immediately.

By the time we reached the coast, the humidity wrapped around us again, familiar and heavy. The weight of the world hadn’t disappeared; it had simply lost its grip.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Charlotte Smith is a writer and journalist based in Mexico. Her work focuses on travel, politics, and community. You can follow along with her travel stories at www.salsaandserendipity.com.