The only real plan was to sleep well the night before. Well, that, and for my boyfriend Omar and me to pack one backpack each. We’d had too many days of feeling the walls shrink and listening to that quiet inner tug that eventually turned into a roar:

“GO!!”

By 5:30 a.m., we were wide awake. Omar saw the look on my face, the one that said, “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” and he smiled as he handed me a coffee. At 6 a.m., the engine turned over, and we rolled out of Puerto Vallarta, chasing that strange mix of exhaustion and freedom that only throttle therapy can deliver.

The allure of motorcycle throttle therapy

We weren’t aiming for a beach or a town close by. We were heading inland, chasing nothing but silence and the long road between Puerto Vallarta and Guanajuato. We had one rule: No autopistas! Just backroads, curves, dust and whatever showed up between here and there.

Thirteen and a half hours later, at 7:30 p.m., we rolled into Guanajuato, dusty, starving and sore in places we didn’t know motorcycles could make you sore. But our faces bore the kinds of grins you only earn after burning across the country on stubbornness and fumes.

We’d taken Highway 544 out of Vallarta, heading east into the mountains while the rest of the city was still asleep. It’s a beautiful road that doesn’t get enough love. It’s thick with jungle, carved into the lower folds of the Sierra Madre, full of early-morning mist and just enough loose gravel to keep you humble.

The climb starts slowly. The jungle presses in, and by the time you reach Las Palmas, any remnants of the city are gone. Suddenly, the road narrows into something quieter. 

From there, you roll toward San Sebastián del Oeste, a colonial mining town tucked into the hills. We didn’t stop, but we nodded at it on the way through as a respectful reminder to ourselves that this part of Jalisco still lovingly holds on to its ghosts.

‘The world opens up’

Just past the town of Mascota, the world opens up. Pine replaces palm, and the air cools. There’s a roadside overlook with no name, just a clearing and a break in the trees. We stopped there, killed the engine, and stood in silence for a while.

The valley below was half-sunk in morning fog, the only sound the ticking of the engine cooling down. That’s the kind of moment you chase when you ride. Not the Instagram view, but the one that doesn’t need a caption.

From there, it was on through Talpa de Allende, where the road climbs in tight switchbacks, daring you to trust your tires. The forest smells like woodsmoke and pine needles, and you get the feeling that if you stopped moving, you’d hear something ancient breathing just beyond the trees.

‘The best parts aren’t planned’

We took a wrong turn after Talpa. Not on purpose, mind you, but not exactly by accident either. That’s the thing about these rides. The best parts usually aren’t planned. 

We wound up on a pockmarked stretch of road heading toward Mixtlán, where the pavement turns to patches of rock and mud. We had a few close calls, including one deep puddle that nearly swallowed the rear tire, and then we were back on track with a healthy respect for how fast things can change out here.

By midday, we were rolling through the town of Ameca, sun overhead, dust in our teeth. We hadn’t eaten anything, only had that 5:30 a.m. cup of coffee at home, so we pulled over at a roadside taco stand that looked like it had seen better decades. 

A few tacos al pastor each and a glass bottle of Coke; it could’ve been a five-star meal the way it hit. We ate sitting on mismatched plastic chairs in the shade of a tamarind tree, not talking much, just chewing, sweating and processing the miles we’d covered.

‘Stopping doesn’t feel like an option’

From Ameca, the ride gets flatter. The highlands open up into long rolling stretches that lull you into a trance. That’s when fatigue starts creeping in. Your shoulders ache, your brain slows and the road starts to feel like a loop. 

We hit a stretch outside San Juan de los Lagos that tested everything: endless straightaway, wind strong enough to push the bike sideways, semis barreling down narrow lanes. 

There’s no romance here, just grit. You keep going not because it’s necessarily fun but because stopping doesn’t feel like an option. And, weirdly, that’s its own kind of peace.

We didn’t talk much during those hours. Just exchanged glances and smiles at gas stops. Shared a single energy bar. Refilled our water bottles and kept going.

Throttle. Curve. Brake. Repeat. That was our mantra.

The lights of Guanajuato

By the time we saw the lights of Guanajuato, the sun was bleeding into the hills and the sky had that electric-orange glow it pulls off so well. We dipped into the tunnels that crisscross under the city. Carved from stone centuries ago, the air inside felt cool. Our engine notes bounced off the walls like applause.

Exhausted didn’t even cover how we felt when we found a cheap posada near Plaza de la Paz, parked the bike, peeled off our dusty gear and limped to a tamales stand. The woman handed us each one wrapped in a steamed corn husk and smiled like she’d seen this kind of tired before.

We ate them on the curb. No plates. No small talk. Just the sound of street musicians tuning up in the distance and the ache settling into our bones.

Most people take the cuota (toll road) when they travel in Mexico. These roads are faster, easier and predictable. But they don’t heal anything.

The space between

We went to Guanajuato for the view and the museums and the brightly painted alleyways, of course. But we also went for the space between, the places in between point A and point B. 

We went for the forgotten ranchos, the sharp turns that have no warning signs, the strangers who wave as we pass through towns too small to include on most maps.

We went for the ride that stripped everything away: the noise, the worry, the inbox, the pressure to always be doing something that makes sense.

Throttle therapy isn’t about motorcycles, really. It’s about the act of going, of trading comfort for clarity, speed for slowness and the known for the uncertain. It’s about finding out what your body and your brain are capable of when you don’t give them an out.

If you ever find yourself feeling a bit stuck, lost or just buzzing with a kind of restless energy you can’t shake, don’t wait for the stars to align. Don’t overplan it.

Just pack light, aim inland and ride until the road becomes your rhythm again. 

Smile, downshift and remember that the road owes you nothing. 

Maybe that’s exactly why it gives you so much.

Throttle Therapy Notes

Route: Puerto Vallarta > Las Palmas > San Sebastián > Mascota > Talpa > Ameca > San Juan de los Lagos > León > Guanajuato
Total Ride Time: 13.5 hours
Distance: 570(ish) km/360(ish) miles
Fuel stops: Four
Meals: Two — if you count gas station peanuts.
Soreness Scale: Off the charts, but totally worth it.

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.