My nature just changes.” – Jimi Hendrix
Pura Vida: A Motorcycle Odyssey Through Costa Rica
“My nature just changes.” – Jimi Hendrix
It’s March 22, 2025, as I sit here in Southern California, rain pattering outside—a rare sight for us desert dwellers. My mind drifts back to December 2022, when eleven of us, a band of self-proclaimed manly men, descended on Costa Rica for a motorcycle adventure that still echoes in my bones.
I’m writing this mostly for myself, to bottle up the chaos, the laughter, and the bruises—both literal and figurative—but if you’re into a half-baked tale of grit and glory, grab a cup of that Costa Rican coffee I’ll rave about later and ride along.
This all kicked off in a season of giving thanks. I’m grateful for the usual suspects—family, friends, my creaky but functional health, and this new iPhone 16 smartphone I wield like a caveman with a laser pointer, barely tapping 10% of its wizardry.
But that year, my gratitude swelled beyond the personal. I found myself thanking the brave souls of Ukraine, their sacrifices and triumphs in the fight for freedom a humbling backdrop to my own petty quests.
Closer to home, I gave thanks for two weeks of motorcycle madness in Costa Rica, a ride that was less a vacation and more a retirement lifestyle manifesto. Think of it as our rugged, testosterone-soaked answer to golf—none of that neatly pressed khaki nonsense, no polite swings at a dimpled ball with overpriced sticks.
Our game was propelling ourselves across a wild landscape, chasing adrenaline instead of birdies, and yeah, it left marks. Sometimes it hurt. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.
Costa Rica’s countryside became our dance floor, a sprawling stage minus the third that’s fiercely protected, the third overrun by gringos, and the third claimed by locals who’ve mastered the art of tolerance.
My goal: to keep pace with the top third of our herd, the ones who make this dirt bike riding look easy.
Mostly, I’m scribbling this story for me, a way to relive the sweat and the stories, but if you’re game for an adventure that’s equal parts reckless and rewarding, then read.
Our crew of eleven wasn’t a random pickup team. We’d been vetted by the adventure ride squad, a process shrouded in myth.
Word is, our mugs were pinned to a map wall somewhere, and if your face wasn’t riddled with dart holes or you hadn’t survived at least two prior rides, no amount of whining—or cash in pesos, colones, or crisp U.S. bucks—could buy your way in.
Well, maybe the bucks could’ve bent the rules, but I digress. Roberto and I punched our tickets after a 2,500-mile odyssey through Mexico just a month prior—Chihuahua’s dusty plains, Sinaloa’s cartel-shadowed highways, and Baja’s sun-bleached ruggedness.
We’d crossed at Tecate, home of that world-famous brewery, plunged into Copper Canyon’s depths, zip-lined like giddy tourists, rappelled cliffs, and poked around a silver mine before a nine-hour ferry hauled us across the Sea of Cortez from Topolobampo. The seas there can turn nasty on a dime.
Costa Rica promised a tighter canvas, a smaller scale than Mexico’s sprawl, but no less wild. I landed in San Jose on a red-eye from LAX, Delta flight 1974, brown eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as I squinted out the window at a city that didn’t scream “paradise” at first blush.
The 2,878-mile hop felt quicker than the drive from the airport to Guanacaste later that week. San Jose’s initial drabness—crumbling sidewalks, petty crime buzzing like flies—had me wondering if the Spanish colonial spark had fizzled out by the time it reached Central America.
I’d thought the same on a 2016 hike across the country with Marco, a wiry Tico, and his Cuban wife Conchita, who’s hell-bent on carving a coast-to-coast trail (caminodecostarica.org) to spread tourism dollars inland.
Back then, I’d watched a guy snatch an iPhone from a guy walking and talking and quickly bolt, Marco half-tempted to chase him down for old times’ sake. First impressions, though, are liars. Costa Rica unfolds slow and sly, and I was about to get schooled again.
I arrived early, midweek, to climatize my aging frame—think less “senior citizen,” more “seasoned badass.” Breakfast at a Denny’s near the airport (yes, Denny’s, like anytown USA) hit me with a tropical green smoothie brain freeze, chased by coffee so good I muttered “damn, that’s a great cup” to an empty booth. Rental car? Fifty bucks a day for a midsize, doubled with A/C, automatic, and insurance—high season looming.
The rest of the crew trickled in by Saturday, primed for our Sunday start. That night, I climbed three flights to the Studio Hotel’s pool deck, a boutique gem draped in a million dollars’ worth of Tico art, and gazed over still waters, whispering to the universe for a safe ride for all eleven of us. This was our classroom now, and motorcycles were the curriculum.
Day one broke with a Pura Vida sunrise, the phrase already bouncing off immigration desks and breakfast menus. We piled into taxis and a pickup, rolling up to a gated million-dollar enclave where kids played in a cul-de-sac and electric fences hummed.
Our Yodas awaited: Heiner from Ultimate Rides Costa Rica, battle-hardened and wise; Roberto from gpskevin, animated as ever; Daniel “Rastafa Man,” dreads swinging; and Louis “Cyclops the Mechanic,” one eye on the bikes. The lineup of enduro rigs—two-strokers, Sherco 450s (French cousins to Husqvarnas), a Honda, a Gas Gas, and later KTMs—stood like ugly Betties fresh off a rough night. They’d been ridden hard and put away wet, but up close, their purpose shone: clawing through anything Costa Rica threw at us, save that orange clay mud, slicker than snot when wet. And trust me, in a rainforest that rains a lot, wet is the default.
We fired them up, two-stroke smoke and Johann’s incessant revving shattering the Sunday peace. I braced for pitchforks, but no one emerged from those Pura Vida palaces. Back home, a barking dog or overgrown lawn gets you a citation; here, they shrug at chaos—though leave a helmet unattended, and it’s gone faster than us on a downhill.
Our rainbow crew—Colorado in his hunter-orange jacket, Hawaii in quilted motocross, me in a tie-dye Keith T-shirt—picked our poison. I snagged a Sherco 450; my Swedish-sounding roommate claimed his two-stroker like it was his firstborn.
Heiner laid out the stakes: four stages—apprenticeship, apprentice, journeyman, master. Day one was apprenticeship, a proving ground. Skill back home—Johann’s, Mike’s, whoever’s—meant squat here. Costa Rica’s technical tracks demanded respect: landslides, ruts deep enough to lose a small child, near-vertical climbs.
My first hill hit like a wall. I gunned it, only to slam into two fallen riders—Chris from Petaluma and another guy—toppling us like dominoes. The Yodas swooped in, righting bikes and egos. “That’s what a real Yoda does,” I thought, coaxing my Sherco through the ruts, cresting the top in a shock of triumph. Red route riders tackled a 40-degree nightmare, green riders (Colorado and Hawaii) played it safe, and the rest of us went blue.
By day two, after pool dips and massages at a nearby spot, we’d hit apprentice level. Bikes swapped—KTMs rolled in, and I traded for a 250. Gpskevin, back home, had divined our dates with some mystical matrix, dodging rain like a prophet. Dry season kicked in two days prior, Paolo, a mountain bike guide I met at the hotel, confirmed—his Canadian trio was loving it. So far, Kevin’s weather juju held.
The food? Meh. Rice, beans, maybe a chicken scrap or a sunny-side egg—no salsa to save it. Bland as a tax form. But the coffee? Oh, man. Roasted beans, boiling water trickling through a fabric mesh—it’s a ceremony, not a brew, retaining flavor paper filters steal. I’d slog through a week of beans for that cup. The real feast was the land: jungles where mosquitoes drained us like tiny vampires (ask me how I know), wildlife scattering at our two-stroke roars—except the sloths, too chill to care. Beaches stretched pristine, volcanoes grumbled, baby sea turtles scrambled to the surf. Pura Vida slowed life to a heartbeat, though every tourist parroted the phrase like “Aloha” in Maui—by day three, I was over it.
Three enduro days climaxed in Jaco, the party capital, at an Argentinian steakhouse. My KLR’s start switch croaked that day, victim of a 30-degree muddy climb that bucked me off like a rodeo clown. We earned journeyman stripes, handed Ultimate Riding jerseys over sizzling cuts of beef. No wild nights—just good food and yawns from Johann, our vegetarian outlier. Earlier, Hawaii and I bailed on a red route Heiner called “four times worse,” a decision validated by a photo of gnarled trails worth a novel’s words.
Street riding followed—three days of twisties, water crossings, and breakdowns. At El Establo in Monte Verde, a Quaker-built hilltop haven from 1948, we swapped a one-star roach motel—ice-cold spigot, Roberto hogging the last TP—for five-star bliss. Cockroaches gave way to glass-walled views of mountains and clouds. Over coffee with Roberto, I regaled a shuttle of Spaniards with tales of matador-like feats: dodging crocodiles (Mike and Josh yanking my KLR from a river), wrestling Italian-made beasts over trails. A blonde undressed mid-story—teasingly—her husband scrambling for her clothes as I bolted for caffeine. Roberto’s yarn had the men chuckling too.
The final ride brought coatis scampering roadside, a father juggling two kids on a bike—sans helmets—flashing a hang-loose sign after a tope launched his toddler skyward. Traffic thickened near San Jose, buses belching fumes as we sweltered in gear. Exhausted, I crashed at the Studio Hotel, BBQ lunch heavy in my gut. This wasn’t my first Costa Rica rodeo—I’d walked it coast-to-coast in 2016—but riding revealed a rawer pulse. Five grand covered airfare, food, and my first Costa Rican ticket, but the people—happy, healthy, unburdened by want—made it rich. Nicaraguans and Venezuelans now toil where Ticos won’t, they say.
Why were we there? To escape ruts, to chase roads solo riders can’t touch, to see through local eyes. Bourdain nailed it: travel isn’t pretty or comfy—it hurts, it changes you, it leaves marks. I’ve got ‘em all, and I’m damn grateful—for Roberto, Heiner, Kevin, and Patti, who gifted me this. Back home, rain falls, and a Costa Rican proverb hums: “Some people work, others merely daydream.” I’m daydreaming, Pura Vida etched in my soul.
To be continued, maybe.
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 