By Marisa McInturff | Photos by Caleb McInturff
“A qui es buen! Aqui es buen!”
I barely heard the shouting over the roar of water, but I wasn’t paying much attention. In front of us was a long river crossing – the longest I had ever seen. The current pushed hard from right to left, the surface broken into chaotic white‑capped ripples that hid whatever waited underneath: rocks, holes, drop‑offs, it could be anything.
We had been warned of this river, which washed out the road that connects the ring around the southern edge of Lake Arenal. “So deep it swallowed a Jimny,” we had been told earlier in the week. I wanted no part in tempting fate like that. Water moves fast, and motorcycles sink faster.
We hadn’t come out here with the intention of crossing it. We just wanted to see it, stand at the edge of it, and understand what had taken out the road. The ride here had already been worth it. The volcano loomed in the distance most of the way, somehow never getting any bigger no matter how many miles we covered. Its slopes wrapped in shifting clouds that changed every time we caught a new glimpse of it between the trees. Backtracking on this same stretch of road wouldn’t be the end of the world.
“Pasa por aqui! Evita esas rocas!”
The words started to sink in. Just like that, Caleb and I glanced at each other through our helmets with a look we knew well. After 15 years of riding together we didn’t need to speak to know what was going to happen next. We were going to ride across this river.
I felt the sting of tall grass smacking my right knuckles as I threaded my Honda XR650 between a line of mostly stopped cars and the edge of the road. My tires bounced between asphalt and gravel while I tried to hold a line that barely existed, dodging mirrors and arms that extended from windows. The ditch to my right disappeared into thick vegetation. Going off the road wasn’t an option.
At first, it felt chaotic and unpredictable. Then it didn’t. After a few miles, something clicked. That’s when you stop overthinking it and start flowing. We moved with the traffic instead of fighting it. Slipping between cars, sometimes along the shoulder, sometimes splitting the centerline between vehicles moving in opposite directions. Just like a Tico (a local).
Five hours later we rolled into Tronadora. The ride should have taken half that time. Growth had outpaced infrastructure – something I understood well coming from Nashville. Same story, different place. I was just glad to be on a motorcycle and not stuck in a car, like our friends who were driving the same route in a Bronco. It took them 9 hours.
I woke before opening my eyes. A sound that didn’t belong in any normal morning routine was coming from outside our second‑floor window. Howler monkeys. When I finally got up to look outside, I couldn’t see anything. The house was wrapped in thick fog. The lake, the trees, everything beyond a few feet had disappeared into it. The monkeys kept calling loudly, as if they couldn’t see each other either.
Later that day, we were chasing our friend turned Costa Rican local, Justin, down a gravel road when he suddenly stopped on a narrow bridge and got off his bike, pointing up in the trees. Six monkeys sat high in the branches. A couple carried babies clinging tightly to their backs. They were quieter than the monkeys we’d heard that morning, but the occasional howl rang down from above.
Back on the bikes it was our turn to make some noise. We had to show our cojones too, if we wanted to keep up with Justin on his KTM. We tore down gravel roads, bouncing over rocks and sending thick dust into the air. The roads stretched out ahead of us, winding through the hills of Guanacaste. The vegetation was thick in spots, like riding through a scene from Jurassic Park. In other areas it was open green farmland with roaming cattle.
At the end of the day, we found a small creek that had been dammed into a swimming hole. Without much discussion, we jumped into the water, gear and all. Little did we know, our boots wouldn’t dry out for the remainder of the trip.
Costa Rica forces you to slow down. Not in an obvious way, like someone telling you to “just relax.” It happens naturally, because the environment demands your attention in a way that makes rushing feel completely out of place.
The country covers just 0.03% of the world’s land area but contains roughly 5% of its biodiversity. Birds, mammals, insects, plants… Everywhere you look, something is happening, and if you’re moving too fast, you miss it.
We spent half a day at a sloth sanctuary, walking trails under a dense canopy with binoculars glued to our faces. Two- and three‑toed sloths are creatures that seem designed to exist on a different timeline than the rest of the world. Everything about them is slow. They spend most of their lives in the trees, and once a week they climb down – to poop. It’s the most dangerous thing they do.
We joked about it constantly. The odds of actually seeing it felt low enough to make it absurdly funny. Then we rounded a corner and it happened: a baby sloth, slowly making its way down the trunk of a tree. Our guide stopped and watched quietly. “Incredibly rare to see,” he said.
Of course, we handled the moment with the maturity you’d expect. “El perezosito hace mierda,” we whispered as we learned to describe the scene in Spanish. It became the phrase of the day. Duolingo has nothing on this immersive experience.
In the small mountain town of Monteverde, we found an orchid garden with over 450 species to explore. Some of the flowers were so small that you needed a magnifying glass just to see their detail. Costa Rica is a perfect environment for orchids – the humidity and consistent rainfall create ideal conditions for these tree‑dwelling plants to thrive.
I promised myself I would mount an orchid when I got home and try to recreate those conditions, armed with my newfound orchid knowledge. So far, so good – my mini orchid is still hanging on in my kitchen window, and I’m patiently waiting for it to bloom.
Our Honda XR650s thoroughly enjoyed the energy access roads that traced lines of wind turbines across the ridges. We enjoyed them too, as they offered the best views of the surrounding valleys. Varying shades of green stretched endlessly into the distance as we meandered along broken pavement and stretches of gravel.
Every so often, we’d come across a roadside stand selling fresh fruit juices, and it became impossible not to stop. For just a few cents, we’d refuel with something ice‑cold and sugar‑heavy – usually pineapple, sugarcane, or passion fruit. It was also another chance to practice Spanish with a local, who would inevitably laugh with us while correcting our pronunciation or offering a better way to say what we were trying to say.
We stopped at one of the viewpoints just in time to catch the last light of golden hour spilling across the landscape. As we neared the end of our week‑long ride, there was a quiet understanding between Caleb and me that this wouldn’t be the last time we explored this country.
From the incredible biodiversity to the genuinely welcoming locals who helped us improve our Spanish one conversation at a time, to the simple, unforgettable food – we had only scratched the surface. Even with a full day of riding still ahead, we were already thinking about when we’d come back.
Back at the river, the decision had already been made. Caleb and I stood at the side of the Rio Cano Negro, giving each other a silent yet knowing look. We were about to ride across the biggest and deepest water crossing we had ever attempted. One of the local construction workers who was helping with the bridge rebuilding efforts was trying to convince us to give it a try. “Aqui es buen! Aqui es buen! Pasa por aqui! Evita esas rocas!” He was hollering at us while he walked toward the water, pointing at the path he recommended we follow.
“Are you sure you want to give it a try?” Caleb said to me through the helmet comms. “Are you sure YOU want to?” I answered.
We nodded silently to each other and walked back towards the bikes, which had already steadily carried us over more than a thousand miles of Costa Rican backroads.
After zipping and cinching everything in place, it was my turn to go first. Trying to remember the path the Tico pointed out a little while ago (hey, where did he go, anyways?), I started slowly into the water. Picking my line carefully, I tried to stay on the high ground and keep my feet on the pegs. Until I hit a large rock that darted my front wheel to the side and sent me nose first into a deeper hole. I stopped momentarily, sliding to one side of the bike as my foot fell into the deepest point. I steadied myself as water rushed over the top of my boot and filled quicker than I could retract my step.
The water pushed hard on the front of my bike, which was sinking deeper than the rear into the hole I now had to ride through. It was now or never. I jumped up onto the pegs and grabbed a handful of throttle to get myself moving. Bouncing left and right over rocks I couldn’t see on the bottom, I pushed my way to the other side. Caleb followed along in a similar manner right behind me.
We were drenched and still had 2 hours of riding to complete the loop around the lake, but the smile I saw on Caleb’s face when I turned to look at him is one that will be etched into my memory for the rest of my life.
My boots hadn’t been dry all week, anyway.
In Costa Rica, “pura vida” isn’t just a phrase, it’s a way of life centered on presence, simplicity, and connection. Leaning into that mindset pulls you out of your head and into the moment, where you begin noticing the people, pace, and environment around you instead of whatever is waiting back home.
I didn’t realize how much stress I’d been carrying until I arrived. Almost immediately, the noise of deadlines and everyday friction started to fade. A quiet shift happens. You stop trying to control everything and begin accepting what comes.
What you bring home from Costa Rica isn’t just memories – it’s a recalibration. You realize life doesn’t always need to feel rushed and that small moments of presence can reshape the way you move through your day.
Riding ridges lined with wind turbines, the blades turning slowly against the sky. Stopping at roadside stands for fresh juice poured into plastic cups for next to nothing. Trying, and mostly failing, to speak Spanish with locals who laughed with us while patiently helping us get it right.
There was no riding schedule, no shot list, and no pressure to produce. Somewhere along the way, I realized how rare that had become in my life, and how much I needed it. Even when you love what you do, it adds up. In Costa Rica, that weight started to lift. Pura vida!
Located just outside the airport in San José, Go Ride Moto is an ideal starting point for exploring Costa Rica on two wheels. From the moment we arrived, the team made the process seamless – efficient, thorough, and genuinely invested in getting our trip off to a strong start.
Go Ride offers a broad fleet of modern, fully equipped adventure bikes, but for this trip we intentionally kept it simple with a pair of well-worn Honda XR650s. In Costa Rica, the experience is less about having the newest machine and more about having the right one. The lightweight, nimble XRs were perfectly suited to the country’s narrow roads and changing terrain.
What truly sets Go Ride apart is its personal touch. The owner, Luis, provided invaluable route advice, local insight, and planning support. Whether you want a guided tour, turnkey self-guided trip, or just a reliable rental, Go Ride has the experience dialed in. Visit GoRideMoto.com.