Here in Sayulita, Mexico, VW Beetles and golf carts are the vehicles of choice. Most of the Bugs are old, a taillight out, covered with stickers (“I hate tacos said no Juan ever,” for example). One or two have had the roof cut off to make an odd-looking convertible.

We prefer to walk rather than rent a golf cart. But on one morning of our visit, Harry is feeling restless.

“I’m going to rent a scooter,” he says. “We can go exploring.”

“It’s supposed to rain,” I tell him. It hardly ever rains in March in Sayulita, but the weather website calls for a cold front to move in.

“I don’t see any rainclouds,” he says, peering up over his coffee. The living room of
our condo is open, and we can see the sky through the coconut palms overhead.

My husband is always coming up with adventuresome plans, like this trip to Mexico—a month away from winter in Vermont. For three weeks we have drunk the sun, or as they say here on the Pacific coast, tomar el sol. We are tan and fit from hiking along sandy beaches and up cobblestone hills that rise steeply behind the pueblo. I’ve taken yoga classes and now at my side is a drink made at a stand on the beach with five limes, syrup and filtered water. I am rich with vitamins C and D, and with only a week of Mexico left, why not explore?

There’s a single motor scooter for rent in town, a local tells us. “Go to the liquor store just over the bridge. You can rent the scooter there.” There are two bridges in Sayulita, and both cross a filthy stream that is as much sewage as water. The stick bridge is crudely constructed of plank and tree limbs and takes a balancing act to cross. It leads to an unlit area, and crossers at night use light from cell phones to keep their footing. The man advising us about the scooter probably means the concrete bridge that leads to el centro, the downtown area.

We find the liquor store, a hole in the wall just big enough for Harry and me to squeeze in and face the Mexican lady behind a glass counter displaying packages of cigarettes. She doesn’t speak much English, and my Spanish is limited. Harry is hopeless. With sign language and what I remember of my five pre-trip Spanish lessons, we manage to rent the scooter for $45 U.S. The Mexican lady insists on holding Harry’s driver’s license hostage until we return the bike.

We go to the curb to have a look at the newish white model. The plastic cover over the exhaust pipe is broken and when I point it out, the Mexican lady pushes it back into place and says, “Es nada.”

“Do you know how to drive this thing?” I ask Harry.

“Sure,” he says. “I used to have one.” As if his operation of a motor scooter forty years ago is supposed to set my mind at ease. I amaze myself with the trust I have in this man.

The señora has called the scooter’s owner, who may also own the liquor store, and he appears. He sounds American but has the leathery complexion of someone who has been south of the border for a while. He shows Harry how to start the machine.

Harry inspects the bike. “How do you shift gears?” he asks.

“Automatic,” the man says. Then he asks, “You want helmets?” I want helmets, but Harry says no. I don’t argue, thinking we won’t go far.

“Then have it back by eleven tonight,” the fellow says (as if I’ll be up at eleven). “Someone will be here.”

Harry pops the kickstand and we climb on—without helmets, without driver’s license, and without a map—and we’re off.

My first thought—no, my second because my first thought is being thrown from the scooter and dragged over the cobblestones—my second thought is that if we are stopped by policio, we might get out of going to prison by handing over mordito—a bribe. I wonder how much it would take—500 pesos, about $20 U.S.? A thousand? I believe it’s always better to err on the side of caution and I try to remember if I have a couple of five-hundred-peso notes in my bag.

The scooter’s seat is long enough to hold us both and pretty comfy with toe rests for the passenger—me. Harry revs the motor, which purrs, and heads for the highway, a two-lane macadam road that winds north through forestland. The next town is San Pancho, which a couple weeks ago had a jazz festival we attended—by taxi.

We’re going 60 km, which is about 40 mph, and cars and trucks are cruising around us in spite of the double yellow line. A few vehicles honk when they pass—are we going too slow? Should we be wearing helmets? H veers close to a steep ditch on the right and I lean to the left, hoping he sees the danger with his one good eye. He refuses to wear glasses.

The seven miles to San Pancho seem like an eternity, and I’m relieved when we reach the outskirts. The town is smaller than Sayulita, and there’s not much to see here. We stop at a refurbished warehouse that houses a small café, a library, and workshops where people make things to sell from recycled materials—glasses from wine bottles, a bookcase made with wine bottles and reclaimed wood, shell and stone jewelry, hand silkscreened tee shirts. At the used clothing place, I find a San Pancho Music Festival shirt from last year. While I’m holding it up to see if it fits, a little girl hugs me around the waist and asks, “Su nombre?”

“Ellie,” I tell her and ask her name, which sounds like “Allison.”

“Allison?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “Allison.”

I buy the shirt and Harry and I get back on the bike. He turns up cobblestone side streets, and I grip his waist to keep from bouncing off. We do several loops around town, and he stops at Casa Gourmet, a French bakery where we have croissants and coffee. The proprietor isn’t very friendly and jabbers with her coworker in French. I’ve met a couple other French people in Sayulita, a fellow who also operates a pastry shop and a guy from French Polynesia who manages an art gallery. I’m surprised at how easy it is to go from gracias to merci and adios to adieu.

After coffee we set off on the scooter again, this time motoring toward Punta Mita, a peninsula farther south. We pass bare dirt yards with houses that are little more than vine-covered shacks, a school, and a large white building with HAPPINESS FACTORY painted on the front. I’m dying to know what’s inside, but Harry doesn’t slow down.

The foliage beside road is thick and green until we pass a billboard-size sign advertising a resort ahead. Then the road widens to four lanes divided by a median, and Harry speeds up to 80 km—about 55 mph. I didn’t know scooters went that fast. I point toward the north sky where there are angry looking storm clouds.

“Weather’s moving in,” I say into Harry’s left ear, but he keeps going. “Lluvia.” I’m proud of myself for remembering the word for rain, but Harry is oblivious.

The wind picks up when we reach the end of the road. Either we go left toward Puerto Vallarta or right to Punta Mita, both larger towns with more traffic. I vote for turning around.

Harry finally notices that the skies have turned dark and (thankfully) U-turns.

Within a few minutes I feel the first raindrops. Up ahead I can see blue skies. Harry must see them, too, and speeds up to try to beat the storm. But the weather’s too fast for us, and blue quickly turns to gray.

Then the rain comes, pelting us like buckshot. I huddle against Harry’s dry back for warmth, but he’s getting soaked. His sunglasses are speckled with rain, and he dips his head to look over them with his good eye.

It’s so ridiculous—caught in the rain, no helmets, freezing, the pavement getting slippery—that I start to laugh. I can’t help myself and wonder if there’s an expression, “Drink the rain.” As it comes down harder, I laugh until my stomach hurts. If we are close to death, I decide, then death is a hell of a good time.

Harry’s not laughing. He slows down and stops at a driveway where men are working at setting stones for a building foundation. We get off and he pulls up the seat where he has stashed a fleece jacket in the compartment underneath.

One of the construction guys yells, “Mucho frio!”

“Si,” I answser. “Y mucho humido.” He doesn’t respond, and I later learn that the word for “wet” is mojado.

“Mucho frio,” he says again and they all laugh—half a dozen of them.

I pull on the light sweater I have in my bag—not nearly warm enough—and we get our frio, humido and mojado selves back on the scooter. I’ve lost the humor and my enthusiasm for this adventure and heave a sigh of relief when we get to the tall gate of our condo compound.

It pours cold rain all afternoon, and before dark H says, “I’m going to take the bike back.”

“You have until eleven,” I remind him.

“I don’t care,” he says.

That night we dash across the street to the pizza place. It has a roof but the sides are open. I take the table closest to the wood-fired oven, wishing we could get even closer. For the first time in three weeks, I’m missing my cozy Vermont couch by our blazing wood stove. But if the weather gods are right, within two days the skies will clear—they always do. And then we’ll once again tomar el sol.