They roar through the barrio at all hours, muffler optional. They show up suddenly in my side view mirror at an askew angle when I am driving, before cutting between the lanes and making a death run to beat the red light. They loom in my rear-view mirror, riding too close for my comfort, even though it is they who will suffer if there is an accident. And—they come to my house with my express order. This is the chosen form of transportation for the economically minded and those who like to feel the wind in their face, and the thrill of having to swerve wildly at 80 kph when an oblivious driver in an SUV cuts you off on the highway.
Sometimes it seems like there is a motorcycle for every resident of Costa Rica, but the actual number of registered motorcycles as of mid-2024 is just over 821,000. If you include the ones somewhere on the fringe—with expired marchamos or cruising in remote rural areas where the law is absent, using only the backroads and skulking around in the late-night hours—about one in five of the motor vehicles on Costa Rica’s roads roll on two wheels.
I share the road with bikers and do my best while driving to not cut them off or threaten them in any other way with my car. I am not a biker, but I am a cyclist, which is like being a slow-motion biker. We face the same hazards and if we want to have a long life on the roads of Costa Rica we keep our heads on a swivel, ride defensively and stay alert and focused. And we also draw the same animosity from a subset of drivers, who wish the bikers to behave as if in a car, and for the cyclists to get the hell off the road completely.
Almost half the motor fatalities last year in Costa Rica involved bikers. There has been a recent spate of fatal moto accidents where I live. Within a week there were two different late-night collisions between motos, four lives snuffed out. Another died after being rear-ended by a distracted SUV driver. It is a sometimes-dangerous world for bikers—and some compound the problem by not riding responsibly. Motorcycles are like guns in that respect—fine in the hands of responsible people, but there are some who should never be allowed near either one. Yesterday I saw something live for the first time—a guy passed me doing a wheelie while balanced on one foot on the seat. Those clips are everywhere online, and the comments sections are always sprinkled with people who wish death upon the riders.
Thousands make their livings here riding. The express workers, identifiable by the box containers mounted on the back of their bikes. A 21st century Pony Express on wheels, time is of the essence, they run on the margins, cutting lanes, jumping to the front at the stoplight. There is always an ad for express drivers. It is not something somebody goes into as a career. Between the injured reserve list, the fatalities, and the confiscated or broken down motos, the need for drivers is likely constant.
It’s a steel and pavement jungle out there and every time you go out on two wheels, you make a pact with yourself: “I know there are a lot of oblivious, distracted, unpredictable, idiotic and plain bad drivers out there, and that this ride could be my last. But I will maintain focus, ride at a safe speed and be ready for anything.”
I am cool with motos, bicycles, pedestrians, cattle, whatever in the road; but always encourage my loved ones to travel sensibly, that is, in a large heavy vehicle that can hold its own in a collision. Years after the fact, I found out that my youngest daughter’s then boyfriend hauled her all over Costa Rica on the back of his motorcycle when they were together. Had I known at the time, I could see myself signing my car over to them — “Here, take this, just don’t ride that moto no more!”
