I’m not great at following directions, especially when they don’t make sense. Take, for instance, the ATV guide’s directive to “keep it in third gear for beginners, fourth or fifth on the downhills.” Now, I’m no mechanic, but even I know that downshifting downhill makes more sense than coasting in high gear while praying the brakes don’t quit. Naturally, I ignored this advice.

On the first straightaway, I threw the four-wheel-drive Honda into the low gears and gunned it uphill. The acceleration yanked on my busted left shoulder, sending bolts of pain to my inexplicably numb-yet-throbbing right index finger—a charming souvenir from a pinched nerve. I roared down the steep trail to the river like a renegade, half-grinning through the pain.

At the river’s edge, a wooden ladder climbed a massive boulder to the jumping spot. No one else seemed to be making a move toward it, which suited me just fine. First one off, it is.

“Over there to dive, OK?” I asked a group lounging nearby.

They nodded, then corrected me. “No, over there. Ten meters deep.”

Now, diving with a wrecked shoulder seemed unwise. Jumping, though? Entirely different sport. I swam out, letting the current shove me against the boulder, where I grabbed the ladder and climbed.

At the edge, I didn’t hesitate—no deliberating, no future-pondering. Just a quick skip and a leap. That feeling—the weightless suspension between effort and impact—was the fix I needed. The river caught me in its roiling eddy, and I swam hard for shore where Melanie waited, watching with an approving smile. She likes me doing “man stuff.” It aligns with her worldview, apparently.

Three jumps later, I was satisfied, not from the applause of the spectators (who finally caught on and followed my lead), but from the cold, chaotic relief of the water. The hike back to the bridge was long and steep, but the promise of tequila and cheap beer kept me motivated.

And what a bridge. The longest vehicular suspension bridge in the world, they said—stretching over a massive canyon river in the jungle. Built by local workers under the supervision of engineers, it had the kind of backstory that’s equal parts impressive and sketchy. I’d expected it to be terrifying—swaying planks, cables groaning under the strain of 30 Razors—but it wasn’t scary at all. Just breathtaking. The jungle stretched endlessly below, the river cutting through it like a glinting silver thread.

Back at the hilltop bar, we switched rides. My friend took the ATV, leaving me with the Razor—four seats, slightly more civilized, and my friend’s mom in the passenger seat. A fair trade. I promised her I’d take it easy, which, in hindsight, was optimistic.

Driving back across the bridge was awe-inspiring the second time, but the curb waiting just past it had other plans. The only curb for miles, naturally. Thinking I could ride the Razor’s wheel along it to make the turn, I got it stuck. Not “oops” stuck. Spectacle stuck.

I jammed it into reverse, confident that three good wheels and four-wheel drive could fix anything. The guides were yelling. Not in English, but I speak “jackass” fluently and translated: “Stop! For the love of God, stop!”

Ignoring them (when you’ve committed to a bad idea, you may as well double down), I reversed the Razor off the curb, slammed it into drive, and powered back onto the trail. Only then did I remember my passenger, who was likely rethinking her life choices.

When we reached the end of the trail, I parked, helped my friend’s mom out of the Razor, and retrieved my hat with the macaw feather. She was a trooper, relieved to be done and mercifully silent about my driving.

As I passed the horse paddock, one of the guides called out in heavily accented English: “Hey, there goes Mr. Macho!”

I considered taking it as mockery—after all, they had plenty of reasons—but decided it was probably sincere. The Mexican way, as I’ve learned, leans more toward good-natured ribbing than outright insult.

Besides, in Mexico, macho isn’t just a word—it’s a sought-after quality. It means strength, bravery, and a willingness to embrace a challenge, even if it involves a bit of recklessness. Whether I earned the title or not, I’ll take it. After all, it made for one hell of a story.

And that’s what we’re all after, right?