In mountainous Mexico there are burros; in the Yucatan, tortilla-flat, there are bikes. In the Yucatan, everybody bikes.
Driving from Merida to Tulum.
Young men with carbines slung across their backs tool along
remote and empty highways cut like channels through the matted, spiny brush. You can see the lumber truck coming on your side of the road from miles away. Or the police barracade.
Or on the old road, which winds and noodles through towns of thatched roofed houses with tidily swept dooryards, errands are run. The back seat of a bike is broad enough to haul a shock of alfalfa to a horse picketed in the forest or for a girlfriend to ride side-saddle and chat pleasantly with a basket of masa on her lap.
There are bike taxis with tassled striped umbrella roofs over the cart with a wooden bench seat. When the girl is married and really broad bottomed she'll ride in a taxi with a few children and a basket of masa chatting pleasantly to the old man hauling them down the hot road full of white butterflies with his sinewy legs turning the crank, and his feet like a turtle's in plastic sandals who she's known all her life.
or along urban streets and intersections taxi and SUV carroming like pachinco balls through urban streets and intersections,
The infrastructure bike paths and wide-shoulders, is well developed for biking.
Places like Tulum and Cancun of course, but surprisingly too in Merida (rent the helmet) and Valladolid.