Bike Customization Quotes

You don't even know if she really likes you, Oberon said as we exited and I unlocked my bike. She could be doing her customer service routine and stringing you along in hopes of a big tip the next time you come in. With dogs you just go up and smell their asses and you know where you stand, it's so much easier. Why can't humans do that?

Ren crossed his arms over his chest. "is it LoJacked?" "Of course," Andy said indignantly. "That's my baby. I even have a kill switch on her." "Then stop the engine." Andy appeared downright horrified by Ren's suggestion. "Are you out of your mind? What if someone hits it for stalling? I had that thing on order for over a year. Custom hand built. The epitome of German engineering. I even paid extra for the paint on her. Ain't no way I'm going to chance someone denting my baby. Or, God forbid, totaling it." Jess rolled his eyes at the boy's hissy fit. If he kept that up, he'd be putting Andy back in diapers. He turned to Ren. "You take the air. I'll get a bike." Then he focused his attention on Andy again. "And you-" Andy held his cell phone out to him. "Have an app. Track her down, get my car back, and beat the hell out of her...in that precise order.

Then, there he was, and the moment I first laid eyes on him he looked familiar. “Hey, you’re the guy from the sonogram!

My roommate calls a meeting while I’m out falling from my bike into a customer’s cheesecake, and as soon as I climb the stairs she is there with a suitcase, saying she’s moving to a gut-renovated building in Harlem with her boyfriend as 'send me a picture of your pussy' pings onto my screen. As I watch my roommate leave, the idea that I have a pussy seems preposterous. I move through the apartment and try to reconcile the existence of the clitoris with the broccoli smell my roommate left behind. I rinse the cheesecake from my hair and get back out on my route, where the men who line the street remind me that technically yes, I do have a pussy, and that I will live with the terror of protecting it for the rest of my life.

It’s estimated that more than forty thousand RVers dwell in the desert near Quartzsite from December through February. Bill Alexander has watched them come and go for what seems like forever. The outdoor recreation planner and lead park ranger at the Bureau of Land Management’s Yuma Field Office, he’s been working in this region for seventeen years. And after all that time, he says, he’s still impressed by the campers’ neighborliness. “We can have that guy who rides up on a bike with his dog on a leash and throws down his tent next to a guy in a $500,000 custom-built motorhome, and they get along just fine,” Bill told me. “That ability to coexist is based simply on their desire to enjoy the public land, and the fact that it belongs equally to the guy riding the bicycle as to the guy in the motorhome.

By December 1975, a year had passed since Mr. Harvey had packed his bags, but there was still no sign of him. For a while, until the tape dirtied or the paper tore, store owners kept a scratchy sketch of him taped to their windows. Lindsey and Samuel walked in the neighboorhood or hung out at Hal's bike shop. She wouldn't go to the diner where the other kids went. The owner of the diner was a law and order man. He had blown up the sketch of George Harvey to twice its size and taped it to the front door. He willingly gave the grisly details to any customer who asked- young girl, cornfield, found only an elbow. Finallly Lindsey asked Hal to give her a ride to the police station. She wanted to know what exactly they were doing. They bid farewell to Samuel at the bike shop and Hal gave Lindsey a ride through a wet December snow. From the start, Lindsey's youth and purpose had caught the police off guard. As more and more of them realized who she was, they gave her a wider and wider berth. Here was this girl, focused, mad, fifteen... When Lindsey and Hal waited outside the captain's office on a wooden bench, she thought she saw something across the room that she recognized. It was on Detective Fenerman's desk and it stood out in the room because of its color. What her mother had always distinguished as Chinese red, a harsher red than rose red, it was the red of classic red lipsticks, rarely found in nature. Our mother was proud of her ability fo wear Chinese red, noting each time she tied a particular scarf around her neck that it was a color even Grandma Lynn dared not wear. Hal,' she said, every muscle tense as she stared at the increasingly familiar object on Fenerman's desk. Yes.' Do you see that red cloth?' Yes.' Can you go and get it for me?' When Hal looked at her, she said: 'I think it's my mother's.' As Hal stood to retrieve it, Len entered the squad room from behind where Lindsey sat. He tapped her on the shoulder just as he realized what Hal was doing. Lindsey and Detective Ferman stared at each other. Why do you have my mother's scarf?' He stumbled. 'She might have left it in my car one day.' Lindsey stood and faced him. She was clear-eyed and driving fast towards the worst news yet. 'What was she doing in your car?' Hello, Hal,' Len said. Hal held the scarf in his head. Lindsey grabbed it away, her voice growing angry. 'Why do you have m mother's scarf?' And though Len was the detective, Hal saw it first- it arched over her like a rainbow- Prismacolor understanding. The way it happened in algebra class or English when my sister was the first person to figure out the sum of x or point out the double entendres to her peers. Hal put his hand on Lindsey's shoulder to guide her. 'We should go,' he said. And later she cried out her disbelief to Samuel in the backroom of the bike shop.

I didn’t need to follow these particular bicycles anymore.They’d found their rightful place. They’d descended through the seven rings of fire--of importation, sale, impoundment, auction, contraband, confiscation, and donation--and here they were again in the hands of fresh new cyclist. It was as if the bikes had graduated from weird times on the traveling freak show, having filled the roles of the reptile man, the fire-eater, the sword-swallower, and now in retirement they’d become staid, calm, dutiful, and serviceable again--like postal workers, customs clerks, and crosswalk guards with colorful, secret pasts.

In the 1950s, the standard bike had been the cruiser design, a gargantuan fender-covered machine built exclusively for adults. There was only one speed (slow) and you stopped the bike by reversing the pedals and pressing down hard. In 1962, however, Schwinn designer Al Fritz had an idea. He’d heard about a new youth trend centered in California: retrofitting bicycles with drag-racing motorcycle accoutrements. “Choppers” — custom motorcycles with long handlebars — were all the rage. Fritz introduced chopper elements into his new design. The Schwinn Stingray was born. It had smaller, 20-inch tires — with flat racing treads — and high handlebars and a banana seat. Sales were initially disappointing — parents didn’t want their children riding such an odd looking bike — but as the Stingray began making its way into America’s neighborhoods, every kid had to have one. And every bike manufacturer began manufacturing bikes just like it — a style we referred to as the “spider” bike.

Progressive tackled risk assessment in a different way, building a massive database with more granular indicators that better predicted the probability of accidents. It used this data to spot the good risks in pools that looked like bad drivers to other insurers. For example, among drivers cited for drinking, those with children were least likely to reoffend; among motorcyclists, Harley owners aged forty-plus were likely to ride their bikes less often. Progressive used information like this to set prices so that even the worst customers could be profitable.

Peñalosa learned when he was a boy that the redistribution of privilege always meets with resistance. But he was not one for compromise. He ordered the removal of thousands of cluttering commercial billboards, and he tore down the fences residents had erected around neighborhood parks. He went to war not just with cars but with anyone who appropriated public space in Bogotá, even if they were poor—in one case forcing thousands of struggling street vendors to remove stalls that had choked off public plazas. The city’s amenities were for everyone. Peñalosa campaigned to turn the city’s grand country club into a public park. Even the dead were targeted: while Mockus had the words “Life Is Sacred” painted on the walls of a cemetery in the central city, Peñalosa attempted to remove the graves so that the living could have more park space. (Both the country club and cemetery initiatives failed.) This aggressive plan created plenty of enemies for him at first. Private bus operators and drivers who were pushed from TransMilenio routes were furious. So were the vendors and hawkers who were swept from popular plazas. But none were as vociferous as the business lobby, who were outraged by the bollards that went up along city sidewalks, effectively killing their free parking. They could not imagine customers arriving by foot, bike, or bus. “He was trying to Satanize cars,” Guillermo Botero, the president of FENALCO, Colombia’s national federation of retailers, told me. “The car is a means of subsistence. It is an indispensable means for people to develop their own lives. If we keep squeezing roads, the city will eventually collapse.” FENALCO

El Indio’s gang pulled in over thirty-one million tax-free dollars in under three years.” Taylor writes, “Everybody along the chain was paid: the customs agent, the police, the American police departments that sold the bikes, the truck drivers, bike mechanics, recruiters, checadors, comunicadors, ganchos, guias, and levantons...a child whose parents left him with an elderly grandfather in an impoverished village, who attended school part-time to the seventh grade, came to the border, lost everything dear to him, and became a millionaire...then he vanished.

And yeah, this is definitely not Portland, since even though I’m in a city, and even though it’s very damp out, I don’t see any mountains in the distance or anybody riding a tall bike while juggling.

When Warren was a little boy fingerprinting nuns and collecting bottle caps, he had no knowledge of what he would someday become. Yet as he rode his bike through Spring Valley, flinging papers day after day, and raced through the halls of The Westchester, pulse pounding, trying to make his deliveries on time, if you had asked him if he wanted to be the richest man on earth—with his whole heart, he would have said, Yes. That passion had led him to study a universe of thousands of stocks. It made him burrow into libraries and basements for records nobody else troubled to get. He sat up nights studying hundreds of thousands of numbers that would glaze anyone else’s eyes. He read every word of several newspapers each morning and sucked down the Wall Street Journal like his morning Pepsi, then Coke. He dropped in on companies, spending hours talking about barrels with the woman who ran an outpost of Greif Bros. Cooperage or auto insurance with Lorimer Davidson. He read magazines like the Progressive Grocer to learn how to stock a meat department. He stuffed the backseat of his car with Moody’s Manuals and ledgers on his honeymoon. He spent months reading old newspapers dating back a century to learn the cycles of business, the history of Wall Street, the history of capitalism, the history of the modern corporation. He followed the world of politics intensely and recognized how it affected business. He analyzed economic statistics until he had a deep understanding of what they signified. Since childhood, he had read every biography he could find of people he admired, looking for the lessons he could learn from their lives. He attached himself to everyone who could help him and coattailed anyone he could find who was smart. He ruled out paying attention to almost anything but business—art, literature, science, travel, architecture—so that he could focus on his passion. He defined a circle of competence to avoid making mistakes. To limit risk he never used any significant amount of debt. He never stopped thinking about business: what made a good business, what made a bad business, how they competed, what made customers loyal to one versus another. He had an unusual way of turning problems around in his head, which gave him insights nobody else had. He developed a network of people who—for the sake of his friendship as well as his sagacity—not only helped him but also stayed out of his way when he wanted them to. In hard times or easy, he never stopped thinking about ways to make money. And all of this energy and intensity became the motor that powered his innate intelligence, temperament, and skills.

Take the initiative to introduce yourself. One morning I was sitting on a bike in a spinning class at my gym. There was a lady whom I did not know sitting on the bike next to me. As we waited for the instructor, I decided to break the silence and start a conversation. I took the initiative to introduce myself and within a few short minutes, I knew her children’s names, how long she had lived in Madison, which exercise classes she preferred, and where they went for Christmas. When the class was over, I confirmed that I remembered her name correctly, reminded her of mine and shared that it was a true pleasure meeting her. A simple introduction turned a stranger into a fresh and delightful new acquaintance.

A key technique in implementing this approach is the concept of takt time,3 which precisely synchronizes the rate of production to the rate of sales to customers. For example, for a bicycle firm’s high-end titanium-framed bike, let’s assume that customers are placing orders at the rate of forty-eight per day. Let’s also assume that the bike factory works a single eight-hour shift. Dividing the number of bikes by the available hours of production tells the production time per bicycle, the takt time, which is ten minutes. (Sixty minutes in an hour divided by demand of six bikes per hour.) Obviously, the aggregate volume of orders may increase or decrease over time and takt time will need to be adjusted so that production is always precisely synchronized with demand.

The only way to shift a culture is to change behaviors. As you know from any shift you’ve made in your own life, it comes down to one behavior at a time. You can decide you want to be an Ironman triathlete, but if you’ve never run a 5K, you start by lacing up your shoes and going for a short run. If, on your first weekend, you tried to take swimming lessons to improve your stroke, weight training to build endurance, and ride your bike over Vail Pass, you’d end up discouraged, sore, and not much fun to be around.

In this book, I’ll refer to customer needs, pain points, and desires collectively as “opportunities”—they represent opportunities to intervene in our customers’ lives in a positive way. Why don’t we call them “problems to solve”? In the product world, we don’t just solve customer problems. The word “problem” implies something needs fixing. However, we have many examples of products or services that don’t fix problems. Disneyland entertains me. Ice cream is delicious. Mountain biking is fun. These products address my desires.

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Damn. Betrayed by her best two-wheeled buddy. She deserved it, really. Regardless of whatever caused this, she was in command of the bike, so she only had herself to blame. “Sorry, mate.” She groaned sadly at the once beautiful custom blue metal. “Rest in Pieces, Doogie.

Manufacturers agency costs and, 46-50 characteristics of, 3 custom products and, 6, 14, 15, 33 innovation and, 13-15, 121-131, 147-164 dimensions-of-merit product improvements and, 146 expectations of economic benefit by, 2-9, 33, 51-52, 56 free revealing and, 9, 10, 80 government policy and, 2, 107, 108, 117-119 information asymmetries of, 8, 9, 70-72 innovation and, 1-3, 6-9, 14-17, 27, 33, 37, 45, 49-52, 56, 70-76, 107-119, 133, 136, 147-164, 174 lead users and, 4, 5, 27, 127, 133-136, 144-146 national competitive advantage and, 170-172 social welfare and, 7-13 transaction costs and, 55-57 innovate-or-buy decisions and, 6, 7 Marketing research, 15, 16, 37, 133, 134, 167 Marples, D., 63 Martin, J., 150 Marwell, G., 90 Mathews, J., 25 Maurer, S., 115 McAdam, D., 90 McCool, Rob, 101 Mead, L., 152 Means, R., 56 Meckling, W., 6, 46 Merges, Robert, 113, 114 Merton, Robert, 168 Meyer, M., 99 Microsoft, 13, 128, 151 Midgely, David, 23, 179 Mishina, K., 79 MIT Artificial Intelligence Laboratory, 97, 98 Mitchell, R., 40 Molin, M., 129 Mollick, Ethan, 131 Morrison, Pamela, 4, 10, 20, 23-27, 34, 35, 79, 136-143, 179 Mountain biking, 20, 34-37, 72-75, 94 Muniz, A., 174 Nagata, A., 84 Narver, J., 144 National competitive advantage, 170-172. See also Government policy Nelson, R., 68, 84, 113, 114, 170 Niedner, S., 8, 60 Nuvolari, A., 10, 78, 79 Ogawa, S., 8, 71, 72, 108 O’Guinn, T., 174 Oliver, P., 90 Olson, E., 144 Olson, M., 89, 90 Open source software. See also Free software communities and, 172, 174 innovation and, 97-102, 126, 129-132 free revealing and, 9-11, 80, 86, 87 innovation communities and, 11, 93, 96-102, 111, 113, 124, 126, 129-132, 172, 181 intellectual commons and, 115-117 intellectual property rights and, 9, 10, 115-117 knowledge and, 169, 170 Ostrom, E., 90 Outdoor products, 20, 21 Patents. See Intellectual property rights

It’s possible to have emptied your savings account and be living in your friend’s basement riding your bike everywhere because you can’t afford a car and yet feel like you’re bursting with vitality. It’s also possible to have lots of money in the bank, living in the house you had custom built, going on expensive vacations to exotic places, and yet you’re miserable.

Storm Sondors has managed to break into the extremely competitive electric transportation industry via his two business: Sondors Electric Bikes and Electric Vehicles. He has a lot of faith in these businesses and so do their many customers. Storm Sondors is personally inspired by Bill Gates and he hopes that he can emulate his success in business.

Language: if you’re not a member of your target market, you need to learn the language and jargon used within your target market. If you’re selling BMX bikes, you need talk about “endos,” “sick wheelies” and “bunny hops,” not features, benefits, and specifications. If you’re selling golf clubs, you need to talk about “hooks,” “slices” and “handicaps.

I’ve spent pretty much my entire life inside the same twenty-mile radius. This means my home range is roughly equivalent to that of a coyote.

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