Biker Life Quotes

Day in, day out, you peel the layers back for me. Smart mouth, funny, sweet, wild in bed. Chattin' with bikers like they were insurance brokers. Holdin' my girl's hand, givin' her strength when her Mom's bein' a bitch. Keepin' your chin up when your people show in the middle of a full blown drama. But so fuckin' vulnerable, you're scared shitless of livin' life." "You don't know me, Tack." His head came up and his eyes pierced mine. "I know you, Tyra." "You don't." "Life's a roller coaster. Best damn ride in the park. You don't close your eyes, hold on and wait for it to be over, babe. You keep your eyes open, lift your hands straight up in the air and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.

It's the ride of life the journey from here to there living and loving every moment like we have none to spare.

Kidnap me and take me away. Throw me across the back of your bike and show me what it feels like to have the wind in your face and the sun on your skin, day in and day out. If it's anything at all like this then it must be heaven on earth. 

Love is like air, babe. It's there all the time, and you don't even think about it,or you take it for granted. Then all of a sudden, you need it, or you can't breathe. You inhale, and for the first time you're aware it's keeping you alive. You feel it brush your skin all the time. Sometimes it's warm and other times it's cool, but it's there surrounding you, feeding you, holding you. When you finally realize it's love, you become vulnerable. With that new fear of not having air, you subconsciously allow someone special to breathe life for you.

She’s beautiful to look at, she’s new, she’s clean, and perfectly cut. But then you get up and look closely and see that she’s not real. She’s a fake. She doesn't glimmer like a natural diamond or hold the beauty and unbreakable strength of a real diamond. She’s just a manufactured piece of glass. Not the real deal. And sooner or later, that pig headed owner is gonna realize that fake diamonds can never pass for the real ones, no matter how much you wish they would.

When life gives you lemons, you flip off the world, make a pitcher of margaritas, and burn your bra.

Bessie Stringfield epitomised the Carefree Scamp. She wasn’t trying to be any sort of inspiration for black women or female bikers. She was just living her life. It was her road and she knew that no one else could ride it for her

They were not smooth men, the bikers in her life, not fine, or well-loved by Mother Nature. The life – the wind, the sun, the drink, the sin, the violence – it took their soft layers away like sandpaper, over time, until there was a certain stark pride in their wrinkles and dark patches.

We need a country literally full of cat guys and cat girls, bikers, politicians, clergy, and everyone in between, in order to keep millions from dying without homes.

This long ride is the blood my heart bleeds...

Why can't they be normal bitches when they get drunk? Most bitches strip, and put on shows or fuck you to death. Ours turn into bloodthirsty psycho's that would make Dexter run for his life.

I never rode on the back of an old Chopper down the highway Holdin' on tight just him and I Makin' our getaway I've always been the good girl Walked the straight and narrow path all my life, I like a man with a tan and a twisted chrome kickstand Leanin' on a big old bike The low rollin' sound that'll shake the ground Comin' out of long pipes I like a tattoo or two Or even more if they're cool On the big old arms of a long-haired dude Inside of me, there's an all I wanna be Biker chick

Need you Gwen, like I need air. This life is fucked, it ain’t what you deserve, but I am going to clean this shit up now. It will never touch you again.” His voice was firm, resolved and I believed him.

Georgie?” He reached out with both hands to steady her—and himself. His mind had trouble focusing. He couldn’t believe Georgie was actually standing in front of him. She looked liked an angel—in knee-high biker boots. Those boots looked even better in real life than in his imagination. He gazed into her eyes and was filled with so many emotions, so many things he wanted to say to her, he didn’t know where to start. “I like your shoes,” he said.

My biker and these tramps, as people who organize their life around some subculture or other: People can sometimes pretend so thoroughly that they forget they are pretending. At which point, it could even be said that they are no longer pretending.

Mischeif, I can't say before you my life was empty because you have always been in my life. There is no before you, there is no after you, there is only you. I am a better man because of you , and you are my light. I told you once all darkness needs is a little of the right kinda light, an I was right - because even in my darkest times you were there and you changed me. Marry me, because without you my life isn't woth living. Be my light Mischief, forever?

All of her life she had been bullied, and it wasn’t exactly easy. Especially as all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. Instead she did what she always did. She waited for them to get bored, and they would. The thing about bullies was they were only ever happy if the person they were hurting actually responded.

I don’t need a break. Life throws us good days and bad days. Accepting the bad days as being part of life’s cycle allows to appreciate the good ones that much more.

The plans we make are just ripples in the water.

STAR: My dad always told me that life will keep on kicking you if you let it. You’ve got to keep moving, and you’ve got to not look back.

The center-point of riding a motorcycle, and of life itself, is Freedom.

I don't want to forget my past life, Wilde. Because if not for him, I'd have never met you and that would be the greatest mistake of my life.

That is what a motorcycle road trip is supposed to be about, long miles and short stops in obscure places with interesting people and stories to be heard.

You never see a motorcycle parked outside a psychiatrist’s office.

When a man rapes a woman, he doesn’t just rape her. He rapes her entire life. She’s forced “to live a life with the pain from that memory for a lifetime. And for that judge to send a message that six months in county jail is a fair trade for what happened to that woman?...“I’d like to get my hands on that judge and that kid. ..... “I can forgive a lot of things. Rape isn’t one of ‘em.

You are the king of all the fears that ruled my life, a man of ferocity and passion and balls to the wall determination and endless, boyish enthusiasm. You crack the soul of life open in your palms and drink your fill. A man like that needs a queen by his side,” I murmured, repeating my excuse for our breakup back to him in a way that had his eyes clicking to life like flashlights. “And I’m that queen. I will match your ferocity. I will exceed your passion and challenge your balls to the wall determination. I will see your boyish enthusiasm and raise you my newborn love for life. I will stand beside my biker King and be his rough-and-tumble Queen, even if it takes me the next ten years to convince you to take me back.

SPIKE: Settling down is only good for one kind of man. JESSE: The p*ssy kind? SPIKE: Nah, the strong sort. You’re a strong man, and you’re honest. Never thought I’d think about those two words and you in the same sentence. JESSE: I couldn’t be a big d*ck all my life.

Yeah, he was a biker. Just another patch on a totem pole full of patched, leather-wearing bikers living as criminals, not for the money or even for enjoyment but because that was all they knew. It was how they survived, how they paid the bills and cared for their families. It wasn’t about greed or excess, it was about living a certain way, being a certain kind of man who didn’t have to bow down to laws and the government who enforced them. It was a brotherhood, a camaraderie. It was about really, truly living your life the way you wanted to live it. It was about . . . Freedom.

The DNA in your body determines your hair, your height, your eye color. It does not decide that you are going to get joy out of causing pain and hurting others like he did. It does not decide that you will break down other people so you can stand taller. You decide that, Blair. You get to choose. You get to be whoever the hell you want to be, and honestly, I think you made that choice a long time ago.

The remainder of the lion... was still in my freezer that spring when I happened to turn up at the Rock Creek Lodge. This bar... is regionally famous for its annual Testicle Festival, a liquor-filled carnival where ranchers, hippies, loggers, bikers, and college kids get together in September in order to get drunk, shed clothes, dance, and occasionally fight... But on this day the Testicle Festival was still a half year away, and the bar was mostly empty except for a plastic bag of hamburger buns and an electric roasting pan that was filled with chipped meat and a tangy barbecue sauce. I was well into my third sandwich... when the owner of the place came out and asked how I liked the cougar meat. ...When I left the bar, the man called after me to announce a slogan that he'd just thought of: "Rock Creek Lodge: Balls in the fall, pussy in the spring!

You found it,” she announced. I smiled, knowing what she meant. She and I’d had conversations since I was a small child about finding true love. She’d fallen deep with my grampa, who I hadn’t met, he’d died before I was born in a work accident, but she’d never sought out anyone else. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. She’d told me that some people could find love over and over but others found it once and it was so perfect, so ‘it’ that they’d never look elsewhere, even if they lost it. They’d had such good from it that they were topped up for life.

Here’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colorless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterward. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of the Ol’ Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V—Oh, that Santraginean seawater, it says. Oh, those Santraginean fish! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four liters of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy bikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Pallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odors of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle, sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink…but…very carefully… The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica.

Maddy’s going to pop soon,” Cooper said, finishing his beer and getting ready to head out. “Tucker is attached to her. It’s pretty fucking adorable. The guy about wets his pants every time she makes any noise that might be labor pain.” “You’ll be an uncle soon.” “I’m already an uncle,” Cooper mumbled, sliding on his jacket. “I just can’t hold the kid yet.” “You and Farah still planning on trying?” “No planning. We’re just trying now. She’s off the pill. Whenever it happens, it’ll be cool. Farah worries she’ll suck at being a mom. Can you believe that shit?” Cooper asked as his dark eyes warmed at the thought of his wife. “The way she takes care of Sawyer and me and everyone else and she thinks she’ll be a bad mom. These girls with their shit families get all fucked up in the head and no logic is going to fix it. They just need to face their fears and see how amazing they are when their idiot parents aren’t around to fuck things up.” “Should I fix things for Lark?” “I don’t know. If it was me, I’d go smack her stupid brother and father around. I don’t know if that’d be a good idea though. Those fucks aren’t low life drifters like Farah’s parents. That Larry asshole is a respectable member of the community. If you want to smack him around, you’ll need to do it in a more subtle way. Of course, if he ever fucks with you, we can just remind Mister Upstanding how his kind doesn’t run Ellsberg. It’s us dirty biker types who keep his house from burning down or his head from getting cracked open. If it comes down to it, I’ll help you take him down. Pop says behave. I say I’ve got my bud’s back.” Grinning, I shoved him away from me. “Crap. I’m worried you might hug me next.” “I was thinking about it,” Cooper said, smiling. “Farah’s turned me all nice and shit. I’m getting manners too. It’s disgusting.” “Horrifying,” I teased. “Thanks for the offer, but I feel like Lark needs to make a move. If she needs me to, I’ll burn down houses and crack open skulls. Right now, I feel like maybe she needs to find her way back to me. If she does, I’m keeping her and ruining anyone who tries to take her away.” “Now, there’s the punk ass jerk I became friends with.

I’ve learned over the past few years that the only real way to be happy is through myself. Other people can perpetuate your happiness, but you have to take charge of your own life and live it well.

Momma didn't raise any fool, she put me in fostercare

At the same time, Beausoleil got into trouble with a biker gang who hung out at Spahn Ranch. Beausoleil had sold mescaline manufactured by Gary Hinman to the bikers, who reported that the drugs were actually poison. They wanted their money back. Manson convinced Beausoleil to confront Hinman and demand from him not only the drug money but anything else of value he possessed. Beausoleil drove with Bruce Davis, Susan Atkins, and Mary Brunner to Hinman’s house on July 25, 1969. At the house, Beausoleil pulled a gun on Hinman when he refused to give back the money. There was nothing wrong with the mescaline, Hinman said. Susan kept the gun on Hinman while Beausoleil searched the house, but Hinman managed to overpower her, causing Beausoleil to beat him. Eventually, Davis drove back to Spahn Ranch to pick up Manson, who wanted to take part in what was to follow. Manson brought a sword and used it to slash Hinman’s face and cut off part of his ear. After Manson left, Beausoleil continued to beat Hinman over the course of the night and into the next day, with Susan and Mary still present. Hinman maintained that he had no money and threatened to call the police as soon as they left. Beausoleil called Manson to tell him about Hinman’s threat, and Manson ordered him to kill Hinman, making the murder look as though the Black Panthers did it in retaliation for the murder of Lotsa Poppa. Beausoleil stabbed Hinman to death and used his blood to write the phrase “political piggy” on the wall. Beausoleil, Susan, and Mary tried to remove their fingerprints from Hinman’s home before they drove away in his cars. It took two weeks before anyone found Hinman’s body.

The beaches at Malibu are neither white nor as wide as the beach at Carmel. The hills are scrubby and barren, infested with bikers and rattlesnakes, scarred with cuts and old burns and new R.V. parks. For these and other reasons Malibu tends to astonish and disappoint those who have never seen it, and yet its very name remains, in the imagination of people all over the world, a kind of shorthand for the easy life. I had not before 1971 and will probably not again live in a place with a Chevrolet named after it.

wish I had the words to explain how deeply I need you, but I'm a fuckin' biker, so I'm going to try and put my feelings in a way you'll understand. The cut stands for my pride, my surrogate family, my self-worth, my career, my life. That piece of leather is everything I thought I ever needed, but I'd give it up right now if you asked me to, because I've realized that you're my cut.

I loved you, you know? I gave you everything I had. Young or not I knew who you were. I knew what this club is about and what it is into. And I also knew what our life together would have been. I was ready for that. I made the decision that you were it for me. Today, I wasn’t ready for this… I wasn’t ready to walk in here watching you with her. That showed me that I am not it for you and that’s ok.” - Gabriella

The real danger to your organization’s health in embracing the strategic mind-set comes when you and your employees focus more on the prize than on the path, causing everyone to value the big “Aha!” over the routine. Not completing the tasks that comprise the routine will eventually slow down the best-run organizations and devastate the not-so-well-run organizations.

Carl Sandburg poem come to life. There were inner-city kids jostling one another on a field trip, well-coiffed bankers working their flip phones, farmers in seed caps looking to widen the locks that allowed industrial barges to take their crops to market. You’d see Latina moms looking to fund a new day-care center and middle-aged biker crews, complete with muttonchops and leather jackets, trying to stop yet another legislative effort to make them wear helmets.

In other words, there should be no big “Aha!s” along your route. Talk to any good bikers and they will tell you how important it is for there to be few, if any, big “Aha!s” along the way. That’s because a surprise like this usually spells trouble and signals the fact that we didn’t take the time to understand and account for all known factors along our ride. And that can be hazardous to our health.

And suddenly the motorcyclist felt ignited, that was, in the most subtle spark of need: to live in that alternate, finer side of life that was within reach and waited to be taken. It occurred to him what he wanted. And as that butterfly of chance flew past the biker’s soul, he eyed it and caught the white-winged sign instantly. There, he said to himself, I’ll go. And he attended to that meteoric obligation—that dear, vivacious reality unveiled by leaping humans. The biker wanted to see what a certain future looked like, and excitedly leaned back on his Triumph, released the clutch, and pushing off on the rubber footrests, leaned high up in the air to his right and threw himself off the bike.

To implement this path to make other people feel good about themselves I plan to ask more questions of people and talk about myself less.

The fact is America’s democracy uses a combination of capitalism (businesses and banks) and socialism (public schools, police, fire fighters and the military) and our most successful times have occurred when government, business and people work together and don’t demonize each other.

What’s the problem, babe?” Judd asked, climbing off the bike and caressing my cheek. “I feel underdressed. I look trashy.” Glancing over my jeans, gray sweater, beige jacket, and tennis shoes, Judd frowned. “We’re visiting the Johanssons, not the Rockefellers.”   Crossing my arms, I felt dirty like I needed a shower. I felt hideous and unworthy of every good thing in my life. Judd leaned down and pressed his forehead to mine. “You know who’s inside? Your big sis surrounded by loud stinky bikers. They’re burping and stinking up the place and she’s all alone, waiting for someone to save her.” Grinning slightly, I still felt grumpy. Yet, Judd tugged me closer until I smiled up at him. “After we do this family crap where Cooper acts like I should give a shit what he thinks, we’ll go back to my place and try out the hot tub. We might have to share it with one of my elderly neighbors. If it’s Morty, he won’t mind a little show.” Laughing, I sighed. “I don’t know why I get so pissy sometimes.” Judd looked ready to answer then changed his mind. “Everyone gets pissy sometimes, babe. I almost did once too.” “Almost?” “This close,” he said, showing me his fingers. “It was so fucking close, but turned out, I was just hungry. Maybe that’s your problem?” “Maybe.” “Let’s get you fed then.

Since the moment I laid eyes on him eleven years ago, my feelings for him have been my most closely guarded secret. Fear made me tuck them away in my heart, longing for him from a distance. But if I’d let him know how much I cared about him, how I’d thought he was the most amazing person I’d ever met, would it have made a difference? Even if I got my heart stomped on, maybe I could have made the verbal wounds his father inflicted cut a little less deep. Instead I’d made them worse. That was the thought that stole the breath from my lungs. I’d wanted nothing more than to make things better for Hunter, but all along he thought I felt like he was trash. Someone not worth my notice. So what choice did I have now? I could hold onto my pride and my heart for dear life and let him go on thinking I hated him. Or I could be honest, admit my feelings, and risk…everything.

So squeeze together a love of motorcycles, a little edginess and risk taking, a craving for the freedom of the open road, a touch of the loner, a rough sense of humor, some physical and mental toughness along with some multi-faceted motorcycle pride and you have a biker. The more time that biker spends with his machine on the road, the deeper that biker chord runs.

I want a man to love me for no other reason than he believes I’m the most unique creature on the planet,” she said, folding her arms against her chest as she spoke. “When he thinks of living life without me, I want him to get scared and confused.” “That’s

With nothing to occupy my time, I enrolled in online classes through Liberty University and decided in my new life I would be well educated and well employed. I worked toward my bachelor’s in biblical studies.

Race you back. Bet you twenty bob I win.” Mitch pressed the ignition button of his customized ride. The 1,000cc engine roared to life. “You serious? God knows what you’ve done to that thing. Probably goes like a jackrabbit on meth.” “Come on, Vance, everyone knows you and Flash are the biker heads. There’s no way yours is stock.” Vance grinned as he climbed into his ATV, barely fitting inside the roll cage. He turned over the engine and it gave an angry snarl. “OK, you’re on.

Night is my time...am not a vampire but i am a Night Rider....!

They were live, breathe, eat, drink, fuck, bleed, and die for the life bikers.

A biker’s life shouldn’t be comforting, yet somehow, that’s what her presence is.

Instead, I want to defile her. Expose her to all the dirty things I’ve seen in my life.

When I was growing up in the late 1950s and early ’60s, there was very little in the way of literate adventure writing. Periodicals that catered to our adolescent dreams of travel and adventure clearly held us in contempt. Feature articles in magazines that might be called Man’s Testicle carried illustrations of tough, unshaven guys dragging terrified women in artfully torn blouses through jungles, caves, or submarine corridors; through hordes of menacing bikers, lions, and hippopotami. The stories bore the same relation to the truth that professional wrestling bears to sport, which is to say, they were larger-than-life contrivances of an artfully absurd nature aimed, it seemed, at lonely bachelor lip-readers, drinkers of cheap beer, violence-prone psychotics, and semiliterate Walter Mitty types whose vision of true love involved the rescue of some distressed damsel about to be ravaged by bikers, lions, or hippopotami.

He loved talking to the mountains. He loved talking to the breeze. He loved to drift. And he loved to ride his motorcycle.

She was going to have a beautiful life.

It’s just the way, and it’s a good way, and you know what I mean, Dad. I want a handful,” Rush went on. “I wanna wake up and not know what the day is gonna bring, mostly because she’s gonna make it an adventure. I want kids, and I want the woman I choose to make them with to be about them. To have all the love in the world for them. To make it so they know that and never doubt it. And you know why I want that.

A woman who can love that deep, who’s got that kinda steel in her spine, the man who gets it, it’ll feel good to earn that love, keep it and have it. But he’ll have to understand what makes her and that he’ll have a lifetime of puttin’ out fires, dealin’ with emotional fallout, and proppin’ her up when the loads she takes on get too heavy.

I want a handful,” Rush went on. “I wanna wake up and not know what the day is gonna bring, mostly because she’s gonna make it an adventure. I want kids, and I want the woman I choose to make them with to be about them. To have all the love in the world for them. To make it so they know that and never doubt it.

We grieve to the extent that we loved. We should all be so lucky to experience a love that causes such pain. Deep grief means great love.

Maddox refuses to free his demons because without them, he’s worried he won’t know who he is.

No. Fuck no,” Demon spits. “Get that fuckin’ thought outta your head. We’re in this together. Every one of us would willingly follow you to the ends of the earth. If that means our death, so be it. It’ll take a lot more than death to break my loyalty to you. Come heaven or hell, I’ll follow you in this life, and in any life after.

How different my life would have turned out had either one of us been born with a dick!

Out of nowhere, our problem was solved. We had a stringer in New York whose life was spent collecting awful things for us off the cable channels: biker astrologists, transvestite psychics, body-building sexologists, stuff like that. He lived in a cold-water flat somewhere on the Upper West Side dodging cockroaches the size of rats while he survived on pizza. One night he was watching a cable channel unbelievably called Channel 69. Exercising their rights under the First Amendment, anyone at all could pay ten dollars and go on Channel 69 to do a number, because in America everyone is entitled to self-expression: it’s in the Constitution. Our stringer was halfway though a five-cheese pizza with extra cheese when he was suddenly face to face with an Hispanic woman in a green feather boa singing the Lionel Ritchie hit ‘Hello’ while she pounded away at a Yamaha portable piano. He had never seen anything like her in his life and for a while he thought there might be something wrong with the pizza, but when he recovered his mind he sent me a video by courier. The video had the artist’s name handwritten on the label. It was Margarita Pracatan.

I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire fucking life.

You would tempt the devil.” She puffed, feeling squirmy inside, needing his hands and his mouth on her in the worst way. “Do I tempt you?” The bad-biker-man knew he did because he was smiling in a way, which was cocksure and sexy as hell. “Every day of my life.

Biker George says that life can be hard & it's even harder if you don't have Christ.

Biker George says that laughter is like a shock absorber on your bike that softens & minimizes the bumps of life.

Let me take care of you. Been waiting my whole life to take care of a woman who deserves it. You deserve that, Sunshine. You deserve a man who would never lay a hand on you in anger. Never fucking ever. I am that man. Do not be afraid to trust me. I fucking promise, I'll break my back making sure you never regret it if you take a chance on me, on us. Let me be the man whose job it is to protect you, Pippa. Honest to God, no man ever wanted anybody more than I want you.

Let's ride hard towards your goal.

I’d lived my whole life around weirdos. Bikers, outlaws, vagabonds, freedom seekers. You name it. Fuck it, give me the weirdos any day of the week.

We solve crimes, but we’ll never solve crime.

Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.

When you find the one you want to be with, there will never be an ‘enough is enough.’ There will never be a step too far when it comes to protecting them.

There I was, sitting at the bar, staring at my drink, when a large, trouble-making biker stepped up next to me. He grabbed my drink and gulped it down in one swig. "Well, whatcha gonna do about it?" he said menacingly. I burst into tears. “Come on, man,” the biker said. “I didn’t think you’d cry. I can’t stand to see a man crying.” “This is the worst day of my life,” I said. “I’m a complete failure. I was late to a meeting, and my boss fired me. When I went to the parking lot, I found my car had been stolen—and I don’t even have insurance. I left my wallet in the cab I took home. I found my wife with another man, and then my dog bit me.” “So I came to this bar to work up the courage to put an end to it all. I bought a drink, dropped a capsule in it, and sat here watching the poison dissolve. Then you show up and drink the whole thing!” “But enough about me,” I said, wiping my tears. “How’s your day going?