Bikes Funny Quotes

I’m not better, you know. The weight hasn’t left my head. I feel how easily I could fall back into it, lie down and not eat, waste my time and curse wasting my time, look at my homework and freak out and go and chill at Aaron’s, look at Nia and be jealous again, take the subway home and hope that it has an accident, go and get my bike and head to the Brooklyn Bridge. All of that is still there. The only thing is, it’s not an option now. It’s just… a possibility, like it’s a possibility that I could turn to dust in the next instant and be disseminated throughout the universe as an omniscient consciousness. It’s not a very likely possibility.

She felt one thousand years old. She also felt like maybe she was a condescending brat. She wanted her bike. She wanted her friends, who were also one-thousand-year-old condescending brats. She wanted to live in a world where she was surrounded by one-thousand-year-old condescending brats.

You want to play video games twenty-four hours a day?" "Or watch. I just want to not be me. Whether it's sleeping or playing video games or riding my bike or studying. Giving my brain up. That's what's important.

Pretty fucking tragic twist of fate, but you don’t seem to remember that we first met years ago. An issue, since I remember a little too well. I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.

After climbing off his bike, I smacked his shoulder. “Did you forget I was with you? Are you trying to get me killed?” “It’s hard to forget you’re behind me when your thighs are squeezing the life out of me.” A smirk came with his next thought. “I couldn’t think of a better way to die, actually.” “There is something very wrong with you.

Bike lane: the section of the road that accommodates wide loads and has speed bumps to protect drunk drivers.

Gliding down the bike path on a Saturday morning, you whip by somebody peddling in the opposite direction and give each other a nod. For a moment it's like "Hey, we're both doing the same thing. Let's be friends for a second.

I can’t function here anymore. I mean in life: I can’t function in this life. I’m no better off than when I was in bed last night, with one difference: when I was in my own bed—or my mom’s—I could do something about it; now that I’m here I can’t do anything. I can’t ride my bike to the Brooklyn Bridge; I can’t take a whole bunch of pills and go for the good sleep; the only thing I can do is crush my head in the toilet seat, and I still don’t even know if that would work. They take away your options and all you can do is live, and it’s just like Humble said: I’m not afraid of dying; I’m afraid of living. I was afraid before, but I’m afraid even more now that I’m a public joke. The teachers are going to hear from the students. They’ll think I’m trying to make an excuse for bad work.

You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn't even have a bike rack.

Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool old-world elegance. I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me. “ ‘One eye is taken for an eye . . .’ ” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped. I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded. I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped. His shoulders shook. “Oh, come on! Stop it!” He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one. I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs. “You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.

I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.

I had a dream about you. You were on a bike going 70 miles an hour, I could see you approaching my car in the mirror. You were trying to say something so, I jumped on the brakes as hard as I could, I guess I forgot I had tied your bike on my bumper.

I just want to not be me. Whether it’s sleeping or playing video games or riding my bike or studying. Giving my brain up. That’s what’s important.

Evan Handler is a man who’s looked into the abyss and laughed. His book, It’s Only Temporary, made me laugh along with him. He covers love, lust, showbiz, triumph, and despair – and he manages to be both funny and inspiring about all of it. It’s an important book that I think can help to spread goodness around the world. Something we desperately need.

I wasn't very good at the bike thing. Really, it was just dangerous to trust two skinny little wheels and spindly brakes with the considerably uncoordinated woman that is me.

I'll get up and bike to the Brooklyn Bridge and throw myself off it.

Asking someone else to drive your sports car is like asking someone else to kiss your girlfriend.

Dad used to say lots of funny things - like he was speaking his own language sometimes. Twenty-three skidoo, salad days, nosey parker, bandbox fresh, the catbird seat, chocolate teapot, and something about Grandma sucking eggs. One of his favourites was 'safe as houses'. Teaching me to ride a bike, my mother worrying in the doorway: "Calm down, Linda, this street is as safe as houses." Convincing Jamie to sleep without his nightlight: "It's as safe as houses in here, son, not a monster for miles." Then overnight the world turned into a hideous nightmare, and the phrase became a black joke to Jamie and me. Houses were the most dangerous places we knew. Hiding in a patch of scrubby pines, watching a car pull out from the garage of a secluded home, deciding whether to make a food run, whether it was too dicey. "Do you think the parasites'll be long gone?" "No way - that place is as safe as houses. Let's get out of here." And now I can sit here and watch TV like it is five years ago and Mom and Dad are in the other room and i've never spent a night hiding in a drainpipe with Jamie and a bunch of rats while bodysnatchers with spotlights search for the thieves who made off with a bag of dried beans and a bowl of cold spaghetti. I know that if Jamie and I survived alone for twenty years we would never find this feeling on our own. The feeling of safety. More than safety, even - happiness. Safe and happy, two things I thought i'd never feel again. Jared made us feel that way without trying, just be being Jared. I breathe in the scent of his skin and feel the warmth of his body under mine. Jared makes everything safe, everything happy. Even houses.

It's not just the cheerleading thing I have a problem with, it's the whole jock enchilada. I'm all for a good game of basketball in teh driveway or a killer bike ride. But when there's tackling and grunting involved-- no thanks.

Whether it's sleeping or playing video games or riding my bike or studying. Giving my brain up. That's what's important.

She points at two big steps on the back of her bike. "You have training... somethings? What are they?" "Feet platforms. My dad made them for my cousin to use. Step on." "But I don't have a cool helmet with a lightning bolt." "Your head is hard enough." "Funny." I steady myself without touching her. "To the train yard," she says and pushes on the pedals. We don't move. "Anytime," I tell her. 'You know. While we're still young and beautiful." She pushes hard again. "You weight a ton." "You need me to drive?" "I need momentum, that's all. Get off." "You're very charming, but you must hear that all the time." "Get off," she says. "I'll ride, and you run after me and jump on the bike." "Do many guys ask you out twice?" "Only the ones with balls.

Sugar, what the fuck did I say about games? I don’t fuckin’ play them. You ain’t gonna make a scene about somethin’ you don’t know. Get out to my bike, shut your mouth and we’ll talk.” “I hate you when you’re bossy,” I say, before spinning on my heel. “You fuckin’ love me, you moody little shit.

So you went bike riding, then," she said. "Just around town? Out on the forest trails somewhere?" "Yes," I said, "we went out to Forman's place." Her face twisted, eyes widening, eyebrows curling, nostrils flaring. It was her "shocked" face, with a dash of "confused." "Really?" "Of course not," I said, "but the face you just made almost makes this conversation worth it.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

Here's a note to the parents of addicted children: choose your music carefully. Avoid Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World", from the Polaroid or Kodak or whichever commercial, and the songs "Turn Around" and "Sunrise, Sunset" and - there are thousands more. Avoid Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time," and this one, Eric Clapton's song about his son. Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" sneaked up on me one time. The music doesn't have to be sentimental. Springsteen can be dangerous. John and Yoko. Bjork. Dylan. I become overwhelmed when I hear Nirvana. I want to scream like Kurt Cobain. I want to scream at him. Music isn't all that does it. There are millions of treacherous moments. Driving along Highway 1, I will see a peeling wave. Or I will reach the fork where two roads meet near Rancho Nicasio, where we veered to the left in carpool. A shooting star on a still night at the crest of Olema Hill. With friends, I hear a good joke - one that Nic would appreciate. The kids do something funny or endearing. A story. A worn sweater. A movie. Feeling wind and looking up, riding my bike. A million moments.

What the hell happened to your leg?" Ang asked him. Matt looked down at his shin, which was scraped and oozing and seemed to be caked in mud. "Crashed." "Crashed what?" Ang asked. "My mountain bike. We just got back." "You crashed, then what? Rolled in dirt?" He laughed. "Something like that actually. It's not a successful ride if you don't bleed." He must not have noticed the look of horror on my face, because he asked, suddenly enthusiastic, "You guys ride?"Angelo and I just looked at each other, and he seemed to realize that was a "no." "Too bad. Well, make yourselves at home. Beer's in the fridge. I have to get cleaned up. Kickoff's in ten minutes." "Football?" Angelo asked. Matt looked at his as if he had just asked if the sky was really blue. "Yeah! First game of the regular season!" We just stared blankly at him, and he just laughed and disappeared down the hall. Angelo looked at me with a smile on his face. "Four fags watchin' football. Must be pretty fuckin' cold in hell right now.

Hope you got your things together.’” I sang, stabbing a pillow with my spear. Feathers exploded into the air. “‘Hope you are quite prepared to die!’” I spun in a dazzling whirl of lights, landed a killer back-kick on a phantom Shade, and simultaneously punched the magazine rack. “‘Looks like we’re in for nasty weather!’” I took a swan dive at a short, imaginary Shade, lunged up at a taller one— —and froze. Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool-world elegance. I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me. “‘One eye is taken for an eye . . .’” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped. I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded. I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped. His shoulders shook. “Oh, come on! Stop it!” He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one. I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs. “You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.

Do you want a ride home?" "I rode my bike, and I don't really want to keep it here at the school." "I have a truck, it won't be a problem to throw it into the bed." "Well then, I suppose I don't really have an excuse to say no, do I?" "I was going to hold your duffel hostage until you said yes anyway." "Now what has my duffel bag ever done to you?

He could put the right sort of valve on your bicycle pump when it wouldn’t mate to a tire bigger than the kind that went on a bike and he’d know what was making that funny buzzing noise in your oven just by looking at it, but when he had to deal with a company timeclock, he’d somehow always end up punching in late and punching out early and get fired for it before very long.

I slammed down on my hip first, followed by my shoulder, followed by my ego. It’s not often that I crash like this, but often enough that I’ve recognized a series of reactions that occurs by instinct rather than reason, which explains why they are so ridiculously misprioritized. 1. First thought: “I’m never riding a bike again.” 2. Pop quickly onto my feet, and then scan for bystanders to assess embarrassment level. 3. Check bike for damage. 4. Check body for damage.

Not so fast,” Sully said. The entire station went quiet as everyone turned toward him. “Lindsey Norris, I like you, too. I like that you’re smart and funny and can remember what everyone in town likes to read. I like that you ride a ridiculous bike to work in terrible weather, and I like that your eyes change color with your moods, like the sea reflects the sky. I like that you adopted a puppy who needed you, and I like the way the wind tangles up your hair when you let it loose, and I do like it loose.” Lindsey

The menu at the Hug Deli included, among other items, the Warm and Fuzzy Hug, the Beverly Hills Air Kiss Hug, and the Gangsta Hug, with side orders of Pinch, Tickle, and Back Scratch. She ordered the Long Uncomfortable Hug, because she thought that was funny, thereby prompting a nut-brown Venice Beach-looking dude to hold on to her, earnestly pokerfaced, for a seeming eternity. "Are you uncomfortable yet?" "Fairly, yes." "Excellent. My work here is done." She laughed and mounted on her bike, pedalling away from the zany mirage as her gratuitous hugger shouted "Namaste" in her direction.

It is now time to face the fact that English is a crazy language — the most loopy and wiggy of all tongues. In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway? In what other language do people play at a recital and recite at a play? Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall? Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo? Why does a man get a hernia and a woman a hysterectomy? Why do we pack suits in a garment bag and garments in a suitcase? Why do privates eat in the general mess and generals eat in the private mess? Why do we call it newsprint when it contains no printing but when we put print on it, we call it a newspaper? Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists? Why — in our crazy language — can your nose run and your feet smell?Language is like the air we breathe. It’s invisible, inescapable, indispensable, and we take it for granted. But, when we take the time to step back and listen to the sounds that escape from the holes in people’s faces and to explore the paradoxes and vagaries of English, we find that hot dogs can be cold, darkrooms can be lit, homework can be done in school, nightmares can take place in broad daylight while morning sickness and daydreaming can take place at night, tomboys are girls and midwives can be men, hours — especially happy hours and rush hours — often last longer than sixty minutes, quicksand works very slowly, boxing rings are square, silverware and glasses can be made of plastic and tablecloths of paper, most telephones are dialed by being punched (or pushed?), and most bathrooms don’t have any baths in them. In fact, a dog can go to the bathroom under a tree —no bath, no room; it’s still going to the bathroom. And doesn’t it seem a little bizarre that we go to the bathroom in order to go to the bathroom? Why is it that a woman can man a station but a man can’t woman one, that a man can father a movement but a woman can’t mother one, and that a king rules a kingdom but a queen doesn’t rule a queendom? How did all those Renaissance men reproduce when there don’t seem to have been any Renaissance women? Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane: In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand? Why do they call them apartments when they’re all together? Why do we call them buildings, when they’re already built? Why it is called a TV set when you get only one? Why is phonetic not spelled phonetically? Why is it so hard to remember how to spell mnemonic? Why doesn’t onomatopoeia sound like what it is? Why is the word abbreviation so long? Why is diminutive so undiminutive? Why does the word monosyllabic consist of five syllables? Why is there no synonym for synonym or thesaurus? And why, pray tell, does lisp have an s in it? If adults commit adultery, do infants commit infantry? If olive oil is made from olives, what do they make baby oil from? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume? If pro and con are opposites, is congress the opposite of progress? ...

What does a freelance researcher do?” “Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.” More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?” “Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.” “Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in-between—well, maybe I care a little. Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.

You sound off,” he said. “Why are you whispering? I thought you and Ana were having dinner together.” I bit my lip. “It’s kind of a funny story, but you have to promise not to yell.” “Why would a funny story make me yell?” he asked warily. “Well,” I drawled. “I was on my way to meet up with Ana, and there was this truck parked in an alley that didn’t look right. So, I left my bike on the street and went to check it out.” “Jordan.” I didn’t need to see him to know he was pinching the bridge of his nose, something he’d been doing a lot in the last few months. “Don’t worry. They didn’t see me.” His tone sharpened. “Who didn’t see you?” “The Gulaks. They were too busy loading the girls into the back.” I paused as the truck slowed going around a curve. “I slipped on without them having a clue I was there.” He swore. “Do not tell me you climbed into a truck with a bunch of Gulak slavers.” I scoffed softly. “Of course not. Give me some credit. I’m on the roof of the truck.” He growled something, and I heard another male laughing. It sounded like Mario, one of the warriors we were working with on this job, along with his mate, Ana. We’d been in Panama for two weeks, at the request of the government, to locate and shut down a human trafficking ring. But this one was a lot more sophisticated than any other Gulak operation we’d encountered, and they’d managed to evade us completely. Until now. “This is not a funny story,” he said in an exasperated voice.

Jack’s eyes glinted with humor. “Do we have to start with that?” “What else would we start with?” “Couldn’t you ask me something like, ‘How did your morning go?’ or ‘What’s your idea of the perfect day?’” “I already know what your idea of the perfect day is.” He arched a brow as if that surprised him. “You do? Let’s hear it.” I was going to say something flip and funny. But as I stared at him, I considered the question seriously. “Hmmn. I think you’d be at a cottage at the beach . . .” “My perfect day includes a woman,” he volunteered. “Okay. There’s a girlfriend. Very low-maintenance.” “I don’t know any low-maintenance women.” “That’s why you like this one so much. And the cottage is rustic, by the way. No cable, no wireless, and you’ve both turned off your cell phones. The two of you take a morning walk along the beach, maybe go for a swim. And you pick up a few pieces of seaglass to put in a jar. Later, you both ride bikes into the town, and you head for the outfitters shop to buy some fishing stuff . . . some kind of bait—” “Flies, not bait,” Jack said, his gaze not moving from mine. “Lefty’s Deceivers.” “For what kind of fish?” “Redfish.” “Great. So then you go fishing—” “The girlfriend, too?” he asked. “No, she stays behind and reads.” “She doesn’t like to fish?” “No, but she thinks it’s fine that you do, and she says it’s healthy for you to have separate interests.” I paused. “She packed a really big sandwich and a couple of beers for you.” “I like this woman.” “You go out in your boat, and you bring home a nice catch and throw it on the grill. You and the woman have dinner. You sit with your feet up, and you talk. Sometimes you stop to listen to the sounds of the tide coming in. After that, the two of you go on the beach with a bottle of wine, and sit on a blanket to watch the sunset.” I finished and looked at him expectantly. “How was that?” I had thought Jack would be amused, but he stared at me with disconcerting seriousness. “Great.” And then he was quiet, staring at me as if he were trying to figure out some sleight-of-hand trick.

Cipo had come up with the idea of running a two-lap time trial around the tiny ring road that ran around the outside of our hotel. The rules were quite simple: each of the four neo-pros would do the TT stripped down to his waist, and could only leave the start gate after downing a carafe of wine. The course was two laps of the circuit (to allow us the opportunity to chuck freezing water on the riders after the first lap), and just to make sure the riders were properly motivated Cipo would be following behind each rider in his own car. The sight of the first rider coming around the bend on the first lap on Bäckstedt’s enormous bike, with Mario Cipollini’s Bentley behind him, horn blaring and lights flashing, while Dario Andriotto leant out of the window yelling, ‘Vai, vai, vai, Porco Dio!’ like the most rabid directeur sportif you’ve ever seen, was side-splittingly funny.

The Daring Bicyclist Jim was always trying different things.  On this particular day he decided he wanted to see how fast a person could ride a bicycle before it became too hard to ride. So he asked a friend if he could tie his bike to the bumper of his car as he drove faster and faster.  His friend agreed. Before they got going they agreed on a way to communicate.  Jim would ring the bell on his bicycle once if he wanted to go faster, twice if the speed was good and repeatedly if he wanted to go slower. So the two adventurers took off and things were going pretty well.  The driver got up to over 50 miles per hour and Jim was able to handle that speed, following along on his bike. All of a sudden a shiny red sports car came up from behind.  The driver pulled alongside and revved up his engine as if he wanted to race.  Jim’s friend accepted the challenge and started to speed up.  He went faster and faster and soon forgot all about poor Jim tied to his bumper. A little way down the road, as the cars raced side by side, a policeman with a radar gun sat and watched as they sped past.  The policeman clocked them at 99 miles per hour. Before the policeman started to pursue the speeding cars, he reported in to headquarters on his radio.  “You are not going to believe this,” the policeman said.  “I am about to go after two cars racing down the road doing almost 100 miles per hour and there is this guy on a bicycle riding behind them waving his arms and ringing a bell trying to pass them!

Today my friend Julie let me bring her dinner. Her husband, Doug, had two very scary seizures in the last two days, and a zillion tests and scans and appointments with neurologists. They had just come home from the hospital, and they were sitting on the front porch when I drove up, and Lilly, their three-year-old, was riding her big-girl bike on the sidewalk in her pink underpants. It was ninety-four degrees today, and they were exhausted. Being with them made me think about the idea that everything is okay. That idea is cruel in its untruth. The bottom just falls out sometimes, and nobody is exempt. I can’t take away the seizures or tell Lilly that it’s never going to happen again, although I would if I could. But I can be there, and I can feed them, and I can listen to their stories, of funny things the doctors said, and the strange and infuriating things family members invariably say in tense situations. I can sit in silence in the heat and stillness of a sticky June night, knowing that everything is not okay, but that this tiny moment is.

Look, we’re going to have to work together whether you like it or not, Chloe. You might as well enjoy it.” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you tell all the ladies?” “Only the shy ones. I’d promise you I’ll be gentle, but you don’t seem like the shy type, to be honest…” Chloe’s gaze narrows even farther, accentuated by the sharp, dark frames of her glasses. “Thanks, but I prefer to drive rather than riding the company bike.” I snort. “You know, I hear slut-shaming is out of style these days.” “Funny, I heard the same thing about hooking up with your secretary.

My dog used to chase people on a bike a lot. It got so bad, finally I had to take his bike away.

A black Jewish boy runs home from school one day and asks his father, “Daddy, am I more Jewish or more black?” The dad replies, “Why do you want to know, son?” “Because a kid at school is selling a bike for $50 and I want to know if I should talk him down to $40 or just steal it!

It was funny how we needed an explanation for another's early death, equating it to some lack of judgment, so we can cross ourselves off the list of potential cancer acquirers. Don't smoke, do eat lots of fruits and vegetables, don't drink, do yoga. So we can tell ourselves with some frail reassurance that we're immune. Or even better: it strikes one out of eight, she has it, so statistically I won't get it.

Hvis du en dag ser mig cykle, kan du være sikker på, at civilisationen, som vi kender den, er gået under. Verden er gået nedenom og hjem. Jeg snakker atomkrig eller zombier. Når det sker, vil jeg overveje at hoppe på en cykel.

Am I supposed to leap on the back of your bike while it's moving like they used to do to horses in the wild west. '' He couldn't hold back his smiles this time. Funny. ''No smartass. I'll stop. If we have time, you'll also put on the helmet I bought for you.

Jobs fill your pockets, adventures fill your Spirit. I found my happy place by after recent visit to Thailand. A good problem with making travel plans is that there are a lot of funny activities in Travelling. Make your presence a simple clip and easily show you how rustic it is For all adrenaline fans and movements out there, you will be amazed to find that Thailand has so much to offer! Aside from the various temples, tuk-tuk and Pad Thai weighed down the streets, Thailand is a wonderful place to travel and thriving. Enjoy a wide variety of hiking activities from mountain biking, bungee jumping, all the way to the sky. The Kingdom of Smiles explores so many containers that make it an ideal destination for all travelers. You will find bustling cities, sandy beaches, lush forests, and ruins of historic empires. Delicacies are a delicacy in the world, and nightlife is a myth. This is one of the countries with the best travel prices. Your money will go some distance here, ensuring a good feeling about bank robbery.

Title: Professional Bridesmaid for Hire—w4w—26 (NYC) Post: When all of my friends started getting engaged, I decided to make new friends. So I did—but then they got engaged also, and for what felt like the hundredth time, I was asked to be a bridesmaid. This year alone, I’ve been a bridesmaid 4 times. That’s 4 different chiffon dresses, 4 different bachelorette parties filled with tequila shots and guys in thong underwear twerking way too close to my face, 4 different prewedding pep talks to the bride about how this is the happiest day of her life, and how marriage, probably, is just like riding a bike: a little shaky at first, but then she’ll get the hang of it. Right, she’ll ask as she wipes the mascara-stained tears from her perfectly airbrushed face. Right, I’ll say, though I don’t really know. I only know what I’ve seen and that’s a beautiful-looking bride walking down, down, down the aisle, one two, three, four times so far this year. So let me be there for you this time if: — You don’t have any other girlfriends except your third cousin, twice removed, who is often found sticking her tongue down an empty bottle of red wine. — Your fiancé has an extra groomsman and you’re looking to even things out so your pictures don’t look funny and there’s not one single guy walking down the aisle by himself. — You need someone to take control and make sure bridesmaid #4 buys her dress on time and doesn’t show up 3 hours late the day of the wedding or paint her nails lime green. Bridesmaid skills I’m exceptionally good at: — Holding up the 18 layers of your dress so that you can pee with ease on your wedding day. — Catching the bouquet and then following that moment up with my best Miss America–like “OMG, I can’t believe this” speech. — Doing the electric and the cha-cha slide. — Responding in a timely manner to prewedding email chains created by other bridesmaids and the maid of honor.

Funny thing. You’ve got a big family. But me, I’ve only got my dad. He’s the one person alive that really knows me. That remembers me when I was two, and drawing on the walls, or when I was four, learning to ride a bike. He remembers when I first tied my shoes, and he read my first comics. You, you’ve got lots of people to remember that. But me, when my dad’s gone, all of those memories are gone with him. It’s just me. There’s no one else. Just like that, I’m the only one to remember him. I’m the only one left alive that loved him. There’s no one left to share that with. Just me. Alone.

I never had to be their best friend, I never had to be cool or funny, I didn’t have to make all those snacks or bring them treats from the grocery store or lavish them with gifts the Christmas that JP and I split; I didn’t have to drive them to the beach, picking up half a dozen friends on the way, when they could just as easily have ridden their bikes. All I had to do was hug them, kiss them, rock them to sleep, read to them, tell them I was proud of them and that I was happy, so happy, that they were mine.

The thing is, there are good days and bad days. I feel almost guilty saying they aren’t all bad. Something catches me off guard—a TV show, a funny one-liner from my dad, a comment in class—and I laugh like nothing ever happened. I feel normal again, whatever that is. Some mornings I wake up and I sing while I’m getting ready. Or maybe I turn up the music and dance. On most days, I walk to school. Other days I take my bike, and every now and then my mind tricks me into thinking I’m just a regular girl out for a ride.

Do you need a ride?” He said again. “No, actually.” “Come on. I’ll take you home.” I don’t need a ride. That’s my bike.” Maggie pointed to the bike at his feet. He didn’t look down at the bike, which made Maggie think he was aware all along that it was hers. “It’ll fit in my trunk.” “No, thank you. I’ll ride it home. It’s a big bike.” “It’s a big trunk.” Maggie stared at him, confused by his sudden appearance and his even more sudden interest in spending time in her company. “Why?” “It was made that way. Most of the cars made in the ‘50’s had decent sized trunks.” “Ha ha, very funny. That’s not what I meant and you know it. Why do you want to take me home?” Maggie almost smiled at his dry attempt at humor. But she didn’t. It still hurt too much to look at him, to be near him, and her smile stayed dormant. “I want to talk to you.” “I had the very distinct impression the last time we were together that I made you angry. Plus, I’m thinking your driver’s license is long expired. You shouldn’t be driving.” “Ha, ha, very funny,” Johnny mimicked her. “Have you always been such a goody-two shoes?” “Nobody says goody-two-shoes anymore!” Maggie said crossly and walked to her bike, squatting beside it to undo the lock. “Maggie,” he coaxed. “Maggie?” She really tried not to look up at him. “How do you drive a blonde crazy?” Maggie’s head shot up, and her eyes locked on his. “You put him in a round room and tell him to sit in the corner,” Johnny quipped, but his eyes were serious. “Not bad, Kinross. Did you make that up yourself?

after us … or maybe they’d put their safeties back on, and we’d get to watch a bunch of smiling Titans following like drones? They could get on tiny motorcycles then follow the RV. That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? They’d look like those famous fat twins on their bikes. Alien comedy at its best.” Now Andreus looked angry. He’d been wearing a damp rag on his head since they’d left the RV in one of the few places with overhead cover a few miles back. Piper kept wanting to make babushka jokes, but she couldn’t quite manage. The man

As for why it’s you, I don’t know, I don’t care. It just is. It could be ’cause you’re gorgeous. It could be ’cause you’re funny. It could be ’cause I like the way you handled Pete when he lost his daughter. It could be ’cause you and me got Chaos in common, it’s us, it’s in our blood and this was meant to be. It could be ’cause I like the way you are with your family. It could be ’cause you get off on bein’ on the back of my bike almost as much as I get off straddling it. I figure it’s all that and more. I am not gonna analyze it. I’m gonna feel it ’cause I like it and that’s all there is to it.