Downhill Biking Quotes

Alec had comfort books—stories so familiar that they made reading feel like coasting downhill on a bike, or water-skiing on a smooth lake.

As we sped downhill past my spot, past the olive groves and the sunflowers that turned their startled faces to us as we glided past the marine pines, past the two old train cars that had lost their wheels generations ago, but still bore the royal insignia of the House of Savoy, past the string of gypsy vendors screaming murder at us for almost grazing their daughters with our bikes, I turned to him and yelled, "Kill me if I stop.

To return to central Rome, it’s another two miles north along a busy stretch of road, not recommended on foot or bike. Instead, catch bus #118 from the bus stop about 75 yards past Domine Quo Vadis Church (across from the TI). Bus #118 makes several interesting stops (see below) on its way to the Piramide Metro stop. (Note that another bus, the #218, also goes from here to San Giovanni in Laterano.) For those with more energy, there’s more to see, especially if you’re renting a bike and want to just get away from it all. Other Sights on or near the Appian Way Consider these diversions if you have the time and interest. More of the Appian Way: Heading south (away from downtown Rome), past the Tomb of Cecilia Metella, you’ll find the best-preserved part of the Appian Way—quieter, less touristed, and lined with cypresses, pines, and crumbling tombs. It’s all downhill after the first few hundred yards. On a bike, you’ll travel over lots of rough paving stones (or dirt sidewalks) for about 30 minutes to reach a big pyramid-shaped ruin on its tiny base, and then five minutes more to the back side of the Villa dei Quintili.

If you’re not growing, you’re dying.

Misadventure   As I turned my bike round a corner, a loud screeching sound was heard down the country lane. Kim tumbled down the rutty slope when he lost balance riding over a mound. His bicycle had fallen into a ditch when one of the tires bounced downhill, disappearing into a ravine.               Our numero uno instructor came to his rescue. Apart from some minor scratches and bruises, Kim was able to hobble about when he balanced on the Caucasian.               Jules bid us to ride ahead, to solicit assistance from the first aid division while he waited with Kim for the ambulance. We did as told. I couldn’t help but wonder if this mishap had been instigated on purpose, or whether it was Mother Nature’s way to shepherd the closeted gays together. I didn’t have long to wait before the truth was revealed.

When you learn to ride a bike, ice skate, or downhill ski, the first thing you’re taught is how to stop. It’s an essential skill because if things start heading the wrong direction, you can stop and limit the damage. This same skill is necessary with conversations that have the potential to go off the rails and create lasting damage. When someone blindsides you and says something that triggers you, find the brakes, so you can hit that Pause button. This can be tricky because, by nature, we often aren’t patient communicators. We expect responses right away and feel compelled to offer the same. I’m inviting you to challenge that and request a little time to gather your thoughts. It can happen faster than you think, so I advise my clients to make simple requests that allow them to Pause. Some examples include: • Let me catch my breath here. • Can we find a place to sit down to talk about this? • Give me a moment to close my door. • Let me go to the bathroom/let the dog out/fill my coffee, and then I will give you my undivided attention. The truth is, your brain needs time to overcome some of your initial reactions and access other choices.

It was a bike. He had to be careful, so careful how he rode it, but it was a bike, and they were going to go zooming downhill and through this world with the neon throbbing on the black of the February night like a hallucinogenic trompe l’oeil.

My muscles were able to fit themselves to my bike, they actually liked it: muscles are tractable and learn tricks fast. But racing downhill is a matter of nerves, and from the very start my nerves have thought: to hell with you and your bicycle racing.

I do not know what love is I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.

I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.