Gear Cycling Quotes

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of the mountain, or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha - which is to demean oneself.

And then the French paddled over from Canada, and you know how rambunctious those Canadians are—always in a snit about something,” Irma prattled on.

I knew exactly what was about to happen. It was part of this pathetic cycle my dad was caught in. He'd get really passionate about some project, talk about ir nonstop for months. Then, inevitably, some tiny problem would crop up and throw sand in the gears and instead of dealing with it he'd let it completely overwhelm it.

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha—which is to demean oneself.

I delve into the mysterious and counterintuitive world of helmets and high-visibility gear later in the book. But it's worth immediately noting this: while they're not inherently bad, they're less a safety device for cycling than a symptom of a road network where no cyclist can truly feel safe.

Resting her cheek on her knees, she watched Gansey switch gears and glance in his rearview mirror and then at her.

I just think that their flight from and hatred of technology is self-defeating. The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha—which is to demean oneself. That is what I want to talk about in this Chautauqua.

The Buddha resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain. — Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Meyrueis, Lozère, June 26, 1977. Hot and overcast. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafés. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me.

The Goddess resides as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as she does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Goddess...which is to demean oneself.

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha—which is to demean oneself. That is what I want to talk about in this Chautauqua.

There are three things you need to be considered a truly great company, Collins continues, switching gears to Apple. Number one, you have to deliver superior financial results. Number two, you have to make a distinctive impact, to the point where if you didn't exist you couldn't be easily replaced. Number three, the company must have lasting endurance, beyond multiple generations of technology, markets, and cycles, and it must demonstrate the ability to do this beyond a single leader. Apple has numbers one and two. Steve was racing the clock [to help it get number three]. Whether it has lasting endurance is the final check, something we won't know for some time. There are lots of good people there, and maybe they'll get it.

Thinking is what angels do—it is a property given to Man by God.” “How do you suppose God gives it to us?” “I do not pretend to know, sir!” “If you take a man’s brain and distill him, can you extract a mysterious essence—the divine presence of God on Earth?” “That is called the Philosophick Mercury by Alchemists.” “Or, if Hooke were to peer into a man’s brain with a good enough microscope, would he see tiny meshings of gears?” Daniel said nothing. Leibniz had imploded his skull. The gears were jammed, the Philosophick Mercury dribbling out his ear-holes.

2. Weaken and Break the Cycle of Addiction Instead of quitting cold turkey (or hyperfocusing on abstinence), we focus on understanding, weakening, and eventually breaking the cycle of addiction. This means we engage with and reevaluate our concepts of will, work with our willpower, manage our energy, and develop new habits, routines, and rituals. Breaking the cycle of addiction also means facing cravings head on and learning to ride them out and eventually burn through them. Some of the things we do to weaken the addiction will be the same as what we do to weaken the root causes (such as meditation), while other practices are specifically geared toward breaking up the addiction (developing new rituals and habits).

A tailwind, on the other hand, is one of the most beautiful experiences you can have on a bike. There’s no wind in my ears, so I hear everything around me. The chain purrs sweetly as it pulls the gears under the coaxing of my legs. The soft hiss of my tires on the smooth hard pavement, the sound of little critters scurrying in the desert around me as I pass. Smells aren’t as big a deal out here in the dry desert, but even the smells are more accessible in a tailwind, since I’m moving through air at a slower relative speed, and the smells linger around my face long enough to register and enjoy them. Relative progress, speed, sights, smells, sounds. It all goes together to create a gestalt for the ride that’s pure sweetness, and I never want it to end. Hozho.

The Internal Family Systems model subdivides the mind into four main parts. At the core is your Self, the natural leader of the system. Then there is the section called the Exiles, which include pain and trauma you’re not ready to process yet so you have cast aside. Unfortunately, the Exiles need to share their stories. They will continue to act out, in the form of rage, terror, grief and shame, until they are heard. “When the Exiles act up, the next group, the Firefighters, kick into gear. Classic firefighting techniques include drug or alcohol abuse, binge eating, other short-term cover-ups for long-term pain. Finally there are the Managers. This section also tries to keep the Exiles at bay through hypercontrolling every situation. Striving, judging, self-criticizing, all come from the Managers. Basically your exiled pain/trauma causes emotional distress, which in turn goads the Firefighters into various self-destructive acts and the Managers into various repressive acts. And around and around you go, whirling through the dysfunctional cycles of life, caused by the core Self not being the one in charge.” “I

To this day, I am still not sure what it was about Chip Gaines that made me give him a second chance--because, basically, our first date was over before it even started. I was working at my father’s Firestone automotive shop the day we first met. I’d worked as my dad’s office manager through my years at Baylor University and was perfectly happy working there afterward while I tried to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. The smell of tires, metal, and grease--that place was like a second home to me, and the guys in the shop were all like my big brothers. On this particular afternoon, they all started teasing me. “You should go out to the lobby, Jo. There’s a hot guy out there. Go talk to him!” they said. “No,” I said. “Stop it! I’m not doing that.” I was all of twenty-three, and I wasn’t exactly outgoing. She was a bit awkward--no doubt about that. I hadn’t dated all that much, and I’d never had a serious relationship--nothing that lasted longer than a month or two. I’d always been an introvert and still am (believe it or not). I was also very picky, and I just wasn’t the type of girl who struck up conversations with guys I didn’t know. I was honestly comfortable being single; I didn’t think that much of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?” I asked, since they all seemed to know him for some reason. “Oh, they call him Hot John,” someone said, laughing. Hot John? There was no way I was going out in that lobby to strike up a conversation with some guy called Hot John. But the guys wouldn’t let up, so I finally said, “Fine.” I gathered up a few things from my desk (in case I needed a backup plan) and rounded the corner into the lobby. I quickly realized that Hot John was pretty good-looking. He’d obviously just finished a workout--he was dressed head-to-toe in cycling gear and was just standing there, innocently waiting on someone from the back. I tried to think about what I might say to strike up a conversation when I got close enough and quickly settled on the obvious topic: cycling. But just as that thought raced through my head, he looked up from his magazine and smiled right at me. Crap, I thought. I completely lost my nerve. I kept on walking right past him and out the lobby’s front door. When I reached the safety of my dad’s outdoor waiting area, I realized just how bad I’d needed the fresh air. I sat on a chair a few down from another customer and immediately started laughing at myself. Did I really just do that?

Let the doorknob hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

Road cycling is a means to an end. It’s one way we can ride away from the phone, the house, the bills, the TV, what’s going on at work, how the kids are driving you bonkers. Getting on the bike is the antidote. It’s a mini-vacation for your soul. It’s a time to revamp and breathe—even if it’s just for an hour at a time.

Venting how you feel may make you look like a fool. And you may get in a cycle of pushing your loved ones away from you. No one wants to be around someone who bursts out with anger. If you’re quick to vent, you miss important information that your emotions have for you. You steamroll right into another gear. Instead, what you need to do is downshift and listen for the real meaning underneath the anger. You may have never heard of emotions as giving you key information. But they’re there, trying to get your attention.

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The Japanese experience, since the early 1990s, is worrying in this respect. After the bubble economy collapsed and the private sector went into deleveraging mode, low interest rates have prevailed. During Japan’s two lost decades, returns on equity have been persistently lower than in Europe or the US–they currently average around 8 per cent compared to 12 per cent and 15 per cent respectively, albeit with lower gearing. Despite Japan introducing the world to ZIRP (the zero-interest rate policy), the country’s nominal GDP per capita remains below the 1991 level. Rather like the current Western experience, the decline in private sector leverage has been replaced by rising public sector debt–which is now over 200 per cent of GDP, up from around 50 per cent in the early 1990s. Total debt, both public and private, is greater today, relative to Japan’s economy, than in 1990. In short, Japan’s long experiment with low rates has hardly been a positive one, with respect to either corporate profitability or the country’s ability to outgrow its debt burden.

Eton, for all its virtues, seriously lacked girls. (Well, apart from the kitchen girls who we camped out on the roof waiting for night after night.) But beyond that, and the occasional foxy daughter of a teacher, it was a desert. (Talking of foxy daughters, I did desperately fancy the beautiful Lela, who was the daughter of the clarinet teacher. But she ended up marrying one of my best friends from Eton, Tom Amies--and everyone was very envious. Great couple. Anyway, we digress.) As I said, apart from that…it was a desert. All of us wrote to random girls whom we vaguely knew or had maybe met once, but if we were honest, it was all in never-never land. I did meet one quite nice girl who I discovered went to school relatively nearby to Eton. (Well, about thirty miles nearby, that is.) I borrowed a friend’s very old, single-geared, rusty bicycle and headed off one Sunday afternoon to meet this girl. It took me hours and hours to find the school, and the bike became steadily more and more of an epic to ride, not only in terms of steering but also just to pedal, as the rust cogs creaked and ground. But finally I reached the school gates, pouring with sweat. It was a convent school, I found out, run entirely by nuns. Well, at least they should be quite mild-natured and easy to give the slip to, I thought. That was my first mistake. I met the girl as prearranged, and we wandered off down a pretty, country path through the local woods. I was just summoning up the courage to make a move when I heard this whistle, followed by this shriek, from somewhere behind us. I turned to see a nun with an Alsatian, running toward us, shouting. The young girl gave me a look of terror and pleaded with me to run for my life--which I duly did. I managed to escape and had another monster cycle ride back to school, thinking: Flipping Nora, this girl business is proving harder work than I first imagined. But I persevered.

MenZnow" provides useful information for building a healthy body with a focus on fitness. Information and columns on sports such as gym, muscle, cycling, mountain climbing, climbing, walking and swimming. Wisdom that you want to incorporate into your daily life, such as dieting and eating. Lifestyle itself, fashion & gear, etc.

Government runs in short time cycles, usually less than four years. It often feels like we are in an endless campaign cycle and, in some cases, at least half of the activity of government leaders feels like it is around the process of getting reelected. After an election, there is often a three-month lame-duck period where nothing happens, followed by a six-month period as the new administration gears up, puts new leaders in place, makes its plans, does its studies, writes its reports, and then launches its new initiatives. That’s nine months of a four-year cycle wasted.

We prayed for seven days. But, by the last day, we still needed more days to pray. On the first day we prayed well by the well. We prayed for strength and to be saved from hell. Strength to carry and bear the weight of the bear. The furless bear that was living rent-free within. On the second day we prayed for union and companionship. In that unionship, some told us to alter ourselves to benefit from their gold. Some told us to worship at their alter, and to their forbidden gods. Some gave us bands, while some gave us rose stems. But they all promised us a life full of bliss, and concerts to see bands like Kiss. On the third day we prayed for courage and strength. We thought that we needed to lean on to some friends. We begged to rest our lean bodies on their shoulders. We said that we needed a match in which we could meet our match. We asked for a cover to cover up and shield us; providing a shield from the storms of life. On the fourth day we prayed for assertiveness and self-esteem. But, like a bow without its own direction, we jumped as high as they told us. And gave a bow after each and every performance. We skipped and hopped for everyone despite their lies. In fact, we also skipped all the steps necessary to living full lives. On the fifth day we prayed for security and protection. But some betrayed and beat us because we intimidated their situation. And some became deadbeats to the children that we bore for each. We were left beat, with no fun. Missing the beat to the sound of our own drum. On the sixth day we prayed for solitude; some space from an alliance. But we went on to perform for this and that audience. Some were fair skinned; some were dark skinned. Some were fair to us, while some were cruel too much. But we remained amongst them because we chose to be one with copendence. On the seventh day we prayed for bravery. But our conduct had changed gravely because, for six days, we'd invited others to conduct our song. We'd geared up for them and shot arms at ourselves for so long. Meanwhile they'd raised their arms up, cheering for our self-destruction. And, once we were doomed in their mission, they bounced like a wave; vanishing without a wave.

I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me.

Australian farmers whinge in cycles. When they’re not moaning about insufficient drought assistance, they’re demanding subsidised scuba gear for their cattle. This is because Australia doesn’t have regular seasons like other continents. Instead it has El Niño and La Niña, which are Spanish for shitty weather.

If you want to know the truth about the latest equipment, don’t ask a pro. At least not one that’s speaking on the record. We’re told what to use and we have to be positive about it, even when it sucks. It’s been that way since the beginning of the sport. And while I’ve been in the game for a long time now, it is still surprising to see how bad some gear can be. I don’t know how the manufacturers stay in business.

Always cheat; always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose. Do not share with others unless they are doing so with you. Solve your own problems. Don’t let others know what you have or where you have it kept. Maintain situational awareness: head on a swivel, check your six. Always know what you are walking into and away from. Travel light. Hide your supplies in multiple locations. Assume some will be stolen, probably by people you know and trust. Have a way to get to your primary bug-out location(s) from wherever you may be. Have multiple bug-out locations pre-selected. Your gear is precious, but continually learn new skills so you can live without it. Do not put yourself at risk for others. You getting dead helps no one. Trust no one fully. Those you let close can cause you the most pain. Be ready to defend yourself and your property

History was a cycle. Everything that had happened before, all the way back through the generations, would happen again. Sometimes the wheel turned quickly, sometimes it was slow. She could see it like a feed gear, all teeth and bearings with her on the rim along with everybody else. Her last thought before forgetfulness took her and she fell deeply into slumber was that even with the gates, nothing really ever changed so much as repeated itself, over and over, with all new people, forever.

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower.

The goal of all persons who had houses in those days was to possess the smallest number of pieces of furniture needed to sustain life, but to make them as large and heavy and dark as possible. Accordingly, Daniel and Drake ate their potatoes and herring on a table that had the size and weight of a medieval drawbridge. There was no other furniture in the room, although the eight-foot-high grandfather clock in the adjoining hall contributed a sort of immediate presence with the heaving to and fro of its cannonball-sized pendulum, which made the entire house lean from one side to the other like a drunk out for a brisk walk, and the palpable grinding of its gear-train, and the wild clamorous bonging that exploded from it at intervals that seemed suspiciously random, and that caused flocks of migrating waterfowl, thousands of feet overhead, to collide with each other in panic and veer into new courses.

The two boys did quite a lot of cycling, playing cycle polo in a field not far from Cooldrinagh, just as their father had done earlier in a team run by a man called Wisdom Healy.110 The scene in Beckett’s novel Dream of Fair to Middling Women, where the two brothers go off on their bicycles to the sea, recalls a poignant memory of his childhood: That was in the blue-eyed days when they rode down to the sea on bicycles, Father in the van, his handsome head standing up out of the great ruff of the family towel, John in the centre, lean and gracefully seated, Bel behind, his feet speeding round in the smallest gear ever constructed. They were the Great Bear, the Big Bear and the Little Bear; aliter sic, the Big, Little and Small Bears … Many was the priest coming back safe from his bathe that they passed, his towel folded suavely, like a waiter’s serviette, across his arm. The superlative Bear would then discharge the celebrated broadside: B-P! B-P! B-P! and twist round with his handsome face wreathed in smiles in the saddle to make sure that the sally had not been in vain. It had never been known to be in vain.111

Every gear and bearing in this room was making the sort of sound that normally made Bob Shaftoe freeze like a startled animal. Even after he’d gotten it through his head that they were all clocks, or studies for clocks, he was hushed and intimidated by a sense of being surrounded by patient mechanical life. He stood at attention in the middle of the big room, hands in his pockets, blowing steam from his mouth and darting his eyes to and fro. These clocks were made to tell time precisely and nothing else. There were no bells, no chimes, and certainly no cuckoos. If Bob was waiting for such entertainments, he’d wait until he was a dusty skeleton surrounded by cobweb-clogged gears.

Journal Entry – April 17, 2013/May 10, 2013 Hollow. Numb. Empty. Nothingness. Are these feelings? Or are they just words in the English language? I ask these questions, because these words best describe how I feel right now as I sit here in my hospital room. The waiting game. My mind and thoughts swishing around my head, and my eyes burn feeling as if I am going to cry at any moment. Breakfast has come and gone. Vitals have been taken. And the five to ten minute check in with my assigned morning nurse has occurred. It has been three hours since I woke up, and I have twelve to thirteen hours to survive before I can go to sleep for the night. My day will be made up of one education group, lunch, dinner, and the remainder of the day and evening doing nothing but laying on the bed curled up in a ball depressed waiting for the time to pass looking at the clock hanging on the wall periodically wishing the time would move faster… on the flip side…a few days later…Writing in an attempt to keep my mind and head out of the skies. My heart feels as though it will beat outside of my chest, and my brain is on its own axis within my skull. I feel like I am on top of the world. I feel like I could do anything. I feel like I could write forever. I feel like my mind is on the spin cycle of a washing machine. Or, like I am hooked onto a pair of windshield wipers stuck on a speed mode. Although, my brain has spun faster than this and I feel that the meds are keeping the jerks at bay, I still feel that all too familiar whirling feeling. It is indescribable. It is hard to pinpoint. Some of it must be anxiety. Some of it must be that I am locked up like a caged animal ready to pounce. Then again, some of it must be nature. My brain misfiring and backfiring and causing itself to spin in every which direction at all sorts of speeds none of which are consistent or in the same direction. Inconsistency. Slow, fast, in between. A complete blur. I have trouble tracking. I have trouble focusing. I have trouble remembering…My mind is obsessing. I try to stop my mind from racing. I try to stop my eyes from darting across the page. I try to stop my legs from jittering. To no avail. It all starts again. My internal engine drives the show. It is as if I have a compulsion to move and dart and jerk. It is uncomfortable. My thoughts are scattered. My thoughts do not make sense. I find I have to edit my own thoughts or at least dig through the mess. I must navigate the thoughts to find the ones that fit together all in time before the memory loses focus and the tracking loses hold and “poof” the statement or thought is gone forever. Frustrating. I am intelligent. I feel stupid. My mind is in 5th gear and climbing at an unprecedented rate of speed. It is magical and amazing, but terrifying and exhausting. How to remain “normal” – is it possible? Is there a possibility of the insanity to stop? Is it possible for the cycle of speed to come to an end? I like the productivity, but the wreckage is too much to take. I just want a break. I want to be normal. I don’t want to be manic.

even souvenir seekers. One of the worst contaminants was fellow officers, especially brass grandstanding if reporters were present and eager to grab a video bite to slap on the twenty-four-hour news cycle. One more glance at the circular coffin. Okay, Amelia Sachs thought: Knuckle time… A phrase of her father’s. The man had also been cop, a beat patrolman working the Deuce—Midtown South; back then Times Square was like Deadwood in the 1800s. “Knuckle time” referred to those moments when you have to go up against your worst fears. Breadbasket… Sachs returned to the access door and climbed through it and down into the utility room below the cellar. Then she took the evidence collection gear bag from the other officer. Sachs said, “You search the basement, Jean?” “I’ll do it now,” Eagleston said. “And then get everything into the RRV.” They’d done a fast examination of the cellar. But it was apparent that the perp had spent minimal time there. He’d grabbed Chloe, subdued

You work to live, not live to work, like she’s doing.

I didn’t get elected this time. I’m filling in for the chief of police ’cause he had back surgery last month over in Traverse City and is laid up for a while till he can get back on his feet.