Helmet Rider Quotes

A smile flitted across War's mouth, hidden by her helmet. She had little patience for religion (although she approved heartily of the religious fanatics who sought to cleanse the world of heresy), and the only faith War had was in cold steel and hot blood.

The Engineer who Design a Helmet Needs to be a Doctor First

हेलमेट हम पुलिस वालों से बचनेकेलिए नहीं , अपने घरवालों से मिलनेकेलिए पहनेंगे

We don't require a Draft Law for our own safety

Wind blowing through hair is stimulating, however can term fatal to remove the head to remove the head forever. If you ride a motorcycle without helmet.

You can’t see the real happiness and feelings of a real rider while riding. As real riders covers there head with a helmet

Mist and the smoke of guns lie breast-high over the fields. The moon is shining. Along the road troops file. Their helmets gleam softly in the moonlight. The heads and the rifles stand out above the white mist, nodding heads, rocking barrels. Farther on the mist ends. Here the heads become figures; coats, trousers, and boots appear out of the mist as from a milky pool. They become a column. The column marches on, straight ahead, the figures resolve themselves into a block, individuals are no longer recognizable, the dark wedge presses onward, fantastically topped by the heads and the weapons floating on the milky pool. A column—not men at all. Guns and munition wagons are moving along a cross-road. The backs of the horses shine in the moonlight, their movements are beautiful, they toss their heads, and their eyes gleam. The guns and the wagons float past the dim background of the moonlit landscape, the riders in their steel helmets resemble knights of a forgotten time; it is strangely beautiful and arresting.

We talked about the speed trials, which were starting today. I said I was running in them, but not that it was about art. It wasn’t a lie. I was a Nevada girl and a motorcycle rider. I had always been interested in land speed records. I was bringing to that a New York deliberateness, abstract ideas about traces and speed, which wasn’t something Stretch needed to know about. It would make me seem like a tourist. Stretch said the motel owner’s son had a Corvette running but that he could not so much as check the oil or tire pressure, that mechanics worked on it and a driver raced it for him. “I have to fill out his racing form because he doesn’t know what ‘displacement’ means.” He laughed and then went quiet. “I never met a girl who rides Italian motorcycles,” he said. “It’s like you aren’t real.” He looked at my helmet, gloves, my motorcycle key, on his bureau. The room seemed to hold its breath, the motel curtain sucked against the glass by the draft of a partly opened window, a strip of sun wavering underneath the curtain’s hem, the light-blocking fabric holding back the outside world.

[46] “I have called myself Grim, I have called myself Wanderer, Warrior and Helmet-Wearer, Famed One and Third One, Thunder and Wave, Hel-Blind and One-Eye, [47] “Truth, and Swift, and True Father, Battle-Merry, Battle-Stirrer, Curse-Eye and Fire-Eye, Evildoer, Spellcaster, Masked and Shadowed-Face, Fool and Wise Man, {70} [48] “Long-Hat and Long-Beard, Victory-Father and War-Ready, Allfather, War-Father, Rope-Rider and Hanged-God. I have never been known by just one name since I first walked among men. [49] “They called me Shadowed-Facehere at Geirroth’s place,but Gelding at Asmund’s,they called me Driverwhen I pulled the sleds,and Mighty at the assembly.Among the gods I’m called Wish-Granter, Speaker, Just-as-High, Shield-Shaker, Wand-Bearer, Graybeard. [50] “Wise and Wisdom-Granter were my names at Sokkmimir’s hall, when I deceived that old giant and I killed his famous son. I was his killer. [51] “You are drunk, Geirroth! You have drunk too much. You have lost too much when you have lost my favor; you’ve lost the favor of Odin and all the Einherjar. [52] “I’ve told you much, and you’ll remember little— your friends will deceive you— I see the sword of my friend dripping with blood. {71} [53] “Now Odin will have a weapon-killed man— I know your life has ended. Your guardian spirits are anxious, they see Odin here before you. Approach me, if you can. [54] “Odin is my name. But before they called me Terror, and Thunder before that, and Waker and Killer, and Confuser and Orator-God, Heat-Maker, Sleep-Maker, both Gelding and Father! I think all these names were used for me alone.

Rapunzel, I'm not anything heroic or wonderful or whatever you thought," he said sadly. "I'm a sneak thief mostly out for my own good. The rest of it's a lie. My name isn't even Flynn Rider." "Um, what?" Of all the many things she thought he might say, this was not one of them. "My real name is Eugene Fitzherbert. At least, that was what was on record at the orphanage." There might have been a glint from inside a guard's helmet at that, as if he couldn't help sniggering a little. Rapunzel's jaw actually fell open. "Eugene?" she asked. "Yes." "And doesn't Fitz mean--" "Yes, it does," he interrupted in annoyance. "But who knows if that's really my family name, or a real name, or whatever. I think of myself as Flynn Rider. Daring hero, escape artist, adventurer extraordinaire... Eugene is someone who wastes away in an orphanage, who nobody wants. Eugene eats porridge once or twice a day, maybe, and wears the old clothes that bigger kids grew out of a generation ago." "I like Eugene," Rapunzel protested, patting his hand. "I like it better than Flynn. It sounds more... real. Like who you really are." "Thanks," he muttered. "No, really! Eugene doesn't abandon his friends. Eugene makes snarky remarks... and then hangs around witchy goat farms to see how he can help. Eugene pauses his wild, adventurous life to make sure the people around him get their happy endings. Eugene gives crowns back to their rightful owners." "Eugene winds up drained of his blood in a castle ruled by a demonic she-beast," Flynn said, looking up to gauge his captors' possibly violent response. They didn't move. "Flynn Rider is somewhere off riding into the sunset--" "Without his princess," Rapunzel interrupted, hands on hips. Flynn smiled sadly at her.

Wanna try my ride for a change?” he asked her. “It’s not too cold today.” She looked around him. “On that?” “Just you and me, Shelby. Want to take a chance?” She gave him a soft smile. “Am I safe with you on that thing?” she asked. He presented the rider’s helmet. “Well, I’ll drive carefully. You should get a jacket and something to wrap around your neck. Boots and gloves. And you might want to tie up your hair.” “Why not,” she said. “Come in while I get ready.” He

I almost always wear a helmet.” “Brian!” She slapped the table. “Do you have any idea what the fatality rate is for motorcycle riders? And that’s with proper headgear. I should bring you to the ME’s office sometime. If you saw what I saw—” “I’m sure it’s bad.” She

By the time they reached the lake, the sky was spitting raindrops at them. Dare pulled into the dirt parking lot nearest the little beach everyone in the club used for swimming. He killed the engine and turned in his seat to face her. "What d'ya think about..." The question died in his throat. Because under the helmet's clear visor, Haven wore the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen in his life. "God, I love riding," she said. She lifted the helmet from her head, shaking out her new brown hair. The movement made him hard. "What do I think about what?" She grinned up at the sky as a few fat drops landed on her face. "The weather," Dare said distractedly, just struck stupid by her declaration, her beauty, the knowledge that riding with him made so damn happy. She shrugged, her expression entirely untroubled. "I'm gonna get wet anyway." He swallows around the desire stalking through his body. "Are you now?" he asked, purposely playing on the innuendo of her words when he knew she hadn't meant anything by them. Just to see if she'd take the bait. Lips pressed together in a mischievous smirk, she looked him right in the eyes. "Sure hope so." Game. Fucking. On.

In the Netherlands, fewer than one in thirty riders wear helmets, the streets are full of cyclists, and the bike accident and head injury rate is far lower than it is in the United States.

Last week, state Sen. Carol Liu, D-La Cañada Flintridge (Los Angeles County), introduced SB192, a bill requiring adult cyclists to wear helmets or pay a $25 fine. California would become the first state to require helmets for riders over 18.

The rider was a distance away, but Arya could make out the beat-up leather jacket and grey hair spouting out all sides of the man’s helmet. A cold chill went through her body. No one else noticed the sound or the man. For no particular reason, she decided to keep this sighting to herself, and continued walking with Zack and her parents. Perhaps later, she’d confide in Zack. Was this the guy? Is he watching me?

behind but gaining on the Orcs, gaining on them like a tide over the flats on folk straying in a quicksand. The Isengarders began to run with a redoubled pace that astonished Pippin, a terrific spurt it seemed for the end of a race. Then he saw that the sun was sinking, falling behind the Misty Mountains; shadows reached over the land. The soldiers of Mordor lifted their heads and also began to put on speed. The forest was dark and close. Already they had passed a few outlying trees. The land was beginning to slope upwards, ever more steeply; but the Orcs did not halt. Both Uglúk and Grishnákh shouted, spurring them on to a last effort. ‘They will make it yet. They will escape,’ thought Pippin. And then he managed to twist his neck, so as to glance back with one eye over his shoulder. He saw that riders away eastward were already level with the Orcs, galloping over the plain. The sunset gilded their spears and helmets, and glinted in their pale flowing hair. They were hemming the Orcs in, preventing

where it had dark and light patches of sun damage. Unlike many of his crew, Castel never wore a bandana, and helmets were not only a sign of weakness but one of incompetence. Good riders didn’t come off their hogs, went the logic.

And then they came, a troop of horse appearing out of the smoke, great shadows magnified by the sun behind them. Forty horsemen, they came out of the yellow and red sulphu- rous gloom, a host of shapeshifting spectres, barghest wraiths – dread shag gytrash. The riders were faceless, dark shadows in barred steel helmets. But their mounts glared, foamed and tossed their heads as they came on, red and white eyes, bared teeth, nostrils snorting the very smoke they breathed. Over all came the crash and thud of hooves and steel harness.

As cities around the world launch bike-share systems and bike lane networks, safety objections are often used against bike lanes and cyclists in the form of mandatory helmet laws and proposals to register bikes and insure riders. These are all solutions in search of problems and attempts to legislate against perceived annoyances, not according to actual safety data.

As one of the motorbikes came towards me, I let a big heavy right go, and knocked the rider’s head clean off his shoulders! Fucking hell, the guy’s head was still in his helmet and it was clattering all the way down the road.

Wind blowing through hair is stimulating, however can turn fatal to remove the head to remove the head forever. If you Riding Motorcycle Without Helmet

Blond rider to my left, dark to my right. I rode set about. As honored guest, or prisoner? I could not be sure. I wore a cloak, blade and helmet scavenged from men who had no further need for warmth or weapon. I doubted these creatures cared whether I went armed or not.

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