Motocross Quotes

I hate studying and I hate partying. But I'm okay with motocross. And muscles. Motocross and Muscles. Now that should be a Lifetime movie.

The screams echoing through Janet's class were hard to bear. She was attempting a lecture on the Treaty of Paris while Mrs. Pachenko walked between the rows of desks insisting upon calm, raising a finger to her lips and whispering to individual students to please sit all the way down in their desks. In the back of the of the room, several kids were cheering as one of them, a young man whose shirt bore a flaming skull, stood hunched atop his desk like a motocross biker, sliding it forward in small hops. Students appear enthusiastic and are communicating well together, I wrote on the evaluation form.

He's tall with shaggy blond hair and muscular arms. He's holding a twenty-dollar bill. He's muscular. And he's holding a twenty--wait, I already said that.

Terrance Holcomb. Up and coming Motocross star.” And then he pulls me into his body, and a gasp lodges in my throat as he fastens my chin strap for me. “And he’s not looking at me, Tiernan.

Tim and Andy stood there in head-to-toe leather motocross outfits, covered in road dust, behind me in a dark corner of the hotel’s dining room. Tim has penetrating pale blue eyes with tiny pupils, and the accent of an Englishman from the north – Newcastle, or Leeds maybe. Andy is an American with blond hair and the wholesome, well-fed good looks and accent of the Midwest. Behind them, two high-performance dirt bikes leaned on kickstands in the Hang Meas’ parking lot.      Tim owns a bar/restaurant in Siemreap. Andy is his chef. Go to the end of the world and apparently there will be an American chef there waiting for you.

What good are men for if all they do is make me weak in the knees and never ask me out?

You have a career that’s still in motocross. I wish I had a talent that paid me a lot of money.” Jace smiles and shakes his head as he swirls his chopstick around his plate. “Oh you have talent…but I’m not going to let anyone pay you for it.

COMPRO CUECAS USADAS PARA FINS SENTIMENTAIS Pago R$ 50 por cueca usada. Cuecas slip brancas valem mais (R$ 60). Tenho fetiche por: AGROBOYS (cada cueca será comprada por R$ 5 a mais; R$ 10 a mais caso o vendedor esteja usando um chapéu de palha durante o encontro com o comprador); ADVOGADOS (R$ 5 a mais por cueca caso o vendedor se apresente de terno); LIMPADORES DE JANELAS (venha com o uniforme da empresa para ganhar mais R$ 7 por cueca usada); PILOTOS DE MOTOCROSS (venha a caráter e R$ 150 serão somados ao valor total); HOMENS QUE PINTARAM O CABELO DE LOIRO PARA O ANO NOVO (valor total dobrado!). Compro sungas usadas, secas (R$ 70 por peça) ou molhadas (R$ 80 reais por peça — atenção: é importante que as peças molhadas estejam embaladas em saco plástico transparente e que tenham sido utilizadas nas últimas doze horas, no máximo. Obs.: caso tenha sido banho de mar, pago R$ 10 a mais por item). Encontre-me às 16h em frente à escola Elysium, no bairro Cacau, Rosália (Região Metropolitana do Rio de Janeiro). Estou disponível de segunda a sexta. Sou branco, tenho cabelos e olhos claros, e sou razoavelmente alto (meço um pouco mais de um metro e oitenta). Estarei parado próximo ao portão do colégio esperando — por favor, não deixe que meu semblante sério o intimide: aborde-me... mas seja discreto! O pagamento será realizado em dinheiro vivo. Para mais informações, entre em contato comigo pelo Facebook. Pedro von Schwenderlauf. (Caixa de mensagens sempre desbloqueada.)

Hudson is always tired after a day at the track, but he will sleep well tonight and have sweet dreams about being the next motocross champion!

Racers ride special motocross bikes, also called dirt bikes. They race on rugged tracks that are closed to normal traffic.

Then I had one of those odd shifts of focus and looked down at my bike, and my dusty, worn gloves on the handlebars. We were in the greatest place in the world, but what had it taken to get here? Quite a bit. Learning to ride, getting a driver’s license in high school. Acquiring tools, learning to change flat tires and clutch cables. Gaining dirt experience and going to dealerships to shop for the right bike. Installing knobbies and handguards and a skidplate. After years of youthful indigence, moving through a series of jobs that finally allowed you to afford a truck or a bike trailer. Learning to read maps and cross rivers in deep water. Finding helmets and enduro jackets and motocross boots that fit. Getting a passport, paying your bike registration, learning a smattering of useful Spanish.… And living long enough to have friends who were crazy enough to do all these things, as well. People you could count on who’d gone through the same lifetime of motorcycle connections that had brought us to this perfect spot in time. As I put my helmet back on, it occurred to me that you are never more completely the sum of everything you’ve ever been than when you take a slightly difficult motorcycle trip into a strange land. And make it back out again.

The things this man can do with his mouth should be illegal. Or qualify him as the patron saint of pussy eating. One or the other.