Motorcycle Rider Quotes

Beth accepted what she had known from the first time she had seen Razer in front of the police station with that motorcycle; that given half a chance, he would break her heart.

I hear she's been wanting to go for a ride on a motorcycle if any of you riders are interested.

There is a direct union of oneself with a motorcycle, for it is so geared to one’s proprioception, one’s movements and postures, that it responds almost like part of one’s own body. Bike and rider become a single, indivisible entity; it is very much like riding a horse. A car cannot become part of one in quite the same way.

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

So ride on, my brothers, and rest in peace. Wherever you are, may you always have the sun on your back, your fists in the wind, and the road stretching out before you

I find, bikers are the most adjustable creature amongst human. They can adjust to any simple to complex or adverse condition at a given point of time.

I find, bikers are the most adjustable & furious creature amongst human. They can adjust to any simple to complex or adverse condition or situation at a given point of time.

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.

And me, I’ve got to start all over. Not only build a new life, but construct a new person. I call my old self “that other guy,” for I share nothing but his memories, and everything he ever liked I’ve had to discover all over again, one by one, so that I’ve held on to, for example, reading, motorcycling, and birdwatching, but I’m not yet sure about art or music (I can look at it or listen to it, but not with the same “engagement” I used to), and I have no interest in work, charity, world events, or anybody I don’t know. In my present gypsy life, I encounter a lot of people every day, and some of them I instinctively like and respond to in a brief encounter at a gas station or small-town diner, but for the most part I look around at ugly and mean-spirited people and think, “Why are you alive?

Good riding techniques result in immediate automated control forces, resulting in controlling scary situations automatically. Sliding changes seat, peg and grip positions relative to the rider. Good riding techniques use these changes to your advantage. Good body posture, weight distribution and muscle tension then result in the desired immediate automated control forces.

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.

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Elvis was pretty slick. Nonetheless, I knew that he was cheating. His four-of-a-kind would beat my full house. I had two choices. I could fold my hand and lose all the money I’d contributed to the pot, or I could match Elvis’s bet and continue to play. If a gambler thought he was in an honest game, he would probably match the bet thinking his full house was a sure winner. The con artist would bet large amounts of money on the remaining cards, knowing he had a winning hand. I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips, as if struggling to decide whether to wager five hundred pesos or fold my hand and call it quits. I knew there were five men between me and the door and watched them from the corner of my eye. Even if I folded and accepted my losses, I knew they would not let me leave without taking all my cash. They had strength in numbers and would strong arm me if they could. The men stared, intently watching my next move. I set down my beer and took five one hundred peso notes from my wallet. The men at the bar relaxed. My adrenaline surged, pumping through my brain, sharpening my focus as I prepared for action. I moved as if to place my bet on the table, but instead my hand bumped my beer bottle, spilling it onto Elvis’ lap. Elvis reacted instinctively to the cold beer, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet. I jumped up from my chair making a loud show of apologizing, and in the ensuing pandemonium I snatched all the money off the table and bolted for the door! My tactics took everyone by complete surprise. I had a small head start, but the Filipinos recovered quickly and scrambled to cut off my escape. I dashed to the door and barely made it to the exit ahead of the Filipinos. The thugs were nearly upon me when I suddenly wheeled round and kicked the nearest man square in the chest. My kick cracked ribs and launched the shocked Filipino through the air into the other men, tumbling them to the ground. For the moment, my assailants were a jumble of tangled bodies on the floor. I darted out the door and raced down the busy sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. I looked back and saw the furious Filipinos swarming out of the bar. Running full tilt, I grabbed onto the rail of a passing Jeepney and swung myself into the vehicle. The wide-eyed passengers shrunk back, trying to keep their distance from the crazy American. I yelled to the driver, “Step on the gas!” and thrust a hundred peso note into his hand. I looked back and saw all six of Johnny’s henchmen piling onto one tricycle. The jeepney driver realized we were being pursued and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The jeepney surged into traffic and accelerated away from the tricycle. The tricycle was only designed for one driver and two passengers. With six bodies hanging on, the overloaded motorcycle was slow and unstable. The motorcycle driver held the throttle wide open and the tricycle rocked side to side, almost tipping over, as the frustrated riders yelled curses and flailed their arms futilely. My jeepney continued to speed through the city, pulling away from our pursuers. Finally, I could no longer see the tricycle behind us. When I was sure I had escaped, I thanked the driver and got off at the next stop. I hired a tricycle of my own and carefully made my way back to my neighborhood, keeping careful watch for Johnny and his friends. I knew that Johnny was in a frustrated rage. Not only had I foiled his plans, I had also made off with a thousand pesos of his cash. Even though I had great fun and came out of my escapade in good shape, my escape was risky and could’ve had a very different outcome. I feel a disclaimer is appropriate for those people who think it is fun to con street hustlers, “Kids. Don’t try this at home.

Every time you ride, use the journey as an opportunity to develop your riding ability.

It does seem to help to lean your torso toward the curve. You don’t have to shift your butt to the inside of the saddle, just lean your torso forward and toward the curve. Some riders use the mirror as a reference point, leaning toward the inside and lining up the mirror with their cornering line. That happens to work nicely with countersteering, as you’ll tend to pull the grips toward the curve as you lean your torso.

Motorcycle miles make up only 1% of annual vehicle miles in the UK. Yet riders account for 21% of all UK road deaths.

The Allman Brothers were from my hometown of Macon, Georgia, so requesting this song was a small lapse into provincialism. In 1972, the group’s guitarist, Duane Allman, had died when his motorcycle had crashed into the back of a peach truck. They subsequently named the album they had been working on, Eat A Peach. Its memorable lyrics, which came pouring out of Wisconsin’s machine at 9,000 feet in the California mountains, go as follows: Well, I’ve got to run to keep from hiding And I’m bound to keep on riding And I’ve got one more silver dollar But I’m not gonna’ let ‘em catch me, no Not gonna’ let ‘em catch the midnight rider. The song is a paen to freedom and independence, which, come to think about it, is kinda’ what the PCT is. And the God’s-honest-truth is that for the next two days this song carried me a total of fifty miles in an elevated state of morale.

board we had built with footstraps, and thought "it's dumb not to use this for jumping." That's when I first started jumping with footstraps and discovering controlled flight. I could go so much faster than [ ever thought and when you hit a wave it was like a motorcycle rider hitting a ramp; you just flew into the air. All of a sudden not only could you fly into the air, but you could land the thing, and not only that, but you could change direction in the air! The whole sport of high-performance windsurfing really started from that. As soon as I did it, there were about ten of us who sailed all the time together and within one or two days

Then I remembered the "Chip," a small experimental board we had built with footstraps, and thought "it's dumb not to use this for jumping." That's when I first started jumping with footstraps and discovering controlled flight. I could go so much faster than [ ever thought and when you hit a wave it was like a motorcycle rider hitting a ramp; you just flew into the air. All of a sudden not only could you fly into the air, but you could land the thing, and not only that, but you could change direction in the air! The whole sport of high-performance windsurfing really started from

Theresa Wallach wrote Easy Motorcycle Riding (1970, Oaktree: ISBN 0706122623)

There was also a term for bikers called “target fixation.” When a rider looked at something for too long and focused on a passing object, or any small distraction to the left or right of him, he had an increased chance of colliding with that object. It was extremely dangerous to fixate. Any concentration expended that was not ahead of the rider oftentimes resulted in severe injury or death. A biker who wanted to live must not be thrown off course. And after miles and miles of riding, of looking ahead, of sixty mile per hour winds piercing his neck, the gloss of his eyes hardening, he naturally never target fixated on things or people either.

The black-and-silver motorcycles backfired like pistol shots, then roared from the drive and down High Street. The riders headed out Shore Road, past the private docks. The fog of the night before had given way to a bright-blue summer morning. As the boys sped along in a cool, salty breeze they watched the white sand of the beach on their right. There was no sign of the Sleuth. Finally they reached the head of the bay and turned sharply, following the seacoast northward. For a while Frank and Joe saw only the big green rollers of the Atlantic as they broke into foaming white along the sand and rocks.

After stowing their costumes in the carrier behind Frank’s motorcycle, the two boys set off for the center of Bayport. White wisps of fog swirled in the glare of their headlights and almost blotted out traffic. Both riders slowed to a cautious pace. At last the boys maneuvered to a stop in Milton Place just off Main Street. Through the fog and gathering dusk, vague lights could be seen in the big brick building on the opposite corner. “They’re working overtime at the bank,” Joe pointed out and grinned. “Counting the extra money they took in during evening hours.” The brothers walked around the corner onto Main Street and entered a soda shop. Minutes later they emerged, each carrying a two-gallon drum of ice cream packed in dry ice. “Wow! This is cold!” said Joe, as they turned into the alley. Frank and Joe placed the cylinders in Joe’s carrier. “Now for the party!” Frank grinned.

The L2 measurement is next. Put the motorcycle back on the ground and place the rider on board. Have the rider grab onto something to balance or use a wheel chock, like the Condor Pit-Stop, while the rider is in position. Now push down on the suspension about 25mm (about an inch) and very slowly let the suspension rise back up and stop. If there were no friction in the suspension, it would continue to come up further. Where the suspension stops is the L2 measurement (measure between the same two points as L1).

You like me needing you, girl? You like knowing you’re the only woman in the whole fucking world I can imagine ever touching again?

if the rider can get used to a little looser feeling, the gains in traction will improve lap times and tire life, and his “ideal feel peak” would be closer to the traction peak.

Feminity for me was discovering you when I took you for a ride on my Motorcycle!

Perhaps then, the most important tools for achieving our goals, ('singing our song' as the poet might say), may be a wall calendar and a permanent marker. Just circle a date and decide to go. The decision to act becomes more important than all subsequent decisions because it is the one that made all the other decisions possible." (Molded on a Motorcycle, page 17)

Early motorcycles were not very convenient. They may have been more convenient than a horse (I can’t say), but surely not by much. More than today’s machines, they made an issue of certain intellectual and moral qualities of the rider; forgetfulness and overcautiousness would show themselves when the rider applied oil “as he thought fit.” One was drawn out of oneself and into a struggle, by turns hateful and loving, with another thing that, like a mule, was emphatically not simply an extension of one’s will.

Every day was spent ticking off sights in the guide. Churches, castles, altarpieces, rare rock formations – if they featured in the Michelin guide we visited them. Normandy, Brittany, various other obscure parts of France and Scandinavia – my siblings and I saw them all, never questioning my father’s obsessive need to tick off every entry in the guide. Every night we’d arrive at a new campsite, erect our tent, usually in the dark, eat from our tins and go to sleep. In the morning, we’d pack away the tent, get back in the car and do it all again, every day for a fortnight, every year without fail, except when my father once got sunstroke and we stayed at one campsite for two nights. It was bliss.

It was for times like this that I loved riding my bike. Those moments when all thoughts of the past and future slipped away and I existed entirely in the present, the miles rolling past beneath the wheels of my big BMW, the morning light clear and golden, throwing shadow bands across the road as I carved my way around the world. As I rode and the days and miles ticked past, I spoke to my bike, cajoling her with promises of an oil change and a clean air filter if she got me to Penang in time. It was the kind of bargain I’d struck many times since leaving London nearly eighteen months earlier.

2014 I was contacted out of the blue by an agent in Hollywood, who had found the article on the internet and expressed an interest in buying the rights to my story, with a view to making a film about it. In October that year I was invited out to Los Angeles as a guest of the actress Kate Moennig and her associate, Bradley Bilanin.

Turn back, I told myself. It’s not too late. Go home, a persistent voice in my head insisted, back to the family and friends who never wanted you to leave.

getter

Semantics is the study of meaning. Semantic constraints are those that rely upon the meaning of the situation to control the set of possible actions. In the case of the motorcycle, there is only one meaningful location for the rider, who must sit facing forward. The

less experienced riders look closer to the bike with a more fixed gaze, while skillful riders look farther ahead and frequently change their focus.

Rider training instructors often suggest that a rider should be looking twelve seconds ahead, or the distance he or she will be covering over the next twelve seconds. That doesn’t mean you should be focused only on what’s happening at a point twelve seconds ahead. Instead, you should focus on everything that’s going on within that twelve-second zone.

Gratitude can be practised. It won't be long before it becomes a way of life. From the motorcycle rider who takes you safely to your destination, to the security guard who opens the bank door for you to access, to the waiter who gets your order served.... Show appreciation.

The joy of riding a motorcycle is out of this world. The thrill of riding in the hills and mountains is an opiatic addiction.

A skilled rider should be able to operate the throttle and front brake simultaneously.

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

The roar of the motorcycle stopped, and the rider whipped off his sunglasses. “Are you trying to get your door taken off?” My heart had stopped the minute I’d looked into his piercing gray eyes, but anger quickly took over everything. “Do you always swing into parking spaces when someone is opening their door?” I rubbed my leg once more and stumbled awkwardly out of my car. I realized he hadn’t answered me, and after shutting my door and locking the car, I turned to face him, a frown tugging at my lips when I saw him smirking. “I’m fine, if you’re wondering.” He sat up straight on his Harley and took a deep breath in. “I’m sorry I made you hurt yourself. I’m Kash, by the way.” “Cash . . . like money? Or Johnny?” “Um, I guess we can go with Johnny, but with a K.” “Kash with a K. Got it. That’s a, uh . . . very interesting name. Fits the image, I guess.” His head jerked back. “I’m sorry, what?” I took a few steps toward the apartments before turning to look at him, my hand waving over his frame, which was now hunched back over his bike. I wondered who he was here to see. “You know, the whole ‘bad boy’ thing you’ve got going on there. Tattoos, lip ring, Harley. Makes sense you’d have a nickname and try to make it, I don’t know, awesome or something by having it start with a K. Have a nice day; try not to almost take any more car doors off, Kash with a K.” Kash

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

After the Accident Before we run out of pages, I want to tell you a little of what happened to my family after the accident. My mother moved to a small house in Western Shore. Her first concern was finding a way to support herself and Ricky. Being an ex-dancer, motorcycle rider, and treasure-hunter was not likely to open any doors, so she decided to go back to school. She enrolled in a business course in Bridgewater and began her first studies since she was 12 years old. Soon she earned a diploma in typing, shorthand, and accounting, and was hired to work in a medical clinic. Ricky had been on the island from age nine to 14, mostly in the company of adults--family members and visiting tourists--but hardly ever with anyone his own age. Life on the mainland, with the give and take and bumps and bruises of high-school life was a challenge. But he survived. In time he became a carpenter, and is alive and well and living in Ottawa. My mother made a new life for herself. She remained fiercely independent, but between a job she loved and her neighbors, she formed friendships that were deep and lasting. Of course, she missed Dad and Bobby terribly. My mother and dad had been a perfect match, and my mother and brother had always shared a special bond. Bobby’s death was especially hard on her. My mother felt responsible. One day, before the accident, Bobby had taken all he could of Oak Island. After a heated argument with Dad, Bobby packed up and left. My mother had gone after him and convinced him to return--his dad needed him. She rarely spoke of it, but that weighed heavily on her for the rest of her years. My mother never left the east coast. She was 90 years old when she died. For the last 38 years of her life, she lived in a small house on a hill, in the community of Western Shore, where, from her living room window, she could look out and see Oak Island.