Motorcycles Best Quotes

I think the best time to stare off into space is when you’re going 65 on a motorcycle, provided you’re wearing your astronaut’s helmet.

The law of gravity and gravity itself did not exist before Isaac Newton." ...and what that means is that that law of gravity exists nowhere except in people's heads! It 's a ghost!" Mind has no matter or energy but they can't escape its predominance over everything they do. Logic exists in the mind. numbers exist only in the mind. I don't get upset when scientists say that ghosts exist in the mind. it's that only that gets me. science is only in your mind too, it's just that that doesn't make it bad. or ghosts either." Laws of nature are human inventions, like ghosts. Law of logic, of mathematics are also human inventions, like ghosts." ...we see what we see because these ghosts show it to us, ghosts of Moses and Christ and the Buddha, and Plato, and Descartes, and Rousseau and Jefferson and Lincoln, on and on and on. Isaac Newton is a very good ghost. One of the best. Your common sense is nothing more than the voices of thousands and thousands of these ghosts from the past.

Day in, day out, you peel the layers back for me. Smart mouth, funny, sweet, wild in bed. Chattin' with bikers like they were insurance brokers. Holdin' my girl's hand, givin' her strength when her Mom's bein' a bitch. Keepin' your chin up when your people show in the middle of a full blown drama. But so fuckin' vulnerable, you're scared shitless of livin' life." "You don't know me, Tack." His head came up and his eyes pierced mine. "I know you, Tyra." "You don't." "Life's a roller coaster. Best damn ride in the park. You don't close your eyes, hold on and wait for it to be over, babe. You keep your eyes open, lift your hands straight up in the air and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.

Of course, the laws of science contain no matter and have no energy either and therefore do not exist except in people's minds. It's best to be completely scientific about the whole thing and refuse to believe in either ghosts or the laws of science. That way you're safe. That doesn't leave you very much to believe in, but that's scientific too.

Nooooooooooo!" Screaming the word, Amy and Dan moved as one. Time slowed down, which, Dan knew from experience, often happened when you were in midair. By the time they leaped onto the hood of Fiske's car (oops, dents), and Dan had ripped off a windshield wiper to use as a weapon (probably not the best idea, but hey, he was improvising), Scarey Harley Dude had turned around. He strode off in his motorcycle boots, moving swiftly to his bike without seeming to hurry. His helmet back on, sunglasses adjusted, he roared off straight into the road, weaving through the thick traffic like smoke. Amy's face was squashed against the windshield. Dan held the wiper aloft like a club. And Evan Tolliver stood on the sidewalk, blinking at them. Dan waved the windshield wiper at him. "Hey, bro. We didn't want to miss our ride.

the sea has always been a confidant, a friend absorbing all it is told and never revealing those secrets; always giving the best advice — its meaningful noises can be interpreted any way you choose.

The best students always are flunking. Every good teacher knows that.

You can have family that makes you safe. You can have friends who’ll take your back. But the most important person and the one who’ll have the best shot at keeping you safe is you.

What is in mind is a sort of Chautauqua...that's the only name I can think of for it...like the traveling tent-show Chautauquas that used to move across America, this America, the one that we are now in, an old-time series of popular talks intended to edify and entertain, improve the mind and bring culture and enlightenment to the ears and thoughts of the hearer. The Chautauquas were pushed aside by faster-paced radio, movies and TV, and it seems to me the change was not entirely an improvement. Perhaps because of these changes the stream of national consciousness moves faster now, and is broader, but it seems to run less deep. The old channels cannot contain it and in its search for new ones there seems to be growing havoc and destruction along its banks. In this Chautauqua I would like not to cut any new channels of consciousness but simply dig deeper into old ones that have become silted in with the debris of thoughts grown stale and platitudes too often repeated. "What's new?" is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question "What is best?," a question which cuts deeply rather than broadly, a question whose answers tend to move the silt downstream. There are eras of human history in which the channels of thought have been too deeply cut and no change was possible, and nothing new ever happened, and "best" was a matter of dogma, but that is not the situation now. Now the stream of our common consciousness seems to be obliterating its own banks, losing its central direction and purpose, flooding the lowlands, disconnecting and isolating the highlands and to no particular purpose other than the wasteful fulfillment of its own internal momentum. Some channel deepening seems called for.

What’s new?” is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question “What is best?,” a question which cuts deeply rather than broadly, a question whose answers tend to move the silt downstream.

it, is best served not by mules but by free men. The purpose of abolishing grades and degrees is not to punish mules or to get rid of them but to provide an environment in which that mule can turn into a free man.

Like those in the valley behind us, most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships. Some travel into the mountains accompanied by experienced guides who know the best and least dangerous routes by which they arrive at their destination. Still others, inexperienced and untrusting, attempt to make their own routes. Few of these are successful, but occasionally some, by sheer will and luck and grace, do make it. Once there they become more aware than any of the others that there's no single or fixed number of routes. There are as many routes as there are individual souls.

A complex assembly is best described first in terms of its substances: its subassembles and parts. Then, next, it is described in terms of its methods: its functions as they occur in sequence.

We can only choose to go forward. We can’t change what’s behind us. What was done to us by others, by our parents, by anyone. Even what we did. It is done. We have to live with it. Our responsibility is to move forward and do the best we can, be the best we can.” Mama Anat

Now don't go getting excited that I'll suddenly notice Hutch in the soft pink light of the sunset and fall in love. He's not the love of my life, and no, we haven't been destined to get together ever since those gummy bears back in fourth grade, just because that's what happens in moves. And don't go thinking he and I become best friends in a Breakfast Club sort of way, either, with me realizing he's got a heart of gold under the Iron Maiden motorcycle jacket, and him realizing that I'm not the slut everyone thinks I am. Yes, that happens onscreen. But forget it. This is real life. He creeps me out. We have nothing in common besides leprosy.

Traditional scientific method has always been at the very best, 20–20 hindsight. It’s good for seeing where you’ve been. It’s good for testing the truth of what you think you know, but it can’t tell you where you ought to go, unless where you ought to go is a continuation of where you were going in the past. Creativity, originality, inventiveness, intuition, imagination—“unstuckness,” in other words—are completely outside its domain.

Liam “Lee” Nightingale could hotwire any car going. He had both a Mustang and a motorcycle, started smoking when he was thirteen, was rumored to be able to get a girl pregnant by just looking at her and was also voted Best Smile.

What’s new?” is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question “What is best?,

And I love you and your biological clock is ticking so we best get started on that shit.

Only a mediocre man is always at his best,

the track of Quality preselects what data we’re going to be conscious of, and it makes this selection in such a way as to best harmonize what we are with what we are becoming.

The best bike is the one you're on, The best road is the one you're traveling, The best destination is wherever you're headed, The best time to get there is whenever you arrive.

What the Motorcycle Said Br-r-r-am-m-m, rackerty-am-m, OM, AM: All-r-r-room, r-r-ram, ala-bas-ter- Am, the world’s my oyster. I hate plastic, wear it black and slick, hate hardhats, wear one on my head, That’s what the motorcycle said. Passed phonies in Fords, knockede down billboards, landed On the other side of The Gap, and Whee, bypassed history. When I was born (The Past), baby knew best. They shook when I bawled, took Freud’s path, threw away their wrath. R-r-rackety-am-m. Am. War, rhyme, soap, meat, marriage, the Phantom Jet are sh*t, and like that. Hate pompousness, punishment, patience, am into Love, hate middle-class moneymakers, live on Dad, that’s what the motorcycle said. Br-r-r-am-m-m. It’s Nowsville, man. Passed Oldies, Uglies, Straighties, Honkies. I’ll never be mean, tired, or unsexy. Passed cigarette suckers, souses, mother-fuckers, losers, went back to Nature and found how to get VD, stoned. Passed a cow, too fast to hear her moo, “I rolled our leaves of grass into one ball. I am the grassy All.” Br-r-r-am-m-m, rackety-am-m, OM, Am: All-gr-r-rin, oooohgah, gl-l-utton- Am, the world’s my smilebutton.

After a while he says, “Do you believe in ghosts?” “No,” I say. “Why not?” “Because they are un-sci-en-ti-fic.” The way I say this makes John smile. “They contain no matter,” I continue, “and have no energy and therefore, according to the laws of science, do not exist except in people’s minds.” The whiskey, the fatigue and the wind in the trees start mixing in my mind. “Of course,” I add, “the laws of science contain no matter and have no energy either and therefore do not exist except in people’s minds. It’s best to be completely scientific about the whole thing and refuse to believe in either ghosts or the laws of science. That way you’re safe. That doesn’t leave you very much to believe in, but that’s scientific too.

Hello, out there, Heinz, in case you read this. I was really very fond of you, to the extend that I am capable of being fond of anybody. Give the Blarney Stone a kiss for me. What were you doing in Hitler's bunker - looking for your motorcycle and your best friend?

What were you doing in Hitler’s bunker—looking for your motorcycle and your best friend?

I know we’re still getting to know each other. But I also know you’re a smart girl. I hate that you learned this lesson at all, much less that you did it at your age. But please, Tab, learn it. You can have family that makes you safe. You can have friends who’ll take your back. But the most important person and the one who’ll have the best shot at keeping you safe is you.

Impatience is best handled by allowing an indefinite time for the job, particularly new jobs that require unfamiliar techniques; by doubling the allotted time when circumstances force time planning;

A man can beat his wife with car antennas, can trade his children for drugs or motorcycles, but still, when he finally, mercifully, dies, his survivors will have to hear from some know-nothing at the post-funeral dinner that he did his best. This, I’m guessing, is based on the premise that we all give 110 percent all the time, regarding everything: our careers, our relationships, the attention we pay to our appearance, etc.

I kiss her. “Do you really think I’d not let you have something you wanted?” She smiles. “Really?” “You want a motorcycle; you get a motorcycle.” Her face lights up with her beautiful, excited smile, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

Bill arrives with a grin about something. Sure, he's got some jets for my machine and knows right were they are. I'll have to wait a second though. He's got to close a deal out in back on some Harley parts. I go with him out in a shed in back and see he is selling a whole Harley machine in used parts, except for the frame, which the customer already has. He is selling them all for $125. Not a bad price at all. Coming back I comment, "He'll know something about motorcycles before he gets those together." Bill laughs. "And that's the best way to learn, too.

Mother, stop it!” I shout. She takes a step back as if I’d physically slapped her. “Not all guys that look a certain way or dress a certain way or act a certain way are the same. You’ve tried all my life to drive me toward the kind of guy you wanted me to be with. You made me feel as though there was something wrong with me for liking anyone who rode a motorcycle or drove a muscle car or played in a band. But there was never anything wrong with them, Mom. They just weren’t for me. I wouldn’t have wanted to end up with any of them. Not now. But you don’t see that. You don’t see that now and you didn’t see that then. You could never be like a normal mother, one who holds her daughter when she cries and tells her that one day she’ll find Mr. Right, that one day love will be worth it. That was just beyond you. You had to do your best, at every possible opportunity, to convince me that the only way I’d ever be happy would be with a guy like Lyle, one who is so focused on his job and his money that he doesn’t have time for love. But Mom, if falling in love means risking getting hurt, then I’m okay with that. Because finally, for once, I’ve found someone worth the risk. I wouldn’t have missed out on Cash for the world, Mom. Did it ever occur to you that it took all those heartbreaks, all those tears, all those failed attempts to be able to recognize something real when I found it? Can’t you just be happy for me and leave us in peace?

Mountains like these and travelers in the mountains and events that happen to them here are found not only in Zen literature but in the tales of every major religion. This allegory of a physical mountain for the spiritual one that stands between each soul and its goal is an easy and natural one to make. Like those in the valley behind us, most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships. Some travel into the mountains accompanied by experienced guides who know the best and least dangerous routes by which they arrive at their destination. Still others, inexperienced and untrusting, attempt to make their own routes. Few of these are successful, but occasionally some, by sheer will and luck and grace, do make it. Once there they become more aware than any of the others that there's no single or fixed number of routes. There are as many routes as there are individual souls.

In this Chautauqua I would like not to cut any new channels of consciousness but simply dig deeper into old ones that have become silted in with the debris of thoughts grown stale and platitudes too often repeated. “What’s new?” is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question “What is best?,” a question which cuts deeply rather than broadly, a question whose answers tend to move the silt downstream. There are eras of human history in which the channels of thought have been too deeply cut and no change was possible, and nothing new ever happened, and “best” was a matter of dogma, but that is not the situation now. Now the stream of our common consciousness seems to be obliterating its own banks, losing its central direction and purpose, flooding the lowlands, disconnecting and isolating the highlands and to no particular purpose other than the wasteful fulfillment of its own internal momentum. Some channel deepening seems called for.

The sun rises in a clear sky that moves from black to gray to white to deep, pure crystal blue. One in Georgia packs his things he’s going to take a bus. Four in Mexico walk across scorched earth water in packs on their back. Two in Indiana best friends coming together they pack their best clothes while their parents wait to take them to the airport. One in Canada drives south. Sixty from China in a cargo container sail east. Four in New York pool their cash and buy a car and drop out of school and drive west. Sixteen cars of a passenger train crossing the Mojave only one stop left. One in Miami doesn’t know how she’s going to get there. Three in Montana have a truck none of them have any idea what they’re going to do once they arrive. A plane from Brazil sold out landing at LAX. Six in Chicago dreaming on shared stages they rented a van they’ll see if any of them can make it. Two from Arizona hitchhiking. Four more just crossed in Texas walking. Another one in Ohio with a motorcycle and a dream. All of them with their dreams. It calls to them and they believe it and they cannot say no to it, they cannot say no. It calls to them. It calls. Calls.

She sits next to me for hours in the garage, talking nonstop, while I work on my motorcycle. She’ll sit and massage my feet while I practice guitar. I straighten her hair for her with the flat iron because she always misses that one spot in the back of her head. When we’re apart we text and video chat as much as possible. She’s my best friend, and I love her at her best and her worst and everything that falls in the middle.

Tanya was standing a little too close to Liam for comfort, and she had a hand on Daisy's man. "Have you found a table yet?" Daisy put her arm around Liam's waist, pulling him into her side and forcing Tanya to drop her hand from his shoulder. "It's not looking good." He put his arm around her shoulder. "I'll have to get you a motorcycle as a wedding present and we can ride out here together when it's not as busy." Daisy bit back a smile. Liam knew what was going on and he'd just made it clear where his loyalty lay. Tanya's gaze flicked from Liam to Daisy and back to Liam. "You two are engaged?" "Best decision of my life," Liam said, pressing a kiss to Daisy's sweat-covered temple. "What happened?" Tanya's smile faded. "I thought you didn't do relationships." Another squeeze. "I just hadn't met the right person." Daisy gave Tanya a smug but sympathetic smile.

We entered the Taj Mahal, the most romantic place on the planet, and possibly the most beautiful building on earth. We ate curry with our driver in a Delhi street café late at night and had the best chicken tikka I’ve ever tasted in an Agra restaurant. After the madness of Delhi, we were astonished that Agra could be even more mental. And we loved it. We marvelled at the architecture of the Red Fort, where Shah Jahan spent the last three years of his life, imprisoned and staring across at the Taj Mahal, the tomb of his favourite wife. We spent two days in a village constructed specifically for tiger safaris, although I didn’t see a tiger, my wife and son were more fortunate. We noticed in Mussoorie, 230 miles from the Tibetan border, evidence of Tibetan features in the faces of the Indians, and we paid just 770 rupees for the three of us to eat heartily in a Tibetan restaurant. Walking along the road accompanied by a cow became as common place as seeing a whole family of four without crash helmets on a motorcycle, a car going around a roundabout the wrong way, and cars approaching towards us on the wrong side of a duel carriageway. India has no traffic rules it seems.

The world has no existence whatsoever outside the human imagination. It’s all a ghost, and in antiquity was so recognized as a ghost, the whole blessed world we live in. It’s run by ghosts. We see what we see because these ghosts show it to us, ghosts of Moses and Christ and the Buddha, and Plato, and Descartes, and Rousseau and Jefferson and Lincoln, on and on and on. Isaac Newton is a very good ghost. One of the best. Your common sense is nothing more than the voices of thousands and thousands of these ghosts from the past. Ghosts and more ghosts. Ghosts trying to find their place among the living.

Emily My sneakers hit the pavement and my heart slams like the truck door behind me. "Watch it!" My cousin and best friend Erick hops out of the drivers' side, reprimanding me at the same time. Sensitive about his truck. "Sorry," I mutter. The dim, enclosed parking garage puts me on edge. It's a perfect place for vampires. But it's early afternoon, not their prime hunting time. The upscale Austin, Texas, mall parking lot is packed with sedans and trucks. I sling a motorcycle helmet into the bed of the truck, where it joins the massive four-wheeler we just spent an exhilarating morning breaking in. A gift for his eighteenth birthday a couple of months ago. For my eighteenth, I'm getting a night

The student’s biggest problem was a slave mentality which had been built into him by years of carrot-and- whip grading, a mule mentality which said, "If you don’t whip me, I won’t work." He didn’t get whipped. He didn’t work. And the cart of civilization, which he supposedly was being trained to pull, was just going to have to creak along a little slower without him. This is a tragedy, however, only if you presume that the cart of civilization, "the system," is pulled by mules. This is a common, vocational, "location" point of view, but it’s not the Church attitude. The Church attitude is that civilization, or "the system" or "society" or whatever you want to call it, is best served not by mules but by free men. The purpose of abolishing grades and degrees is not to punish mules or to get rid of them but to provide an environment in which that mule can turn into a free man.

Clark Air base in Angeles City is a hub of commerce. The streets teem with industrious Filipinos hustling to make a living. Rusty cars and trucks clog narrow streets and honk their horns with abandon. Jeepneys ferry passengers around town for only a few pesos and serve as public transportation. The jeepney is the official vehicle of the Philippines. Jeepneys are long, open-sided jeeps and have bench seats for passengers. The best jeepneys are very ornate, their hoods festooned with a multitude of fancy chrome horses and ornaments, multihued streamers, and hand-operated rubber-bulb horns. Safety standards are third-world-relaxed in the PI, and jeepney drivers casually smoke cigarettes while they sit with plastic containers of gasoline nestled between their feet. The clear plastic jugs have a tube that connects to the engine and serves as the jeepney’s improvised gas tank, making it easier for the driver to monitor and conserve fuel. Jeepneys are not the only transportation available. Small, sidecar-equipped motorcycles called tricycles, also serve as cheap taxis, crowding the streets near popular establishments. The alleys are lined with side-by-side food stalls, and street vendors occupy every corner.

Have you ever been swept away by a toxic lover who sucked you dry? I have. Bad men used to light me up like a Christmas tree. If I had a choice between the rebel without a cause and a nice guy in a sweater and outdoorsy shoes, you can imagine who got my phone number. Rebels and rogues are smooth (and somewhat untamed); they know the headwaiters at the best steak houses, ride fast European motorcycles, and start bar fights in your honor. In short, the rebel makes you feel really alive! It’s all fun and games until he screws your best friend or embezzles your life’s savings. You may be asking yourself how my pathetic dating track record relates to your diet. Simple. The acid—alkaline balance, which relates to the chemistry of your body’s fluids and tissues as measured by pH. The rebel/rogue = acid. The nice solid guy = alkaline. The solid guy gives you energy; he’s reliable and trustworthy. The solid guy calls you back when he says he will. He helps you clean your garage and does yoga with you. He’s even polite to your family no matter how whacked they are, and has the sexual stamina to rock your world. While the rebel can help you let your hair down, too much rebel will sap your energy. In time, a steady rebellious diet burns you out. But when we’re addicted to bad boys (junk food, fat, sugar, and booze), nice men (veggies and whole grains) seem boring. Give them a chance!

Scary as it seems, the best tactic for swerving is to stay off the brakes and hold the throttle steady, conserving all of the available traction for steering.

Opinion Openers We all have opinions and we enjoy sharing them. That is why opinion openers can be excellent conversation starters. Opinion openers are always best when they are something you are genuinely curious about and want another person’s perspective. Here are some examples: 1.    What do you think of this restaurant? 2.    Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus? 3.    What do you think of Harley-Davidson motorcycles? 4.    What do you think of people who drive a Ferrari? 5.    What does happiness mean to you?

We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone.”   “You

That’s why it’s best not to start the engine on an open throttle from cold (unless the handbook recommends it): immediate revs from cold cause a lot of wear to oil-starved bearings. Starting with a closed throttle allows the oil time to circulate and warm, while the engine is idling, for those crucial first few seconds.

Perhaps the best single thing to learn is to recognize a value trap when you’re in it and work on that before you continue on the machine.

There are these open spaces in life called "pauses" and it is most unfortunate how the majority of people do not bother themselves with the pauses of life in pursuit of their desire to fill every moment they experience WITH THEMSELVES. You need to take a few steps back and not feel the constant need to pour yourself into every space that life offers. The pauses are equally--if not more-- important as the active participations that you make. When we kiss, we remove a part of ourselves from the experience by closing our eyes; this removes the sense of sight, it allows for an open space for a pause to let life flow through it. When we make love, there are the pauses, the nothings, the gazing into the eyes; the removal of oneself from the experience. Why? Because we instinctively know that the best parts of life are not fully had in the absence of nothingness. Nothingness is vital, nothingness is essential. Have you ever just stopped in the middle of the day, crossed your arms in front of you, closed your eyes and paused? If you have, then you are one to know that when we remove ourselves from the equation sometimes, we will come to realise that there is actually a lot going on that does not require our deliberation or participation. There is laughter coming from somewhere, mixed with the sound of trains or motorcycles; there is a faint breeze moving its way over our skin; there's the way the fabric we wear hugs our body; there are sensations (sounds, smells, feelings and even visions) that are alive, they thrive in the pauses we do not partake in. There is such a rush amongst people to fill up every moment with the essence of themselves, but they forget to allow themselves to be filled with the essence of those moments! Do you see what I am saying here? They are empty, they feel empty; and why? Because in their desperation to fill up everything, they are not allowing themselves to be filled up by anything. They are truly empty. You will meet people obsessed with fulfilling something, or showing something, or doing something. They have no presence about them because their presence lies elsewhere, in other things, anywhere but within themselves. Then you will meet a person who's still and that stillness can be felt throughout every room she walks into. There's that strong presence because this person is filled up; not empty. When have you paused to let life in? When have you stopped scrambling to produce more social media content, stopped scrambling as though in a race to be unforgotten? Where are your pauses? Where are the spaces in your life where you let the light in? Where is your stillness? You are afraid of being forgotten, so, you scramble to impress yourself onto everything, everywhere... but what has been impressed into you? What do you feel like when the lights are off and nothing or nobody is near? What do you feel like when nobody is looking, when you might, for a while, actually be forgotten? What does that feel like? You need to be okay with that; you need to be okay with letting light enter into you, so it glows from within you. That is the kind of glow that reaches everywhere else without trying.

Time is different in Rome. Maybe it’s the light, which is languid and delicate. The blue afternoon bleeds into twilight like a watercolor, and I realize we’ve been up on Silvia’s terrace drinking aperitifs for nearly five hours. Donato’s friends in crisp suit jackets, hair slicked back, plumes of smoke climbing into the now golden sky. Hannah and her girlfriends, their boisterous chatter mixing with the city noises below: a car horn, a motorcycle, a police siren, sandals clack-clacking on the narrow cobblestone streets. My niece had been the one to open the door. She tried her best to be nonchalant. Auntie, she cried. But I knew that look. Emily had the same expression when I caught her smoking a joint with the neighbor. Guilty.

What Death Is Whenever the weather is half-decent, my dad and his motorcycle are one—cruising up the back roads into the Virginia hills in search of a lunch spot with the best fried chicken. And, on certain warm weekends, for twenty minutes or so around town, my dad and his motorcycle and Benny are one. Freddy has no interest in the bike—he has hated the noise since he was a baby—but Benny has the bug, the need for speed as he and my dad like to say, giving each other five. My broken skeleton and I stay home these days. It’s not like me to allow something so reckless as my kid on a motorcycle. Of course they wear helmets and my Dad is a paragon of safety, but this is objectively not a prudent idea—or possibly even a legal one. It’s something else completely: perilous and fantastic. I think of the five-point harness booster seat in my car and wonder at the incredible contortions that logic can do. I love watching Benny’s arms wrapped firm at my dad’s waist. Benny tells me his favorite part about it is that he likes to holler really loudly when they are going fast. “I scream whooooo-eeeeeeee up into the air and it makes me feel good!” My dad tells me that one time, on one of their more ambitious outings—about fifteen minutes in to a smooth ride just outside town—he could feel Benny’s arms start to slacken their grip. And he could feel the helmet resting on his back. Benny was falling asleep. “Come on, Benny—stay with me!” he said, jostling his torso gently to try to wake him up without startling him. Benny woke up. “You can’t do that again,” my dad said as they waited at a red light. “It’s not safe. You have to stay awake so you can hold on.” “But it sure felt good,” said Benny, who was able to hold it together the rest of the way home. I think of this feeling sometimes—and I can imagine that sort of letting go: warm, dangerous, seductive. What if this is what death is: The engine beneath you steady; those that hold you strong; the sun warm? I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to fall into that, to loosen the grip at the waist, let gravity and fate take over—like a thought so good you can’t stop having it.

9-14-18 A date that will forever be drilled into my mind. A date that holds a lot of pain for me. A date that I could have ever emotionally prepared for. Pa, i’m not going to lie. These past 2 years have been the hardest years of my entire life, especially these last 6-7 months. But i have also had some of the greatest moments in these two years. I wish you were here to see me through both. The world is so different now that you are gone. So many things i wish you could have seen.. So many things i wish i could have came and talk to you about. So many nights i have laid in bed missing you so much that i couldn’t even sleep. So many days where everything reminded me of you. So many tears. So many hurts. I try and take everyone’s advice and only think about the good stuff. but even the good stuff holds pain. I try and think of all the laughs we had together but then it just makes me miss hearing your laugh ten times more... along with our long talks.. our motorcycle rides... our random pickle runs.. the many many many nights i stayed with you. All the beautiful memories that me and you hold together... I don’t know when the pain of loosing you will start to not hurt as much.. i don’t think it ever will... Because pain of loosing your best friend.. someone you spent so much of ur time with. someone you shared so many things with.. it doesn’t just go away.. i just become stronger and learn how to handle it better. some days i am weak and i can’t do anything but cry and miss you.. but other days i just keep the good memories in mind and it keeps me smiling through the day. I try and bring you up as often as i can. I continue to tell our adventures to everyone. i continue to talk about you to my siblings. i keep ur name going. because i don’t want anyone to forgot how amazing you truly were pa. When i’m older and start my own family i will share all of this with them too.. and we will keep ur name very close in our hearts... Not a day goes by where you don’t cross my mind. Gone but never forgotten. I love and miss you endlessly pa..

An old man was eating in a truck stop when three bikers walked in. The first walked up to the old man, pushed his cigarette into the old man’s pie and then took a seat at the counter. The second walked up to the old man, spit into the old man’s milk and then he took a seat at the counter. The third walked up to the old man, turned over the old man’s plate, and then he took a seat at the counter. Without a word of protest, the old man quietly left the diner. Shortly thereafter, one of the bikers said to the waitress, "Humph, not much of a man, was he?" The waitress replied, "Not much of a truck driver either. He just backed his truck over three motorcycles.

Charlestown’s most characteristic pastime had long been the reckless sport of “looping.” The young “looper” played by a rigid set of rules. First, he stole a car in downtown Boston. Then he roared into Charlestown, accelerating as he reached City Square, where the District 15 police station stood in a welter of bars, nightclubs, and pool halls. Often he had to take a turn around the square before the first policeman dashed for his patrol car or motorcycle. Then the chase was on: down Chelsea Street to Hayes Square, up the long slope of Bunker Hill Street to St. Francis de Sales’ Church at the crest, then down again, picking up speed, often to 70 or 80 miles per hour, until a screeching left into Sullivan Square took him onto Main Street, where, dodging the stanchions of the El, he roared into City Square again, completing the “loop.” All that remained was to ditch the car before the police caught up. Looping was an initiation rite, proof that a Townie had come of age. But it was something else as well: a challenge flung at authority, a middle finger raised to the powers that be. Before long, looping became a kind of civic spectacle, pitting the Town’s young heroes against the forces of law and order. Plans for a loop circulated well in advance. At the appointed hour, hundreds of men, women, and children gathered along Bunker Hill Street, awaiting the gladiators. When the stolen car came in sight, racing up the long hill, a cheer would rise from the spectators, followed by jeers for the pursuing policemen. The first recorded “loop” was performed in 1925 by a sixteen-year-old daredevil named Jimmy “Speed King” Murphy, but most renowned of all was “Shiner” Sheehan, the teenage son of a federal alcohol agent, whose exploits so electrified the Town that he drew round him a group of young acolytes. Membership in their “Speeders Club” was limited to those who could produce newspaper clippings showing they had bested the police.

With that, I follow my little chem partner out of the room and down the hall. “Stop following me,” she snaps, looking over her shoulder to check how many people are watching us walk down the hall together. As if I’m el diablo himself. “Wear long sleeves on Saturday night,” I tell her, knowing full well she’s reaching the end of her sanity rope. I usually don’t try to get under the skin of white chicks, but this one is fun to rattle. This one, the most popular and coveted one of all, actually cares. “It gets pretty cold on the back of my motorcycle.” “Listen, Alex,” she says, whipping herself around and tossing that sun-kissed hair over her shoulder. She faces me with clear eyes made of ice. “I don’t date guys in gangs, and I don’t use drugs.” “I don’t date guys in gangs, either,” I say, stepping closer to her. “And I’m no user.” “Yeah, right. I’m surprised you’re not in rehab or juvie boot camp.” “You think you know me?” “I know enough.” She folds her arms across her chest, but then looks down as if she realizes her stance makes her chichis stand out, and drops her hands to her sides. I’m doing my best not to focus on those chichis as I take a step forward. “Did you report me to Aguirre?” She takes a step back. “What if I did?” “Mujer, you’re afraid of me.” It’s not a question. I just want to hear from her own lips what her reason is. “Most people at this school are scared that if they look at you wrong, you’ll gun them down.” “Then my gun should be smokin’ by now, shouldn’t it? Why aren’t you runnin’ away from the badass Mexicano, huh?” “Give me half a chance, I will.” I’ve had enough of dancing around this little bitch. It’s time to fluff up those feathers to make sure I end up with the upper hand. I close the distance between us and whisper in her ear, “Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.

An old man was eating in a truck stop when three bikers walked in. The first walked up to the old man, pushed his cigarette into the old man’s pie and then took a seat at the counter. The second walked up to the old man, spit into the old man’s milk and then he took a seat at the counter. The third walked up to the old man, turned over the old man’s plate, and then he took a seat at the counter. Without a word of protest, the old man quietly left the diner. Shortly thereafter, one of the bikers said to the waitress, "Humph, not much of a man, was he?" The waitress replied, "Not much of a truck driver either. He just backed his truck over three motorcycles

The best way to break this cycle, I think, is to work out your anxieties on paper. Read every book and magazine you can on the subject. Your anxiety makes this easy and the more you read the more you calm down. You should remember that its peace of mind you’re after and not just a fixed machine.

Forms and mannerisms...hated by the best, loved by the worst. Year after year, decade after decade of little front-row "readers," mimics with pretty smiles and neat pens, out to get their Aristotelian A's while those who possess the real areté sit silently in back of them wondering what is wrong with themselves that they cannot like this subject.

Let’s consider a reevaluation of the situation in which we assume that the stuckness now occurring, the zero of consciousness, isn’t the worst of all possible situations, but the best possible situation you could be in. After all, it’s exactly this stuckness that Zen Buddhists go to so much trouble to induce; through koans, deep breathing, sitting still and the like. Your mind is empty, you have a “hollow-flexible” attitude of “beginner’s mind.” You’re right at the front end of the train of knowledge, at the track of reality itself. Consider, for a change, that this is a moment to be not feared but cultivated. If your mind is truly, profoundly stuck, then you may be much better off than when it was loaded with ideas.

In the 1974 classic Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig decries the conversational opener “What’s new?”—arguing that the question, “if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow.” He endorses an alternative as vastly superior: “What’s best?” But the reality is not so simple. Remembering that every “best” song and restaurant among your favorites began humbly as something merely “new” to you is a reminder that there may be yet-unknown bests still out there—and thus that the new is indeed worthy of at least some of our attention.

The Church attitude is that civilization, or “the system” or “society” or whatever you want to call it, is best served not by mules but by free men. The purpose of abolishing grades and degrees is not to punish mules or to get rid of them but to provide an environment in which that mule can turn into a free man.

It was the kind of trip, sooner or later, you have to make. Especially if you are a motorcyclist and always looking for a good reason to travel. Or in my case even a fairly mediocre reason of practically no discernable consequence or socially redeeming value.

How did Rafe make it back so fast? Same way we did. He stole a ride. A motorcycle. In his case, though, he skipped all the steps between. No tortuous trek through the woods--he’d landed relatively close to a town. No attempts to get help, because Rafe wasn’t like us. His life experience was closer to Sam’s. His mom had sheltered him as best she could from the ugliness of life on the run, but he hadn’t grown up in a world where you could stroll into town, ask strangers for help, and expect to get it. Annie used to have a motorcycle, he said, and she’d taught him to ride it. He also knew how to hot-wire one. I wasn’t asking how. Like I said, his life experience wasn’t ours.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table hockey - is that a goldfish? Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam around in a circle. "This is the best patrol we've ever done," he said. "I've never been awarded a fish before." Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faeries. They rose across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings - motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs - and scavenged battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giving them in tribute to the Faerie Courts. He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take him by surprise. HE noticed now that everyone was looking at him with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm around Emma's shoulders, holding the bag in the other hand. "I have won for you a fish, my fair one," he said, and kissed her on the cheek. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend. She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him apologetically. "I couldn't keep a fish alive," she said. "I kill plants just by looking at them." "I suspect I would have the same problem," Mark said, eyeing the fish. "It is too bad - I was going to name it Magnus, because it has sparkly scales." At that, Christina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock of Brookly, and he had a penchant for glitter. "I suppose I had better let him go free," Mark said. Before anyone could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea. "Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish and can't survive in the ocean?" said Julian quietly. "Not really," said Christina. "Did he just kill Magnus?" Emma asked, but before Julian could answer, Mark whirled around.

His big hands moved quickly, efficiently, over the hard polymer—re-assembling the Smith & Wesson M&P Compact he’d brought with him across the unguarded border with France. No borders. It was a lofty idea, in theory. In reality, it only served to make the work of men like him easier. He lifted the semi-automatic pistol in one hand, sliding a full double-stacked magazine into the grip. Twelve rounds of 9mm Federal Hydra-Shok, jacketed hollowpoints. Carrying hardball wouldn’t have been of much use—pistol rounds weren’t going to go through good body armor on the best of days. The Smith & Wesson went into a holster under his armpit, in a cross-draw position. Another pair of loaded magazines went into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Along with a long, thin suppressor.

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We Believe: that faith in God gives meaning and purpose to human life: that the brotherhood of man transcends the sovereignty of nations: that economic justice can best be won by free men through free enterprise: that government should be of laws rather than of men: that earth’s great treasure lies in human personality: and that service to humanity is the best work of life.

Bergen zoals deze, en reizigers in de bergen, en hun lotgevallen treft men niet alleen aan in Zen-literatuur, maar in de exemplarische vertellingen van iedere grote religie. De allegorische voorstelling van een natuurlijke berg voor de geestelijke berg die tussen iedere ziel en zijn doel staat, werpt zich makkelijk en als vanzelfsprekend op. Zoals iedereen in het dal beneden ons, staan de meeste mensen hun hele leven voor de aanblik van de geestelijke bergen in hun leven waarin zij zich nooit begeven, tevreden als ze zijn met de verhalen van degenen die er geweest zijn, en op die manier vermijden ze de beproevingen. Sommige reizen in de bergen begeleid door ervaren gidsen die de beste en minst gevaarlijke wegen kennen die tot hun bestemming leiden. Weer anderen, meest onervaren en zonder vertrouwen, wagen het hun eigen weg te ontdekken. Slechts weinigen slagen daarin, maar af en toe halen enkelen het door louter wilskracht, geluk en genade. Zodra zij zijn gearriveerd beseffen zij beter dan alle anderen dat er niet één, of een vast aantal wegen bestaat. Er zijn zoveel wegen als er afzonderlijke zielen zijn.

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When He Needs Freedom from Destructive Behavior Be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. EPHESIANS 6:10-11 IT’S DIFFICULT FOR A WIFE to see her husband exhibit any kind of destructive behavior. In watching him doing something repeatedly that hurts his health or jeopardizes their family, she sees her future going over a cliff. There can be such terrible consequences for his behavior that it could ruin them financially, as well as destroy him physically or mentally. Whether it is drinking alcohol, taking drugs, gambling, smoking, reckless eating habits, or whatever else she observes her husband doing that could destroy him or endanger her or their children, it can be so heartbreaking to her that she cannot live with it. Every woman has to decide what she can and cannot tolerate. Life is hard enough without your husband finding ways to make it worse. And she must decide how much she can allow her children to witness before it seriously affects them too. You may not see behavior as seriously destructive as that in your husband, but perhaps he is taking unnecessary chances with his safety, such as driving too fast, or riding a motorcycle without a helmet, or being careless with dangerous machinery or equipment, or refusing to see a doctor when he should, or not following the doctor’s orders and thereby jeopardizing his health. There is only so much you can say or do to try to motivate your husband to stop destructive behavior if he is intent on doing it. But God can do miracles when you fervently pray to Him about it. He hears your prayers, and He wants your husband to be free as much as you do. Your prayers can help your husband open his eyes to see the truth. Your prayers can help him to understand how to put on the whole armor of God so he can stand against these plans of the enemy for his destruction. My Prayer to God LORD, I pray You would set my husband free from any destructive behavior he has acquired. Wake him up to the folly of his ways and show him when he is being foolish. Break the chains that bind him and open his blind eyes. Strengthen him where his weakness controls him. Enable him to see when the enemy has erected a stronghold in his life. Help him to understand how his behavior affects me and our children, as well as other family members, coworkers, and friends. Tell me what I can do to help make this situation better. I know I cannot change him, and I am unable to make anything happen. Only You can open his eyes, deliver him, and set him free from destructive behavior. I know foolish actions are not Your will for his life, and there is a big price to pay for everything that is not Your will. I pray that neither I nor my children will have to pay any price for his careless behavior. Whatever the reason he appears to have little regard for me, our children, or himself by continuing any reckless behavior, I pray You would deliver him from it completely. You are greater and more powerful than whatever draws him away from Your best. I trust You to set him free to be all You made him to be. In Jesus’ name I pray.

If it appears to be the main route from a town to a city, that's bad. The best ones always connect nowhere with nowhere and have an alternate that gets you there quicker.

Trucks never slow down in the rain. The best time to pass trucks is when you’re going uphill.

The best-equipped infantry divisions, numbering 17,700 men, were provided with between 500 and 600 trucks, 390 cars and a similar number of motorcycles. But for the bulk of its transport the German army relied on horses.39 As compared to a wartime complement of 120,000 trucks, mainly drafted from private business, Fromm allowed for 630,700 horses, one animal for every four men in the active field army.

after us … or maybe they’d put their safeties back on, and we’d get to watch a bunch of smiling Titans following like drones? They could get on tiny motorcycles then follow the RV. That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? They’d look like those famous fat twins on their bikes. Alien comedy at its best.” Now Andreus looked angry. He’d been wearing a damp rag on his head since they’d left the RV in one of the few places with overhead cover a few miles back. Piper kept wanting to make babushka jokes, but she couldn’t quite manage. The man

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