Pedal Best Quotes

The Rider A boy told me if he roller-skated fast enough his loneliness couldn't catch up to him, the best reason I ever heard for trying to be a champion. What I wonder tonight pedaling hard down King William Street is if it translates to bicycles. A victory! To leave your loneliness panting behind you on some street corner while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas, pink petals that have never felt loneliness, no matter how slowly they fell.

The men re-tighten my bolts just for safe measure. The men open my car door, Ladies first. The men are always helping. One man asks how I reach the pedals. One man asks where my daddy is. One man opens his trunk and says, Bet you’re small enough to fit.

One man asks how I reach the pedals. One man asks where my daddy is. One man opens his trunk and says, Bet you’re small enough to fit.

Occasionally the poster pictures a pair of cyclists; and then one grasps the fact how much superior for purposes of flirtation is the modern bicycle to the old-fashioned parlour or the played-out garden gate. He and she mount their bicycles, being careful, of course, that such are of the right make. After that they have nothing to think about but the old sweet tale. Down shady lanes, through busy towns on market days, merrily roll the wheels of the “Bermondsey Company’s Bottom Bracket Britain’s Best,” or of the “Camberwell Company’s Jointless Eureka.” They need no pedalling; they require no guiding. Give them their heads, and tell them what time you want to get home, and that is all they ask. While Edwin leans from his saddle to whisper the dear old nothings in Angelina’s ear, while Angelina’s face, to hide its blushes, is turned towards the horizon at the back, the magic bicycles pursue their even course.

Paradisiacal Åland is best explored by bicycle – you’ll appreciate its understated attractions all the more if you’ve used pedal power to reach them. Bridges and ferries link many of its 6000 islands, and well-signposted routes take you off ‘main roads’ down winding lanes and forestry tracks. En route you can pick wild strawberries, wander castle ruins, sunbathe on a slab of red granite, visit a medieval church, quench your thirst at a cider orchard, or climb a lookout tower to gaze at the glittering sea

LEAP. It’s as simple as four steps, one for each letter of the acronym: Lean into the change with expectancy. When you notice that a change is desirable or necessary, that’s your green light. Punch the gas pedal. That inkling is all you need to get going. Engage with the concept until you achieve clarity. Don’t let the feeling pass. Work with it until you’ve got a sense of what to do. That nagging thought in the back of your mind might be the start of a whole new adventure—or the ladder you need to climb out of a deep rut. Activate and do something—anything. Sometimes we wait to move until we have all the information. That’s a mistake. Clarity comes in degrees. And you only need enough light for the next step. Even if you get off on the wrong foot, the rest of the journey will become clearer as you go. Pounce and do it now. Once you’ve determined your next step, take it. Don’t wait. Waiting feels safe, but waiting kills dreams.

If you already hate tofu, the term "tofu skin" is probably an effective emetic. But this stuff is addictive. You start by making fresh soy milk. I'm not going to soft-pedal how much work this is: you have to soak, grind, squeeze, and simmer dried soybeans. The result is a thick milk entirely unlike the soy milk you get in a box at Whole Foods in the same way Parmigiano-Reggiano is unlike Velveeta. Then, to make tofu skins (yuba in Japanese), you simmer the soy milk gently over low heat until a skin forms on the surface, then pluck it off with your fingers and drape it over a chopstick to dry. It is exactly like the skin that forms on top of pudding, the one George Costanza wanted to market as Pudding Skin Singles. Yuba doesn't look like much- like a pile of discarded raw chicken skin, honestly. But the texture is toothsome, and with each bite you're rewarded with the flavor of fresh soy milk. It's best served with just a few drops of soy sauce and maybe some grated ginger or sliced negi. "I'm kind of obsessed with tofu skins right now," said Iris, poking her head into the fridge to grab a round of yuba. Me too. In Seattle, I had to buy, grind, boil, and otherwise toil for a few sheets of yuba. In Tokyo, I found it at Life Supermarket, sold in a single-serving plastic tub with a foil top. The yuba wasn't as snappy or flavorful as homemade, but it had that characteristic fresh-soy aroma, which to me smells like a combination of "healthy forest" and "clean baby." Iris and I ate it greedily. (The yuba, not the baby.) Yuba isn't technically tofu, because the soy milk isn't coagulated. Japanese tofu comes in two basic categories, much like underpants: cotton (momen) and silken (kinugoshi). Cotton tofu is the kind eaten most commonly in the U.S.; if you buy a package of extra-firm tofu and cut it up for stir-frying, that's definitely cotton tofu. Silken tofu is fragile, creamier and more dairy-like than cotton-tofu, and it's the star of my favorite summer tofu dish. Hiya yakko is cubes of tofu, usually silken, drizzled with soy sauce and judiciously topped with savory bits: grated ginger or daikon, bonito flakes, negi. It's popular in Japanese bars and easy to make at home, which I did, with (you will be shocked to hear) tons of fresh negi.

But the bigger breakthrough may be the code that runs the PR2. Instead of making his source code proprietary, Hassan has open-sourced the project. “Proprietary systems slow things down,” he says. “We want the best minds around the world working on this problem. Our goal is not to control or own this technology but to accelerate it; put the pedal to the metal to make this happen as soon as possible.

He knew she must’ve said some real fly shit that ticked his mother off. Nice let V lean her body weight on him as he walked her out the front door. When he looked down at her he was trying his hardest not to laugh but his Aunt was rocking the jail house cornrows under a stocking cap and her wig was halfway on her head. Nice tried to get her back right and fix her wig the best way he could. He was trying to save her dignity and not have her out here looking crazier than she already did when she stepped out of the house that morning with that wig on. Nice put the pedal to the medal to drive V back to her house as she cried and blubbered drunkenly in the passenger seat about Cathy doing her dirty.

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.

the pedal and left my best friends to listen to my triumphant laughter. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

The best defense in fighting is an aggressive defense. Each defensive move must be accompanied by a counter-punch or be followed immediately by a counterpunch. And you cannot counter properly if you do not know how to punch. That does not mean that "a strong offense is the best defense." That overworked quotation may apply to other activities; but it does not apply to fighting. It does not apply when you're pitted against an experienced opponent. You may have the best attack in the world; but if you're an open target-if you're a "clay pigeon"-you'll likely get licked by the first experienced scrapper you tackle. YOU MUST HAVE A GOOD DEFENSE TO BE A WELL-ROUNDED FIGHTER. AND THE BEST DEFENSE IS AN AGGRESSIVE DEFENSE. Another reason for teaching punch first was this: You learned how to throw every important punch without having an opponent attempt to strike you. I'm convinced that it's wrong to try to teach beginners punching moves and defensive moves at the same time. Most humans cannot have two attitudes toward one subject at one time. And a beginner can't have two attitudes toward fighting. If you take any ten beginners and attempt to teach them punching and defense simultaneously, more than half of them will concentrate on defense instead of punching. That's a natural inclination, for it's only human that a fellow doesn't like to get hit in the face-or in the body either, for that matter. It follows that more than half the beginners will consider it more important to protect their own noses than to concentrate on learning how to belt the other guy in the nose. They'll develop "defense complexes" that will stick with them. Fellows with defense complexes rarely develop into good punchers. Even when they are shown how to hit correctly, they sprout bad punching habits while concentrating on blocking, parrying, back-pedaling and the like. They "pull" their punches; they side-step while trying to throw straight smashes; they move in with "clutching" fists that seek to encircle their opponents for clinches; and they do much showy but purposeless footwork. The little thought-ditch that is dug in the beginning will become the big channel for later fistic reactions. You're lucky. You're starting with the mental accent on punch. And it's a 100-to-1 shot that your attitude will not change. It's true that you haven't punched yet at a live target-at another fellow. Don't worry; there's plenty of time for that. And when you do start tossing at a live target, you'll know exactly how to toss. That exact knowledge will help you to become accurate and precise, as well as explosive, against a moving target.

Dispassionate scrutiny may well help us to find the sort of person we should fall in love with in order to have the best chances of being happy; but by itself it does not do much to make us fall in love. There are precise laws of physics that can describe mathematically all of the forces at play as I pedal and turn my bicycle, but it is the feel for the thing, and not my knowledge of mathematics, that allowed me to learn to ride it. No amount of biochemical facts is sufficient to prevent chronic stress from producing ulcers in my stomach. And no accumulation of facts about the way things are can ever dispel the mystery of why there is something rather than nothing.

Two men have died trying to do this. Outside Magazine declared the Race Across America the toughest endurance event there is, bar none. Cyclists cover three thousand miles in less than twelve days, riding from San Diego to Atlantic City. Some might think Oh, that’s like the Tour de France. They would be wrong. The Tour has stages. Breaks. The Race Across America (RAAM) does not stop. Every minute riders take to sleep, to rest, to do anything other than pedal, is another minute their competitors can use to defeat them. Riders average three hours of sleep per night—reluctantly. Four days into the race and the top riders must debate when to rest. With the competition tightly clustered (within an hour of each other), it is a decision that weighs heavily on them, knowing they will be passed and need to regain their position. And as the race goes on they will grow weaker. There is no respite. The exhaustion, pain, and sleep deprivation only compound as they work their way across the entire United States. But in 2009 this does not affect the man in the number-one spot. He is literally half a day ahead of number two. Jure Robič seems unbeatable. He has won the RAAM five times, more than any other competitor ever, often crossing the finish line in under nine days. In 2004 he bested the number-two rider by eleven hours. Can you imagine watching an event during which after the winner claims victory you need to wait half a day in order to see the runner-up finish? It’s only natural to wonder what made Robič so dominant and successful in such a grueling event. Was he genetically gifted? No. When tested, he seemed physically typical for a top ultra-endurance athlete. Did he have the best trainer? Nope. His friend Uroč Velepec described Robič as “Completely uncoachable.” In a piece for the New York Times, Dan Coyle revealed the edge Robič had over his competition that rendered him the greatest rider ever in the Race Across America: His insanity.

Anyone who's looking to achieve success must realize that keeping their foot on the gas pedal will eventually leave their tank empty.

ground on which John Maynard Keynes treads. Anyway, must be off . . .” Saffron watched her friend pedal off down the road and thought about how strange it was that one could like someone so much and disagree with them so fundamentally. Quentin Edery wanted to create an entirely new society, one in which people like her would no longer enjoy the privileges of wealth and possession and ordinary men and women, like the people he grew up with, would have their fair share of the prosperity they worked to create. In principle, Saffron could hardly argue with that proposition: she could hardly say that she believed in unfair shares. But she was African at heart, used to a world of predators and prey, in which life was an eternal contest for survival and the strongest always came out on top. So as much as she liked the idea of everyone living in peace, sharing everything equally, she simply couldn’t believe it could ever work in practice. Her ideals, therefore, were aimed at working with the grain of human nature, accepting man as the competitive, but also fallible animal that he was, and making the best of what was sometimes bound to be a bad business.

Translated into the terms of modern sports psychology these ‘peak experiences’ took place when I let go – the race that I was just ‘training through,’ or that for some reason or another didn’t matter was almost always when the sensations were the best. Indifferent to the outcome, the calm of my well-worn warm-up routine would give way to legs that turned the pedals with such inexplicable effortlessness that it felt as if I had been made to ride a bicycle. This isn’t to say I always won – that the sensations always correlated to the external result – but on race days like this I at least never got in my own way. On days like this I loved racing my bicycle.

In psychology, we have a name for the automatic scripts our brains piece together when we repeatedly do the same thing in the same way: procedural memory. It’s such an important repository of information that only the most frequently repeated patterns get stored like this. It functions somewhat separately from other memory systems, and the specific information encoded isn’t accessible to consciousness. This kind of cognitive coding is a sort of mental equivalent of admin-only files on your computer. Your computer’s best functioning relies on you not naively messing around in its most fundamental code, which it stashes away behind several layers of obfuscation. This is why we don’t know much about our habits. The information we learn as a habit is to some extent separated from other neural regions. Procedural coding protects information from change. This is the advantage to the way our minds encode habits. You don’t forget how to ride a bike regardless of how well you learn to ride a skateboard or surf. You can do it years after stopping. You balance and push the pedals without thinking. While cycling, you can even talk to others or enjoy the scenery. Your bike-riding habit didn’t get overwritten by new thoughts and experiences. Other habits are almost as sticky. Speaking a second language, playing a musical instrument, or cooking a favorite dish are skills that fade only slowly as you fail to use them. Past procedural learning is well preserved.