Riding Solo Quotes

But you have so much in common. You're both from strange little backwater planets. You both have odd powers. You're male and she's female. What more do you need? Believe me, buddy, if I were you, I'd go right up there and ask her if she wants to ride on my rancor.

Whether by plane, bus or carpet, own the magic in your ride.

Las historias de drogas son como las historias de sueños o de polvos: solo te interesan si son tuyas.

Well, well, well, look who’s here riding solo.” Victor would make Al Pacino seem gigantic,” said Conner. You two can look eye to eye my friend.” God only lets things grow until they’re perfect—some of us didn’t take as long as others. The ladies call us fun-sized.

«Pero tener buen corazón solo sirve para que algunos quieran clavarte un cuchillo en él. Lo consideran un objetivo, como si fuera la diana de los dardos. Dicen: “Vamos a por ese buen corazón.

The melody is a simple repetition, a catchy, easy-breezy tune, but soon breaks into improvised solos. As Alexander plays, Karina closes her eyes, and the notes become a summer-evening stroll down a country road drenched in moonlight, more of a mood than a melody, sultry and slow, in no hurry at all. Softened by vodka, she rides the notes, allowing herself to be carried, and her blood is flowing hotter. She’s turned on.

And here I was at the end of my trip, with everything just as fuzzy and unreal as the beginning. It was easier for me to see myself in Rick's lens, riding down to the beach in that cliched sunset, just as it was easier for me to stand with my friends and wave goodbye to the loopy woman with the camels, the itching smell of the dust around us, and in our eyes the feat that we had left so much unsaid. There was an unpronounceable joy and an aching sadness to it. It had all happened too suddenly. I didn't believe this was the end at all. There must be some mistake. Someone had just robbed me of a couple of month in there somewhere. There was not so much an anticlimactic quality about the arrival at the ocean, as the overwhelming feeling that I had somehow misplaced the penultimate scene.

Chi ride è malvagio solo per chi crede in ciò di cui si ride.

I win—I pay your debt, and in return, you hop off the Cillian is Satan train. If my wife wants to ride it, she’ll buy her own ticket and travel solo.

I turned into Little Red Riding Hood. I made a cake, packed it up and went through the forest until I met the wolves. That's something the story got wrong, wolves don't travel solo, they hunt in packs.

But maybe it's only been a brief separation that feels like years. Like a solo car ride that takes all night but feels like a lifetime. Watching all those highway dashes flying by at seventy miles an hour, your eyes becoming lazy slits and your mind wandering over the memory of a whole lifetime-past and future, childhood memories to thoughts of your own death-until the numbers on the dashboard clock do not mean anything more. And then the sun comes up and you get to your destination and the ride becomes the thing that is no longer real, because that surreal feeling has vanished and time has become meaningful again.

My beloved, I write to you from Rawalpindi, with the help of a Turkic-speaking imam, a kind man with a twinkle in his eyes and a soft spot for lovers. Now two years after I left Chinese Turkestan, I am about to embark on a solo journey there to find you, and my heart shakes with both hope and dread. If I do not find you, then I will leave this letter in our cave, and pray that God willing, someday, as you ride by, you will be moved by an inexplicable urge to see the place where we had been so happy. I was a fool to leave. If you can forgive me, please come and find me in Rawalpindi. Ask for Arvand the gem dealer at the British garrison, and they will know where to direct you. I enclose a bar of chocolate, a packet of tea from Darjeeling, and all my fervent wishes for your well-being and happiness. The one who loves you, always

Yeah sex is cool, but it's easily accessible. At this age I'm looking for something deeper. Chemistry i can't find on a resume, passion i can't ignore. Mind connection that allows conversation without words, a gaze that makes me forget which planet I'm on, and a depth that makes me want to stay. I want to dive deep into someone's soul and feel like I belong there. Face the world separately but intertwined in each others presence. A home that carries a heartbeat. All these years of riding solo, has helped me tend to my heart space and what a glorious little beat it now holds. An auric field re-awakened. A self-love journey, just for myself.

Do not look at the size of your mountain but look at what faith can do with such a challenge in front of you. Believing in yourself is where it starts. Don’t wait on others to affirm you. It starts with you and ends with you. You need help along the way for sure, but you may be climbing to the top solo on most days. That’s okay. Mr. Faith and Mrs. Confidence is along for the ride and they make dud’s into studs.

«Perché credi che stia facendo questa cosa? Questo viaggio, intendo? Per incontrare il principe azzurro? So bene che non siamo a Disney. La vita non è una fiaba. E non sono certo uno stupido che vive appollaiato su una nuvola.» Sento una risata soffocata da parte di Travis. Beh, almeno ride. Sempre meglio dei sospiri e dell’aria annoiata. «Tu ti sei appollaiato lì invece, Mack,» insiste. «Non ho mai incontrato qualcuno capace di tenere una conversazione di un’ora sulla dieta vegetariana e dello scontro culturale. Tu sei rimasto appollaiato troppo a lungo su quella nuvola.» «E tu, tu non sei altro che un brontolone solitario e abitudinario, incapace di vivere il momento, senza farti milioni di domande!» lo accuso con un tono infastidito. È l'ora dei complimenti. Ci conosciamo solo da quattro giorni, e ci siamo già scornati due volte. Come una coppia, come due fratelli, o come individui di una stessa rete di conoscenze che trascorrono parecchio tempo insieme e che si conoscono molto bene. Credo che l’esperienza con me sconvolga l'equilibrio abitudinario che Travis si è creato, più di quanto non pensi. In ogni caso, io ne sono sconvolto. «Ho già incontrato un matto come te, e mi basta per i prossimi trent' anni. Ho già avuto la mia dose di esempi, Mack.» Viene da ridere anche a me, divertito dal vederlo così stupido, così asociale, non sa proprio come interagire con gli altri.

Ulysses S. Grant became president of the United States in 1869, and he made a priority of expanding the White House stables. During his eight years in office, he sheltered more horses than any other U.S. president. Because he never liked being driven around by a chauffeur, Grant often saddled one of his horses for a solo ride through the streets of Washington, D.C. One day, as he galloped his way down M Street, a police officer pulled him over for speeding! When the officer discovered that the law-breaker was the leader of the country, he was embarrassed. But Grant wasn’t the least bit upset. “I was speeding; you caught me,” he said. So the police officer issued him a $5 ticket, and America’s eighteenth president walked back to the White House on foot.

Di pomeriggio dormo e quando non riesco a dormire, chiudo gli occhi e immagino di essere dinuovo nella casa abbandonata al 37 di Brooks Street con Alex sdraiato accanto a me. Cerco diattraversare la cortina; immagino di poter in qualche modo disfare i giorni che sono passati dalla nostrafuga, di poter riparare quello strappo nel tempo, di potermi riprendere Alex.Ma ogni volta che riapro gli occhi sono ancora qui, su un materasso per terra, e ho ancora fame. Alex è vivo. Soltanto un altro sforzo, solo uno sprint finale, e vedrai.Quando Hana e io facevamo parte della squadra di atletica leggera, c’inventavamo giochetti mentalicome questi per mantenere lo stimolo. La corsa è uno sport mentale, più di qualsiasi altra cosa. Seibravo solo quanto il tuo allenamento, e il tuo allenamento è buono solo quanto il tuo modo di pensare.Se fai tutti e dodici i chilometri senza camminare, prenderai dieci in storia. Questo è il genere di cosache dicevamo l’una all’altra. A volte funzionava, a volte no. A volte ci arrendevamo, ridendo,all’undicesimo chilometro, dicendo Ooops! Ecco che sfuma il nostro voto di storia.Il fatto era che non ci interessava poi tanto. Un mondo senza amore è anche un mondo senzaobiettivi.Alex è vivo. Spingi, spingi, spingi.....Non sono pazza. Lo so che non è vivo, non può esserlo. Non appena termino la corsa e torno nelseminterrato della chiesa, mi colpisce come un muro la stupidità di tutto questo, la sua inutilità. Alex èandato e nessun allenamento, o corsa, o sofferenza me lo riporterà mai.Lo so. Ma il fatto è questo: mentre corro, c’è sempre quella frazione di secondo in cui il dolore mi statraggendo e riesco a malapena a respirare e vedo soltanto colori e macchie e in quella frazione disecondo, proprio mentre il dolore è insopportabile e diventa troppo, e c’è un calor bianco che mi attraversa, vedo qualcosa alla mia sinistra, un guizzo di colore (capelli rossicci, che ardono, una coronadi foglie) e in quel momento so che se soltanto voltassi la testa lo vedrei lì, che ride e mi guarda, abraccia aperte.Non volto mai la testa per guardarlo, ovviamente. Ma un giorno lo farò. Un giorno lo farò e lui saràtornato, e tutto andrà a posto.E fino a quel momento: corro. Mi viene in mente, a quel punto, che anche le persone sono piene di tunnel: spazi bui e tortuosi ecaverne; impossibile conoscere tutti i posti dentro di loro. Impossibile anche soltanto immaginarli

È facile giudicare, per i lettori, guardando dal loro angolino tranquillo e dalla cima del quale si apre l’orizzonte su quello che succede in basso, dove all’uomo si rivela solo l’oggetto vicino. E in tutta la storia universale dell’umanità ci sono interi secoli che sembra siano da cancellare e da distruggere perché inutili. Sono stati fatti, al mondo, molti errori che, probabilmente, oggi non farebbe neanche un bambino. Che strade curve, cieche, strette, impraticabili, laterali, ha imboccato l’umanità nello sforzo di raggiungere l’eterna verità, quando davanti a sé aveva, aperta, una via dritta, la retta via, che portava alle splendide stanze destinate allo zar nella sua reggia. Più larga e migliore di tutte le altre vie, rischiarata dal sole e illuminata dai fuochi tutta la notte, e gli uomini passano di fianco a lei nell’oscurità cieca. E quante volte già, guidati da un segno che viene dal cielo, sono stati ancora capaci di scostarsi e smarrirsi da un lato, sono stati capaci dal bianco del giorno di finire di nuovo in un impraticabile buco, sono stati capaci di gettarsi ancora polvere negli occhi a vicenda e, trascinandosi oltre i fuochi fatui, sono stati capaci di arrivare perfino sul limitar del burrone, per poi con orrore chiedersi: dov’è l’uscita, dov’è la strada? Adesso la generazione presente vede tutto con chiarezza, si meraviglia degli errori, ride dell’irragionevolezza dei suoi antenati, senza vedere che questa cronaca è tracciata da una fiamma celeste, che ogni sua lettera grida, che da ogni riga un dito accusatore è puntato su di lei, sulla generazione presente: ma ride, la generazione presente, e, presuntuosa, orgogliosamente comincia una serie di nuovi errori, sui quali allo stesso modo rideranno poi i posteri.

Sometimes our need clouds our ability to develop perspective. Being needy is kind of like losing your keys. You become desperate and search everywhere. You search in places you know damn well what you are looking for could never be. The more frantic you become in trying to find them the less rational you are in your search. The less rational you become the more likely you'll be searching in a way that actually makes finding what you want more difficult. You go back again and again to where you want them to be, knowing that there is no way in hell that they are there. There is a lot of wasted effort. You lose perspective of your real goal, let's say it's go to the grocery store, and instead of getting what you need -nourishment, you frantically chase your tail growing more and more confused and angry and desperate. You are mad at your keys, you are mad at your coat pockets for not doing their job. You are irrational. You could just grab the spare set, run to the grocery store and get what you need, have a sandwich, calm down and search at your leisure. But you don't. Where ARE your keys?! Your desperation is skewing your judgement. But you need to face it, YOUR keys are not in HIS pocket. You know your keys are not there. You have checked several times. They are not there. He is not responsible for your keys. You are. He doesn't want to be responsible for your keys. Here's the secret: YOU don't want to be responsible for your keys. If you did you would be searching for them in places they actually have a chance of being. Straight boys don't have your keys. You have tried this before. They may have acted like they did because they wanted you to get them somewhere or you may have hoped they did because you didn't want to go alone but straight boys don't have your keys. Straight boys will never have your keys. Where do you really want to go? It sounds like not far. If going somewhere was of importance you would have hung your keys on the nail by the door. Sometimes it's pretty comfortable at home. Lonely but familiar. Messy enough to lose your keys in but not messy enough to actually bother to clean house and let things go. Not so messy that you can't forget about really going somewhere and sit down awhile and think about taking a trip with that cute guy from work. Just a little while longer, you tell yourself. His girlfriend can sit in the backseat as long as she stays quiet. It will be fun. Just what you need. And really isn't it much safer to sit there and think about taking a trip than accepting all the responsibility of planning one and servicing the car so that it's ready and capable? Having a relationship consists of exposing yourself to someone else over and over, doing the work and sometimes failing. It entails being wrong in front of someone else and being right for someone too. Even if you do find a relationship that other guy doesn't want to be your chauffeur. He wants to take turns riding together. He may occasionally drive but you'll have to do some too. You will have to do some solo driving to keep up your end of the relationship. Boyfriends aren't meant to take you where you want to go. Sometimes they want to take a left when you want to go right. Being in a relationship is embarking on an uncertain adventure. It's not a commitment to a destination it is just a commitment to going together. Maybe it's time to stop telling yourself that you are a starcrossed traveler and admit you're an armchair adventurer. You don't really want to go anywhere or you would venture out. If you really wanted to know where your keys were you'd search in the most likely spot, down underneath the cushion of that chair you've gotten so comfortable in.

Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming – WOW – What a Ride!

Joan Joyce is the real deal, a fierce competitor and one of the greatest athletes and coaches in sports history. Tony Renzoni’s moving tribute to Joan shows us why she is a champion in sports and in life. —Billie Jean King, sports icon and equality pioneer The story is all true. Joan Joyce was a tremendous pitcher, as talented as anyone who ever played. [responding to a newspaper account of his early 1960s match-ups against Joan Joyce] —Ted Williams, Hall of Famer and Boston Red Sox great, December 30, 1999 Joan Joyce is truly the greatest female athlete in sports history. And a great coach as well. Tony Renzoni’s well-researched book is a touching tribute to this phenomenal athlete. I highly recommend this book! —Bobby Valentine, former MLB player and manager Quotes for Historic Connecticut Music Venues: From the Coliseum to the Shaboo: I would like to thank Tony Renzoni for giving me the opportunity to write the foreword to his wonderful book. I highly recommend Connecticut Music Venues: From the Coliseum to Shaboo to music lovers everywhere! —Felix Cavaliere, Legendary Hall of Famer (Young Rascals/Rascals, Solo) As the promoter of the concerts in many of the music venues in this book, I hope you enjoy living the special memories this book will give you. —Jim Koplik, Live Nation president, Connecticut and Upstate New York Tony Renzoni has captured the soul and spirit of decades of the Connecticut live music scene, from the wild and wooly perspective of the music venues that housed it. A great read! —Christine Ohlman, the “Beehive Queen,” recording artist/songwriter Tony Renzoni has written a very thoughtful and well-researched tribute to the artists of Connecticut, and we are proud to have Gene included among them. —Lynne Pitney, wife of Gene Pitney Our Alice Cooper band recorded the Billion Dollars Babies album in a mansion in Greenwich. Over the years, there have been many great musicians from Connecticut, and the local scene is rich with good music. Tony Renzoni’s book captures all of that and more. Sit back and enjoy the ride. —Dennis Dunaway, hall of famer and co-founder of the Alice Cooper band. Rock ’n’ Roll music fans from coast to coast will connect to events in this book. Strongly recommended! —Judith Fisher Freed, estate of Alan Freed

It was reading Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that did it. In it, the author explains that there are two types of people: the romantics (the Zen part of the title) and the classics (the motorcycle maintenance part of the title). Romantics are interested in the pleasure of riding a bike, while classics are interested in the pleasure of understanding how the bike works.

DEC 18 MAYBE WE REALLY are alone in the galaxy. The heroes and villains of Star Wars: The Force Awakens sure seem to be. Although we’ve only seen flashes of actual footage from next December’s journey into that other universe, it’s interesting to note that director J.J. Abrams chose to introduce the first new characters in moments of isolation and desperation. Consider John Boyega as Finn, the scared, sweaty stormtrooper trying to make an escape in the desert. Or Daisy Ridley’s Rey, riding solo (no pun intended) in her Taser-shaped speeder across a similarly blighted

TO FIRST-GENERATION BARBIE OWNERS, OF WHICH I WAS one, Barbie was a revelation. She didn't teach us to nurture, like our clinging, dependent Betsy Wetsys and Chatty Cathys. She taught us independence. Barbie was her own woman. She could invent herself with a costume change: sing a solo in the spotlight one minute, pilot a starship the next. She was Grace Slick and Sally Ride, Marie Osmond and Marie Curie. She was all that we could be and—if you calculate what at human scale would translate to a thirty-nine-inch bust—more than we could be. And certainly more than we were . . . at six and seven and eight when she appeared and sank her jungle-red

I know when people think of New York, they think of theater, restaurants, cultural landmarks and shopping,” I told him. “But beyond the iconic skyline and the news from Wall Street, New York is a collection of villages. In our neighborhoods, we attend school, play Kick the Can, handball and ride our bikes. I grew up knowing the names and faces of the baker, the shoe repair family, the Knish man and the Good Humor man who sold me and the other kids in my neighborhood half a popsicle for a nickel. My father took me to the playground where he pushed me on the swing, helped balance me on the seesaw and watched as I hung upside down by my feet on the monkey bars. Yes,” I told the interviewer, “people actually grow up in New York.

E poi, contro i gas, le maschere antigas. Murat se ne procura una. «Ti invito a una milonga. Sai ballare il tango?» le dice. «Certo che no» risponde Anna. Lui ride: «Imparerai, è facile». Ed eccoli, ballano il tango in mezzo a Gezi Park, lei con una maschera antigas volteggia tra le sue braccia, sbaglia i passi ma che importa... In questo momento della sua vita deve solo seguire la musica. Quel che succederà, succederà.

IT WAS FULL DARK OUT NOW AND THE FIRST RUSH OF THE FREE night air roared into my lungs and out through my veins, calling my name with a thundering whisper of welcome and urging me on into the purring darkness, and we hurried to the car to ride away to happiness. But as we opened the car door and put one foot in, some small acid niggle twitched at our coattails and we paused; something was not right, and the frigid glee of our purpose slid off our back and onto the pavement like old snakeskin. Something was not right. I looked around me in the hot and humid Miami night. The neighborhood was just as it had always been; no sudden threat had sprung from the row of one-story houses with their toy-littered yards. There was nothing moving on our street, no one lurking in the shadows of the hedge, no rogue helicopter swooping down to strafe me—nothing. But still I heard that nagging trill of doubt. I took in a slow lungful of air through my nose. There was nothing to smell beyond the mingled odors of cooking, the tang of distant rainfall, the whiff of rotting vegetation that always lurked in the South Florida night. So what was wrong? What had set the tinny little alarm bells to clattering when I was finally out the door and free? I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing—but I had learned to trust the pesky whisper of warning, and I stood there unmoving, unbreathing, straining for an answer. And then a low row of dark clouds rumbled open overhead and revealed a small slice of silvery moon—a tiny, inadequate moon, a moon of no consequence at all, and we breathed out all the doubt. Of course—we were used to riding out into the wicked gleam of a full and bloated moon, slicing and slashing to the open-throated sound track of a big round choir in the sky. There was no such beacon overhead tonight, and it didn’t seem right somehow to gallop off into glee without it. But tonight was a special session, an impromptu raid into a mostly moonless evening, and in any case it must be done, would be done—but done as a solo cantata this time, a cascade of single notes without a backup singer. This small and wimpish quarter-moon was far too young to warble, but we could do very well without it, just this once. And

Lei è simile alle montagne russe. Piange e ride. Rimango stordito di continuo. Solo grazie a lei il mio mondo, che era grigio, si è riempito di colori. Quindi è una persona molto forte e brillante!

If you tell yourself that you need more riding experience, more mechanical prowess, more tools, a better bike, and try to cover every single contingency you might face before setting out for a weekend on the bike by yourself, you'll likely never take a solo trip.

Like a solo car ride that takes all night but feels like a lifetime.

Determinata a chiudermi al mondo, a serrare il mio cuore e a tenere stretto quel poco di me che non hanno ancora rubato. Non posso perdere tutta me stessa. Mi aggrapperò a chi sono dentro e stringerò le mani attorno a tutto ciò che ho visto e udito, e provato. Le poesie composte mentre lavavo, falciavo e cucinavo fino a scorticarmi le mani. Le saghe che conosco a memoria. Seppellirò tutto quel che mi rimane per immergermi negli abissi. Se parlerò, saranno solo bolle d'aria. Non riusciranno a carpire le mie parole. Vedranno la sgualdrina, la pazza, l'assassina, la femmina che gronda sangue sull'erba e ride con la bocca piena di terra. Diranno, e vedranno il ragno, la strega rimasta impigliata nella sua stessa ragnatela. Potrebbero vedere l'agnello circondato dai corvi, che bela per invocare la madre perduta. Ma non vedranno me. Perché io non ci sarò.

Tu, Agnes Magnusdottir, sei stata giudicata complice di omicidio. Tu, Agnes Magnusdottir, sei stata giudicata colpevole di incendio e di omicidio premeditato. Tu, Agnes Magnusdottir, sei stata condannata a morte. Tu, Agnes. Agnes. Ma non sanno chi sono. Io resto muta. Determinata a chiudermi al mondo, a serrare il mio cuore e a tenere stretto quel poco di me che non hanno ancora rubato. Non posso perdere tutta me stessa. Mi aggrapperò a chi sono dentro e stringerò le mani attorno a tutto ciò che ho visto e udito, e provato. Le poesie composte mentre lavavo, falciavo e cucinavo fino a scorticarmi le mani. Le saghe che conosco a memoria. Seppellirò tutto quel che mi rimane per immergermi negli abissi. Se parlerò, saranno solo bolle d'aria. Non riusciranno a carpire le mie parole. Vedranno la sgualdrina, la pazza, l'assassina, la femmina che gronda sangue sull'erba e ride con la bocca piena di terra. Diranno , e vedranno il ragno, la strega rimasta impigliata nella sua stessa ragnatela. Potrebbero vedere l'agnello circondato dai corvi, che bela per invocare la madre perduta. Ma non vedranno me. Perché io non ci sarò.

Wolves get a bad rep for being evil, they will eat your lambs, limbs and grannies, and sometimes blow your house down without giving two shits about your chinny chin chin. But you gotta understand these evil wolves are abandoned wolves. Solo wolves, not necessarily out on the prowl to steal your red riding hoods. But stories need conflict, and fighters are sexy and boy, do wolves know how to fight.

Transportation Sector The transportation sector is a close second to industry in terms of energy use. While air travel gets a bad rap, it is transport on highways that by far dominates this sector’s energy use, using more than 10 times the energy of air travel. Of this highway energy, about 75% is expended by small vehicles, the passenger cars and trucks used to move ourselves around. Amazingly, almost half of this is used on trips of less than 20 miles, mostly to get to and from work and for family responsibilities—things like church, shopping, and school. Of non-highway transport, air travel is the largest contributor, followed by ships and then trains. Incidentally, a fully loaded modern jet aircraft gets the equivalent of around 60 miles per gallon (MPG) per passenger, so for traveling long distances, they beat solo road trips in cars (but if you take four friends with you, even a gas-guzzling American car is not so bad—something hyped by the ride-share community). We can even see that the energy required to transport fossil fuels is significant, with about 1% of US energy use committed to transporting natural gas (we’ll come back to this later). Nearly half of freight-rail transportation is used to move coal—most of the other half is wheat and food. A not-so-surprising revelation from a close study

Lennon’s vituperative Rolling Stone interview was conducted in New York City in December 1970, shortly after the completion of his debut solo album John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band and his involvement with primal therapy. The album, Lennon’s masterpiece, showed the artist stripped bare: in turns paranoid, wounded and angry, railing against targets including fame, the Beatles, religion, drugs, his family and the media. In the interview he was similarly irascible, detailing the many grievances he felt at the disintegration of the Beatles and Apple, and reshaping the band’s historical narrative in the wake of the split. He later

For with her, there isn’t eternal support, kind words, sweet notes, meaningful kisses, gentle reminders, someone to think about during chick flicks, a well of intensely personal advice, a loving ear or a willing heart. She will try to convince you that by jumping in your ride and heading out tonight riding solo is YOLO, but know that the ice cream, Ambien, and Netflix cocktails can’t drown the innate desire of a human to care about and be cared about on a plane that is higher than platonic friendship. Ah yes, what she offers pales in comparison to what she never can give

Another Mountain Bike Hall of Famer, Laird Knight, created 24-hour MTB racing – where riders attempt as many loops of a technical off-road course in 24 hours as possible – as a team pursuit. In 1996 Stamstad entered a 24-hour race in Canaan as a team, but all four names on the sheet were a variation of his own. He did the event solo, beat most of the field and invented a new form of endurance racing.

It should be said that I love best the early-morning hours when my thoughts are my own. I love the scratched-glass bubble of a solo train ride. A solitary walk in search of turtle shells beside a lazy canal. This here and this now, this page, when memory is the other person in the room, the voice in my ear, the speculation.

«È meglio la musica pop, ha un ritmo migliore per tenere il passo,» preciso. «Come dici tu, principessa.» Madden scoppia a ridere di nuovo. Non posso nemmeno arrabbiarmi con lui mentre si diverte così tanto. Posso solo immaginare quanto si divertirà il giorno in cui mi beccherà a cantare a squarciagola un po’ di Britney sotto la doccia. «It’s Britney bitch.» Scuoto la testa di lato come se stessi spostando dei capelli lunghi e vaporosi e Madden ride così forte che quasi cade dalla sedia. Mi lancio in avanti per tenerlo, così che non si faccia più male di quanto senta già. «Potresti essere la mia nuova persona preferita,» dichiara, una volta ripreso fiato. Il calore si diffonde nel mio petto. «Anche tu.»

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Allie…” Hannah trails off, coughs, then keeps going. “Am I interrupting you while you’re, um…riding the solo train to Orgasmville?

Unexpected snags can arise on a ride; just as unexpected snags arise in life. But the pain is temporary, the emotions are temporary, and the setbacks can provide the space for a valuable lesson, if we're open to learning. Keep pedaling.

I had a knack for sniffing out the rowdiest dive bars, the real ones, dark, loud, and rough around the edges, always with the distinct foul smell of old beer and urine. The Est Est Est was no different. The exterior of the building was lined with locals talking amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke. The interior was nearly pitch black, if it weren’t for the rainbow-colored disco ball spinning rays of light across the bar. I recognized a pair of patrons from the previous bar.

Stopping to take in the surroundings and to notice the simple pleasures of life was a habit I’d been working on ever since a friend from grad school recommended the motion picture About Time. The film, centered around a father and son who possess the power of time travel, reveals that no amount of revisiting the past could compare to fully appreciating the present moment. The trip that I’d now found myself on offered the opportunity to practice this act of noticing.

Fast forward to six hours later and the three of us are causing a scene: telling stories in raised voices, cackling, singing, spilling wine on ourselves, spilling wine on each other. Yours truly making runs to the back of the plane for refills in thirty-minute intervals. “Do we have any more red wine left?” one stewardess asked another. Before we knew it, sunlight was peering through the windows, the rest of the passengers were waking up, and the stewardess was rolling the cart down the aisle for morning coffee service. We must have had thirteen rounds of red wine over the eight-hour flight. The three of us stumbled our way off the plane and through Italian customs, completely wrecked.

After a slight diversion around Milan Centrale, I found my way to Como and got my bike down the street to my apartment. I quickly assembled the bike, rolled it down the stairs, and cruised down the street for a leisurely ride to the lake, managing to forget that I’d consumed thirteen glasses of wine and hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Welcome to Italy, I thought to myself. Let’s go!

I looked out over the lake, a vast plane of deep azure and emerald under a clear blue sky, noticing the reflection of the towering Italian Alps visible in the gentle ripples of the water. This, I thought to myself, is amazing. Just as my dopamine levels were peaking, the happiness dial turned to eleven, my attention was drawn to a peculiar object hovering in the air roughly twenty yards in front of me, spiraling my direction like a tiny heat seeking missile locked on to my forehead. Curious, I thought to myself. Before I could react, the object—a giant bee from hell—contacted the front of my helmet.

Well, I spent two weeks on that island watching couples celebrate and enjoy honeymoons, anniversaries, and romantic vacations together, wondering if I’d ever find love again,” she said. “And on the last day of my trip, having one last drink at the local bar with my friend, after all expectations of finding love in the Virgin Islands had faded, there he was.

It was through bikes that I learned how to be a kid again. How to be comfortable in solitude.

Looking out over the cliffs of Amalfi, I snapped a photo, dropped it into a WhatsApp chat with the Doughboys, and wrote: “You know guys…I could be anywhere in the world, the most exotic location imaginable, but nothing can replace hanging with my brothers.

People, even smart ones, come up with weird or silly reasons to entertain bad ideas all the time. In fact, smart people may be more prone to creating irrational stories and engaging in dumb behavior than lesser smart people, for the simple fact that there are more (cognitive) tools at their disposal.

In addition to this stigma, many men who suffer from mental illness find significant difficulty in overcoming the cultural barriers and emotional illiteracy best defined as 'toxic masculinity.' In other words, the idea that vulnerability and the open discussion of one’s feelings is considered a sign of weakness, counter to the behaviors of the traditional male role.

Now, sitting in the cafe, I thought of the cyclist as a painter. The planning of a ride as the foundation for a masterpiece—a vision for an artistic endeavor that interweaves man and machine. Each landscape, each environment, providing a canvas. Each GPS route offering an outline, never perfectly followed. Each turn, jump, climb, descent, and successfully navigated feature, a brush stroke on canvas. Like the work of an impressionist painter, no ride, and no riding style, could be replicated. Each rider creates their own unique sense of movement, color, and perspective. Each rider communicates through their riding.

Anxiety, and mental disorder more generally, can be exceptionally difficult to process, and for good reason. At the time of this writing, in 2023, humans are still battling the stigmas derived from centuries of misconception, fear, and discrimination around mental illness. It still has an attribution to demonic possession, evidence of witchcraft, or is labeled as a hysteria tied to an animal-like 'wandering uterus,' that could attach itself to organs in the female body, and cause disruption in bodily function and painful symptoms (seriously).

I explained my experience after ten years in the Los Angeles music industry. The ruthless competition. The scheming sharks looking for any opportunity to devour the weak. The masks that many wear to conceal a cold, calculated agenda. The transactional conversations disguised as friendly interactions. How the desperation to get a little more recognition, to get a little closer to an artist, to get that Instagram mention or land a spot on Billboard’s 30 under 30 list, drives even the most kind and empathetic people to view others as a mere utility.

Like any endurance sport, cycling can bring about a psychological battle against the 'quit' that arises in your mind. When your body is tired and sore, when your heart rate is at its max, when your lungs cannot give enough oxygen, cycling is about finding the motivation to push through this pain to reach the summit, because you've learned that the rewards of the future surpass the costs of the present.

We can’t control everything. And we sure as hell can’t change people without those people wanting to change and doing the work themselves. All we can do is have the presence of mind to focus on the task at hand. The grit to work through the problem to the best of our ability. The courage to make the best decision we can at the time. The patience to trust the process, and the humility to learn from it.