Quotes About Motorcycle

The self-balancing action of a motorcycle front end is a result of the combined effects of a number of details, including rake, trail, steering head rise and fall, mass shift, contact patch location, and tire profiles.

point your nose—rather than just swivel your eyes—in the direction that you want to go. For whatever physical or psychological reasons, the act of turning your head helps aim the motorcycle in that direction.

The problem with riding over your head is that the laws of physics are self-enforcing.

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

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.

Sage advice about curves is go in slow, go out fast.

The delayed apex line maximizes traction, helps guide you away from potential collisions, and gives you a better view around blind turns. If you like those priorities, consider adopting the trendy delayed apex line yourself.

Being in combat is a pretty accurate description of riding a motorcycle in traffic.

The delayed-apex line maximizes traction, helps guide you away from potential collisions, and gives you a better view around blind turns. If you like those advantages, adopt the delayed-apex line yourself.

The motorcycle is a device created by the team of God and Darwin to rid the world of useless young males.

Snug pants, bandeau-type corset, and trim, motorcycle jacket. It was a fabulous outfit, but it was so urban-fantasy book cover

I am the audience. I want to observe people. Even when I'm playing drums onstage, I'm watching people. I'm looking at them and their faces and their T-shirts and their signs. And travelling by motorcycle, especially, the world is just coming at me.

Just by going fast enough, you can ride on water with a motorcycle.

If I want to work, I can. If I want to play golf, or ride my motorcycle, I can. But the rest of it is family. Sometimes you're not really needed by your family, but you're there. And my kids like to know I'm there.

I play golf and ride my motorcycle - my Harley - around the hills of California.

Don't think of it as military," Julia said. "Think of it as theatrical. Massed pipes and drums," she said, reading from a program the so-called piper had given her, "and an army motorcycle stunt team. Highland dancers? And, oh, look, Russian Cossack dancers. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?" "No.

I should have a gun." "And you think I can provide it?" "Ask your biker gang buddies." "They prefer the term 'motorcycle club.'" "I'm sure they do.

Rafe told everyone he was from Texas. That was bull. I'd dated a summer guy from Texas, and Rafe's drawl was all wrong. His last name suggested he was Latino, and he kind of looked it, but his high cheekbones and amber eyes said Native to me. He was a little taller than Daniel, lean, with black hair that hung just past the collar of his leather jacket. Worn blue jeans and low motorcycle boots completed the image: American Teen Rebel.

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.

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.

The most important thing is to have a good relationship with the bike... you have to understand what she wants. I think of a motorcycle as a woman, and I know that sounds silly, but it's true.

All of the ways I am exactly like Bob Dylan is, one time a biking accident changed my life. Not a motorcycle accident, like in 1966 when Dylan crashed his Triumph Tiger on a mountain road in upstate New York, broke some bones, and went into seclusion. I was on a Schwinn Stingray, so I wasn't "riding in the classic sense; I was pedaling.

Smith] blew a warning blast of his town horn, twisted the wheel and slewed the bus into the side of the street. His intentions were unmistakable and the motorcycle patrol's decision to elect for discretion in lieu of suicidal valour was as immediate as it was automatic. They frantically abandoned their machines and flung themselves for their lives up the steps of Zum Wilden Hirsch.

Sailor Sam," a name that would not have meant much to American listeners, although British listeners, and anyone close enough to Paul to know the details of his expanded project list, recognized Sailor Sam as a Rupert Bear character—the sailor who lived on the edge of Nutwood and took Rupert on rides in the sidecar of his motorcycle