All the while they claim to be just on the point of attaining happiness. When I knew the wind was strong, I attacked myself to make the race as hard as possible. But I'm not talking about a lactate threshold or anything like that; this threshold is harder to define because it's really a combination of physiological, psychological, and environmental factors. At the same time, every racer who's broken through what I refer to as the "Competitive Threshold" knows what it is, even if they can't really describe it. When your fitness is below a given point relative to your competition you're racing to survive and holding on to a slight hope that if you survive long enough you might be able to launch one all-or-nothing bid for victory.
But when improve beyond your Competitive Threshold, survival is no longer an issue and a whole new world of opportunities opens up. Instead of fighting for wheels so you don't get dropped, you're fighting for wheels based on strategy. Instead of viewing the peloton as a place to find shelter, you start viewing it as a tool you can use to increase your chances of winning. You start acting like a hunter instead of a scavenger. The farther you pedal, the heavier he feels. The harder you push, the tighter he squeezes your chest.
The steeper the climb, the deeper he digs his jagged, sharp claws into your muscles. It doesn't matter if you're sprinting for an Olympic medal, a town sign, a trailhead, or the rest stop with the homemade brownies. If you never confront pain, you're missing the essence of the sport.
22 Important Bible Verses About Self Defense (Shocking Read)
Without pain, there's no adversity. Without adversity, no challenge. Without challenge, no improvement. No improvement, no sense of accomplishment and no deep-down joy. Might as well be playing Tiddly-Winks. I'm alive. I'm looking. I'm looking around. I'm feeling good.
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I'm so happy. I've got so many gold medals and ribbons and stuff, and that doesn't count. What counts is getting out there and doing the best I can do and show people what they can do. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering. The most important factor you can keep in your own hands is yourself. I always placed the greatest emphasis on that.
Jane Kelly, The Anchorage Daily News in July "The wonderful things in life are the things you do, not the things you have" -- Reinhold Messner, alpinest "It's always further than it looks. It's always taller than it looks. It's always harder than it looks. Now I have only good days or great days.
They are far superior and always have been. Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. I you give her sperm she will give you a baby. If you give her a house, she will give you a home. If you give her groceries, she will give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she will give you her heart.
She multiples and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit! I have children. When we get home, home is still the same. But something in our mind has been changed, and that changes everything. Several new science papers suggest that getting away is an essential habit of effective thinking.
When we escape from the place we spend most of our time, the mind is suddenly made aware of all those errant ideas we'd previously suppressed. We start thinking about obscure possibilitiebsthat never would have occurred to us if we'd stayed home. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.
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Lawrence, "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom" " Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: but he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed. To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
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And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,-- Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue-- A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use And dreadful objects so familiar That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear. Katharina: Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katharina that do talk of me.
Petruchio: You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. Katharina: Moved! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
Proverbs 25 – Hezekiah’s Collection of Solomon’s Proverbs
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!
That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Voice: The Village.
Number 6: What do you want? Voice: Information.
Number 6: Whose side are you on? Voice: Now that would be telling. We want information. Number 6: You won't get it. Voice: By hook or crook we will. Number 6: Who are you? Voice: The new number 2. Number 6: Who is number 1?