Word: mph
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...another crowd that you were against laws requiring motor-cyclists to wear crash helmets because you thought it wasn't the government's job to legislate against actions by people that would harm only themselves. It's clear that anybody on a motorcycle going down the road at 60 mph is going to suffer brain damage if he crashes and hits his head, but there is no available evidence of any marijuana users ever suffering brain damage. Mr. Reagan, how can you explain this fraudulent civil libertarianism...
...Slack's estimation, Brayton is a much better pitcher than he gives himself credit for. For example, his fastball is not weak, but "average. (About 86 1/2 mph.) He has a "deceptive motion, kind of herky-jerky," and though he "didn't have a curve ball" when he came out of Harvard, he's got one now that's "quick and tight." This is in addition to good off-speed pitches and a fine slider. All in all, "Rox doesn't have much more to work...
Fred and I drive in about 200 mile shifts. The road yawns in the windshield; the radio whips about the driver's seat. Pegging the van at a straight 65 mph cramps the calf muscles of my legs on the accelerator, so every hour I shift legs and sit cross-ways to the road. When tired I flay my head out against the air til blond rams my ears and road light blend into National Geographic nightscapes. Cultivating this weariness. I drive...
...hills. In rust hues the sky descended upon her forlorn tracts, swallowing puny hamlets: a cafe, a grocery store, a gas station, a truckstop, a few shacks, 200 people--all in white; and blistering vacant roads. Over the endless, straight, dust-heaped earth, the van torches at 95 mph, slowing up every 15 minutes or so for an oncoming car. At 9:30 p.m. we catch the night at Lander and sleep...
...were on our way, for at least a couple of hundred miles. Our driver was a squat, hairy toothless Canadian freak. He laughed like a leprechaun--in great volumes of uncontagious cackles--and he cursed his car at every knock. He wouldn't put it over 50 mph and the hard-iron hills of Nevada clanked by slowly. Huge white letters were carved into the hills--the only signs to tell one town from another as they filtered...