4
Aug 11
Your Time Is Gonna Come
Some cool fast track watches images:
These are useful by me!,This blog is about flight watch and Women’s watches.Not’s about Best Small Camera.
The following not about fast track watches,But funnyA burden of one’s choice is not felt.Success is a relative term. It brings so many relatives. “Your future depends on your dreams.” So go to sleep. One meets its destiny on the road he takes to avoid it..Content is better than riches.。！！
Wonderful fast track watches:
Your Time Is Gonna Come
Image by Mark Witton
To my constant shame, I don’t rate that highly on the Manometer. No, my Man Points are generally pretty low: I don’t get excited by fast cars or gadgets. I prefer chocolate to salty snacks. If I want to watch a film with cowboy hats, I’ll take Brokeback Mountain over True Grit. I reckon most clothes available in Burton or H&M are generally lacking in delicate fabrics and frilly bits, and, at times, my idea of a perfect evening is sitting down with a book listening to Thomas Newman soundtracks. Yup, the reading on my Man Point Scoreboard is worryingly stark most of the time, to the point where even my own parents have said ‘you know Mark, it’s really all right if you want to tell us something. Thank God, then, for Led Zeppelin, the most manly of all rock bands. Yes yes yes yes yes I know they owe a tremendous amount to The Yardbirds but that’s not the point: the important thing is that anyone who enjoys the beats of Misty Mountain Hop or swung around Gallows Pole has distilled testosterone pumping through their veins. I mean, we all like their quieter moments: Going to California, That’s The Way and the like, but nothing makes you want to put on your tightest spandex and do your best woman-toppling Robert Plant impression like, I don’t know… Immigrant Song, Kashmir, or Bring It On Home. Mmm: watch out, watch out now.
So, yes, Zeppelin are high on my list of good bands, and not the least because they give me some mild form of masculine credibility (although, let’s face it, if you need to wave Houses of the Holy at people to prove you aren’t really a very hairy woman, you’re in trouble anyway). So, imagine my shock when I heard late last year that the Zepper’s are touring without Robert Plant. I mean, what are they thinking? Sure, Black Mountain Side and Moby Dick show that Zeppelin can knock out good tunes without him, but you just know that Plant was simply out making the tea while they were recorded and would be back for vocals on the next track. I can dig the idea of playing without deceased band members if the vast majority of the band is still willing: that’s understandable, but to label yourself as the same band when only half of the original line-up is playing simply ain’t right. They’re missing too much to really be considered whole, and getting someone else in to replace them isn’t a substitute either, dangit.
Alas, I’ve also been operating as a mere shadow of what I should be. Y’see, this little corner of virtual real estate that I call my own has been running under the vague guise of a ‘pterosaur website’ for some time now: people chiefly know it and visit for images and rambly discussion of flying reptiles. Imagine my shame, therefore, for neglecting one of Pterosaurdom’s best known weirdos: the Early Cretaceous Argentinean ctenochasmatoid Pterodaustro. Everyone who’s ever picked up a pterosaur book knows this critter, having almost certainly stopped at whatever illustration was provided in said tome and uttered something like ‘that’s a weird one’. Leaving Pterodaustro off the running list of a pterosaur website is like a venue saying they’re hosting The Velvet Underground without Lou Reed or John Cale: it’s a sham, and one I’ve been getting away with for far too long.
So, in a vague attempt to recover some self-respect: what goes on with this Pterodaustro critter, then? Well, it’s not the world’s biggest pterosaur, growing up to a mere 2.5 m or so across the wings, nor does it bear an overly flamboyant headcrest like some taxa, but, obviously, that’s not what makes Pterodaustro a big deal. Nope: what turns heads for Pterodaustro is that it looks like it flew into a broomhair factory with its mouth open: it’s entire lower jaw is stuffed with incredibly long, bristle-like teeth that are arranged in rows akin to the baleen of modern whales. However, unlike our giant mysticete friends, Pterodaustro’s mandibular feeding apparatus is comprised of hundreds of genuine teeth with enamel, dentine and a pulp cavity, each one being about a third of a millimetre thick. In fact, there are so many teeth lining the lower jaw of Pterodaustro that they don’t have individual sockets: they lie in grooves running along the sides of the jaw. There are shedloads of teeth in the upper jaw, too: but these are small, spatulate things that don’t actually have any rooting in the skull whatsoever but are instead attached by some supportive soft tissue. If this weren’t weird enough, a series of tiny, tiny ossicles – small lumps of bone embedded in the skin – lie above each one of these. Neat.
Now, the function of these teeth really couldn’t be clearer: it’s plain-as-day that Pterodaustro was some sort of filter-feeder, using its teeth to strain small bits of food from the water column – you know, seeds, invertebrates, that kind of thing. What’s not been looked at in detail, at least as far as I know, is how Pterodaustro really did this. Other than their teeth, there are two details of Pterodaustro’s jaws that are worthy of attention: one is that the retroarticular process, the bony extension of the lower jaw that extends behind the jaw joint, is quite robust and curves downwards, away from the cranium. This suggests that their posterior pterygoideus muscles – the big muscles you can see bulging from the side of alligator skulls – were probably quite big in Pterodaustro. A big posterior pterygoideus means that Pterodaustro would’ve generated relatively high bite strengths when it’s mouth was nearly closed: this is a bit weird as pterosaurs seem to generally favour the snappy-actions of jaw adductor musculature over the relatively slow, but more powerful, posterior pterygoideus. On top of this, you have an incredibly long- diagnostically so, in fact – and curved jaw. Curved jaws are brilliant if your intention is to bring the entire jaw together along its length simultaneously: you can try this out yourselves by hinging your hands at the wrists and then clapping them together with straight or curved hands – everyone see how that works? Good. What this might mean then, dear friends, is that Pterodaustro wasn’t simply moving forward through water with it’s jaws agape, trapping foodstuffs like a pterosaurian shearwater (so-called ‘ram filter feeding’): nope, Pterodaustro was probably pumping water through its teeth for its food, with the pumping action provided by that kick-ass posterior pterygoideus and the curvy jaw ensuring that water wasn’t just pushed forwards out of the mouth, but was pushed sideways through the teeth (try the same hand experiments in the bath and you’ll see where I’m coming from). Now, we don’t know enough about Pterodaustro’s anatomy to suggest how filtered food was taken off the teeth and moved into the throat, but I guess it’s possible they had a large tongue that could hold gathered food particles against the upper jaw, where those little-peg-like teeth and ossicles may have helped hold them in place. As in modern geese and swans, the food could’ve been moved backwards along the jaw over successive filter cycles, and then swallowed finally when it reached the throat. Well, possibly.
Now, looking beyond the skull of Pterodaustro, it’s obvious that it was a wading animal – like lots of other ctenochasmatoids, in fact – with big, broad feet that are almost as long as its shin bones. This, presumably, means it was feeding while standing, and hey – check that out – it’s got a long neck like our other favourite potential terrestrial feeding pterosaurs, the the azhdarchids. Is it possible, therefore, that all long-necked pterosaurs liked to feed when grounded? Well, maybe: something to look at in the future, I guess.
What’s more, by golly, Pterodaustro does occur in some abundance. There are, apparently, hundreds of Pterodaustro fossils out there, most of which stem from a site in which they’re so abundant that it’s been named after them: the Loma del Pterodaustro of Argentina. Presumably, if you travelled back to the Lower Cretaceous and wandered down to this ancient freshwater lake, you’d find whole flocks of these guys wading around in the shallows, filter-feeding their little hearts out. Pterodaustro fossils represent a suite of different ages, from embryos right the way up to burly adults, and recent work on this spectrum of differently-aged individuals has shed light on how quickly they grew. Like dinosaurs, Pterodaustro(and presumably other pterosaurs) grew like rocket-fuelled dynamos until they reached approximately two years old – about half their full size – before their growth rates slowed, taking another three-to-four years to gain their full adult size. Unlike some modern reptiles – your crocodiles, turtles and the like – Pterodaustro appears to have had determinate growth (that is, like us, it reached a certain size and then stopped growing altogether), but, like the same modern reptiles, Pterodaustro hit sexual maturity before they finished growing. Sexual maturity seems to coincide with that two year-old benchmark where a switch in bone texture (from fibrolamellar to parallel-fibred, histology fans) suggests that energy is partially redirected from growth to reproduction – hence the slow growth from that point on.
So, Pterodaustro is a pretty durned-interesting pterosaur, then, and one that I definitely should’ve covered a long time ago. However, that’s not all: oh no. If you’re the sort of person who would have a pterosaur as a pet if they weren’t so inconsiderately extinct then you should stick a pole in the ground, grab some ribbons and have an early May Dance of Joy because pterosaurs are, officially, Fossil Animals of Choice for January. Oh yes: a collection of papers has just been published following the proceedings of the 2007 Munich Wellnhofer Pterosaur Meeting and, by jingo, the Interweb is going crazy about it. Chief party venue is Dave Hone’s Archosaur Musings, recently voted one of the top 100 Earth Science Blogs on the ‘Net and home of the volume’s editor, um, Dave Hone (the giveaway’s in the blog title, see). The Musing’s are running a series of blogposts across this week: there’s an introduction to Peter Wellnhofer, the Godfather and Don of modern pterosaur research; an essay by yours truly about a paper in which I, along with my ex-PhD supervisor Dave Martill, describe a particularly strange specimen of Tupuxuara that looks like it flew into a wall and an overview of the Chinese istiodactylids, those pterosaurs with muzzle-like jaw tips. What’s more, Mike Habib has recently guest-posted on the musings with his own take on his paper from the volume about how pterosaurs may have taken off using their forelimbs rather than their hindlimbs. There’s some great coverage of this particular story as MSNBC, featuring opinions from Mike himself, Sankaar Chatterjee, noted expert on animal flight, and some hack they found on the internet. Personally, seeing as Mike’s been telling the world that he can launch a 250 kg azhdarchid into the air without any problem (well, maybe not him personally, but you know what I mean), I’m all in favour of his ideas and am dead-chuffed to have my own work on pterosaur mass estimation sitting side-by-side with Mike’s paper in the same volume. That’s all great stuff, then, and should give you plenty to do look at sneakily in your office when your bosses’ back is turned.
Oh yes, one more thing for those who’re still here: this is going to be quick because this mess is already w-a-y over 2,000 words. in fact, I’ll do in my best, unpunctuated telegram style of English to save time and words:
[START] picture above is Pterodaustro [STOP] note the size of the feet in the flying critter to the left – I told you it was a wader [STOP] avoided pink colour because the flamingo analogy has been done to death [STOP] once had considerably more acid coloured skies but was toned down because it looked too much like the trippy scene at the end of Easy Rider [STOP] i mean, it was cool but too funky to be realistic [STOP] like too much James Brown [STOP] might have messed up the blurring on some animals [STOP] but never mind [STOP] you may not have noticed if i had not brought it up [STOP] own worst enemy [STOP] anyway i need to get on with something else now so will stop typing [STOP] no really my back is hurting from hunching over this keyboard [STOP] am going now [STOP] bye bye [STOP] [END]
About fast track watches,This blog is about authentic flight watches and best sports watch.Not’s about Best Small Camera.
Beautiful:
Image by wakingphotolife:
There are two overlapping tan lines on my wrist. The vacant space where I wear my watch sits is pale white. Between this and the rest of my arm, there is a small buffer that is neither tan or white. It is peeling at the edges, small slivers that glows like a halos under the fluorescent bathroom light.
Five miles after work everyday, five days a week. My mind is a void when I am running; no thoughts run through me. Blood pumps furiously into my legs, arms, heart and lungs, every part of me in equal measure nothing spared.
But the view today is different. My stomach has sunk into an unnatural concave. I move my fingers over the ridge-lines of my chest and can count out each protrusion. Emily said all the baby fat is gone now and soon there will be nothing left for her to hold. I am only noticing these things now. I walk up to the mirror and put the shaving razor back inside and think about what else will disappear.
I close the medicine cabinet and run the water.
It is cool when I step into it. I’ve kept the ceiling vent off so that I don’t wake Emily up. Even while unconscious she reacts to every disturbance. Say, the change in pressure when one partner leaves the bed in the middle of the night.
Without the droning of the fan, I can almost hear almost every drop from the shower head against my body.
I glide the bar of soap over my limbs and body as the other hand trails behind it. I like the smell of soap because it makes me feel brand new again–walking down a pristine store aisle by yourself; the glow of a brand new lamps; the coolness of a stethoscope in the winter.
I look at my arms again. The burnt ashy shade reminds me that it is August already and I have not been counting at all.
August is the tail end of the travel season. Everything is quiet in the office. The bulk of the bookings come in late May and June and in those months, the work is non-stop. But not August. People anchor themselves at home and wait out the season.
What it must be like to be in Thailand, Hong Kong, Vietnam, in August. I don’t like the idea. When I interviewed for this job, I told them that my strength was in research.
My desk is perpendicular to the main window. It looks out to the parking lot and street. Beginning at eight, the sunlight carves a niche from the carpet, up the side of my desk, across my phone, and by two, hangs over everything like a heat lamp. There is no escaping it.
My boss insists on keeping the blinds up. “We have to keep the views from outside coming in,” he says. When he sees them down, they are pulled back up with a loud clatter. Then he glares at all of us in the office.
I prefer to be in the back, by the hum and whirl of the printers but I don’t complain. I like it here in this office. It’s close to home, a few miles away, and the people who come in are pleasant enough.
(*talk about customers maybe*)
In the trunk of my car, I keep a gym bag with a change of clothes: a pair of running shorts, track shoes, socks, and some faded t-shirts. Today, it is a black one with the words “Santa Cruz” written across the front in bold red slanting letters.
After locking the door to the office and turning the computers and lights off, I change in the backroom where clients have their passport photos taken. As I undo my tie, I think of how strange the image in the mirror was this morning. It was someone else.
I press down on my temples. I am not feeling like myself today.
I’ve missed the timing for the crosswalk today, a rare occurrence, and I jog in place while waiting for the signal to change. My boss waves to me from his car as it pulls out of the parking lot and I wave back.
“Going for a fun?”
“Yup!”
“That’s great. You’re de-stressing. Well, see you tomorrow.”
“Sure!”
The park across the street from my office is wide and flat. It is blanketed by trees on all sides with long stretches of grass that are well maintained. At the western end is a small amusement park, composited with a house shaped like a boot, fairy castles, and lady bug rides. Across the street from this is the city zoo.
I keep away from the western end and cut through the middle while completing my laps. My feet feel light on the grass. I can run faster, longer, without any pain. Running on grass, when I close my eyes and listen, it sounds the same as summer sprinklers, a quiet swish-swish as my feet swing back and forth.
I am washing last night’s dishes when Emily comes home from work. I hear the front door open and her footsteps traveling up the stairs.
The air shifts from the smell of dishwasher soap to honey suckle when she is in the kitchen with me. The ends of her damp hair prick the skin on my neck as she slips her arms around my waist and presses herself against me.
“What do you want to eat tonight?” I say.
“Whatever you want to make me,” she says.
Yesterday, I told her I’d make dinner but after my run, I’m not in the mood to cook. I am not feeling like myself. Compiling the list of ingredients, a dull throb forms at the back of my head. I push it down.
Not feeling like myself.
In my last semester in college, I had disappeared for two weeks. Disappeared was the word they used. I didn’t tell anyone. Not my housemates, not my family. My parents called the police and a search party was sent out. They found me in a tent by Lake Muir in Yosemite Park. I had drove there.
I didn’t understand what the big deal was. My mom would later tell me that I didn’t say a single word in the entire week after they brought me home.
The third time I disappeared, Emily and I had already married. She had left work and I had not started at the office yet. I drove along the delta, following the river to San Francisco, and finally at the peninsula by Stinson Beach. I was gone for no more than a week.
Emily and I talked about it and she got help for us.
“You’ll be fine,” she said after the first round of prescriptions.
Her mother was more skeptical. She said, “Sean, I know someone who can help if you need it?” Which I responded, “What are you talking about? I’m perfectly fine.”
We were in Santa Barbara with her family for the 4th of July. They were flying to Brazil after the weekend and Emily and I were house sitting for them. She thought we could use the time alone to sort things out, now that I was better now. When I asked her why we had to come to Santa Barbara for that, she said, “So that we can finally do nothing.”
After the fireworks, I had wandered down to the water where Emily’s father was playing fetch with Bobby, their golden retriever. Emily’s father rarely talked when we were there.
He spent most of the weekend on the balcony, underneath the canopy umbrella with his books and magazines. At night, he went down to the beach and walked Bobby up and down the shore until the tides caused the coastline to recede.
I felt that he and I were similar in some respects. Though he was much more aware of himself. He seemed to be know what the big deal was. Whatever he found, he was resigned to it, giving him an indifferent but wise quality. There was a directness in the way he talked that I respected.
He stood, facing the water, with his back turned to me as I approached. As if making a note to himself, he said ,“Well, happens to everyone.” I took a sip from my gin and tonic and didn’t respond. I didn’t think he needed one.
Bobby trotted back from the tides. The dog, wet and shaking, dropped the ball in front of us where it oscillated for a few seconds, like on a pendulum, before coming to a still.
“Why don’t you try it?” Emily’s father said.
I picked it up, shifted my weight forward, and heaved it far into the water, over the incoming waves. Bobby chased after it without hesitation.
“Let’s finish the oranges,” Emily says.
Sill attached to me, we shuffle over to the refrigerator.
She laughs.
“What is it?”
“We’re like a pair of penguins.”
I peel her hand away from my stomach and kiss the back of it. Her skin is warm but solid.
I pick an orange and start slicing it into quarters on the cutting board. Juices drip down from the knife edge as I move it. It is a ripe one, picked from one of her friend’s yards down the street.
Emily watches my hands as I slice the fruit.
“What happened to your wrist?” she says.
I don’t hear her the first time. I am focused on seeing how close I bring the knife to the face of my knuckles without slicing them open She asks a second time, louder, and I pause. I came very close.
“You mean this?”
I let go of the knife and hold my hand up for her to see.
“You look like you’re a wearing a wrist band.”
“It’s from my watch. It looks funny, doesn’t it? You know me.”
“You know me.” I say this often. I’ve concluded some time ago that if I said this enough times, out-loud, people would feel they really do. Then I wouldn’t have to answer questions about “How are things?” from people—the neighbor down the street, my parents, Emily’s mother, Emily.
“What things?” I want to say. But no one is as interested in answering this as they are in knowing what they want to know. Or think they do.
I was standing in the kitchen when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sean! Happy Birthday man. How are things?”
“Things are okay,” I said and smiled, “Come on Tom. You know me.”
“It’s Mark. Not Tom. Getting old aren’t we?”
Mark smiled.
“Excuse me,” I said. I took the tray of hor d’oeuvres out the living room and kept my smile on.
After small encounters like this, I have the urge to go running. But I stayed. It was Emily who went through the effort to throw this birthday party for me.
Emily kisses me on the cheek and lets go.
“Let’s go out for dinner tonight instead,” I say, “I’m too tired and can’t think right now.”
We make love when we come back from the restaurant. I do it like how I use to.
“What happened to you tonight honey?”
“I love you,” I say.
The words come out fine this time and I feel alright about it, I can tell from the way she runs her hand through my hair and pushes me back down.
I close my eyes and see a milky blackness stretching out on all sides. I am drifting through it, on my back, the same weightlessness as when you’re floating alone in the middle of a lake. Shards of light wash over your eyes every time you sink just below the surface and come back up.
It’s Saturday. Emily and I are clearing out the garage. Cobwebs are in all the corners. There are stacks of magazines that we no longer subscribe to, a tripod with only two legs, half-empty cans of house paint, a broken vacuum cleaner, a record player with a missing needle but all the records. We are surprised by all the clutter we’ve kept.
I am feeling better after last night. My head is light. Looking in the bathroom mirror this morning, I am myself again. Yes, these are my eyes. The dark birth mark that stretches across the left of my chest, like a streak of ash, this is also mine. I cam clearing things out.
For breakfast, we had left-overs and talked about going for a bike ride in the afternoon.
“It’s been so long since we last did something on a weekend,” she said.
“Has it?” I said.
The two Schwinn’s are leaning against the far wall. Hers is the cream colored one with the a thin frame. I have the maroon one with the gold lettering. We take them into the backyard and wipe them down.
Besides the odd dents and scattered rust patterns, the bikes look good. We walk them out through the side gate and onto the driveway. I watch Emily throw her leg over the frame and coast down to the street. She is riding in a figure eight pattern that weaves from our home to the neighbors.
“How’s it feel?” I say.
“It feels good,” she says while patting the handle bar of her bike. “Poor things, how we could ever let you rot away like that.”
“I’ll lock the gate and leave from the front door,” I say.
I pick my watch up from the kitchen counter on my way through the house. I can never go anywhere without a watch. I am naked without them.
Emily breaks off from her figure eight when she sees me come down the driveway. I follow her down the street, the hem of her summer dress flowing past her legs.
Tall elm trees line the sidewalks of our neighborhood. We ride underneath their shade, which stretch past the cars parked on the street. The wind is in my face, blows past my ears and cools my shoulders underneath the t-shirt. We’re riding at a good pace. Not too slow. Not too fast. I am just behind her. Her long black hair swirls towards me, shifting from black to brown each time we break out from the canopy.
Focusing on the hallow between her shoulder blades, houses and cars slip past, bending and expanding as if on the fringe of a gravity well. For a few minutes, I am not aware of anything besides a gradual sleepiness growing. I want to put my head down somewhere.
The pedals stall and I can feel the vibrations from the rear of the bike. I pedal some more but everything has gone slack. I put my heels down and squeeze the brakes. The chain has fallen off the sprocket.
Emily keeps on. She doesn’t know that I’ve stopped. And I don’t call out to her. And instead, watch her figure grow smaller until it stops at the light.
I set the bike on the sidewalk. The chain is jammed in the frame. With a knee on the ground, I grip the greasy metal links and pull. The metal is cool as it scraps against my palms, depositing dark grease between my fingers. It comes free. I’ve forgotten how this works. What do I do next?
Emily’s shadow falls over me. “Let me try,” she says.
Wonderful fast track watches:
Compete’s FriendFeed vs Twitter numbers, July 2008
Image by Thomas Hawk
For the past few months I’ve been informally watching how the popular microblogging site Twitter has been tracking vs. FriendFeed on Compete.com. In many ways FriendFeed has been the most natural beneficiary from an ongoing plague of downtime problems that Twitter has been struggling with over the course of the past few months. During these downtime problems FriendFeed’s growth has been dramatically eclipsing Twitter’s.
Today Compete.com released their July monthly numbers and it would appear that at least last month Twitter has regained much of their growth that they lost in May and June. For the month of July, Compete.com is reporting that Twitter grew at a monthly rate of 21.9% vs. FriendFeed’s growth of 26.7%. This compares with June growth numbers of 5.4% for Twitter and 33.7% for FriendFeed.
While I still think that we will see FriendFeed track with more users than Twitter within the next year, it would appear that as Twitter has regained much of their site stability that this might not be as easy as first thought.
Of course Twitter and FriendFeed are still two very different sites and very different animals — albeit two of the fastest growing social network sites on the web today. Personally most of my microblogging activity has moved from Twitter to FriendFeed for a few key reasons.
1. Photography is very important to me and FriendFeed represents visually better than Twitter does. As a text only platform Twitter misses much of the richness that photographs can provide. Although FriendFeed needs to better incorporate blog post imagery with blog RSS feeds, by allowing users to share images direclty as well as incorporating Flickr, Zooomr, SmugMug and Picasa imagery into the mix I think FriendFeed is a more visually stimulating site.
2. The conversations happen at FriendFeed in ways that they do not at Twitter. Because FriendFeed groups conversations as single items, conversations are easier to follow and monitor at FriendFeed.
3. The hide functionality on FriendFeed allows users much greater control over the "noise" that is frequently generated from a microblogging platform.
4. FriendFeed’s "best of" section consistently provides interesting content.
You can find me on Twitter here and on FriendFeed here.
Some cool fast track watches images:
Hi,I did the following:,This blog is about couple watch and fob watch.Not’s about blog technique.
The following not about fast track watches,But funnyA bad beginning makes a bad ending.A friend is never known till a man has need.Books and friends should be few but good. Quit don’t quit. Noodles don’t noodles..the world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover.it becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal.。！！
Wonderful fast track watches:
Seafair Hydroplanes
Image by anaxila
Having now watched a half dozen heats of hydroplane races, I still couldn’t tell you anything about them other than they are very fast and very splashy.
There are apparently lanes to the track, but darned if I could figure out how they were marked. The races also seemed to stop and start at random intervals; they didn’t start from a dead stop, but I couldn’t tell you when they were racing vs. just cruising around in a circle. And I couldn’t tell who was winning except for the rare instances, like the one shown here, where two boats are more or less side-by-side.
Still – very fast and very splashy! That’s a crowdpleaser. Whee!
Seattle, Washington. August 2007.
These are useful by me!,This blog is about authentic flight watches and fob watch.Not’s about blog technique.
The following not about fast track watches,But funnyA bad workman always blames his toolsSuccess is a relative term. It brings so many relatives. By reading we enrich the mind, by conversation we polish it. Come what may, heaven won’t fall..Don’t claim to know what you don’t know.。！！
Wonderful fast track watches:
Autotrain Epilogue Part 1
Image by ernestkoe
We were hurtling down the CSX tracks through North Carolina at about sixty miles and hour as the sun went down over the horizon.
The night turned electric orange, and as we watched ghost towns melt away in the glow of the night, I clicked away on the camera, hoping to catch the final frames of our journey home.
Technically Notes
It was all I could do to keep the shutter speed fast enough to get this shot with nearly no light. Did I say how much I love my Nikon 35mm f/1.8G AF-S DX?
This is pretty much SOOC though I did apply a touch of the Ken Rockwell effect by punching up the contrast saturation and vibrancy just a hair.
About fast track watches,This blog is about flight watch buying guide and fob watch.Not’s about Computer Technology.
The following not about fast track watches,But funnyFriendship is like earthenware: once broken, it can be mended; love is like a mirror: once broken, that ends it. (Josh Billings. American humorist) A friend is easier lost than found.God made relatives; Thank God we can choose our friends. There are no accidents..Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.。！！
Beautiful:
300 kph
Image by sharkbait
On the Eurostar on the fast section going through Kent.
A while ago, I happened to be on one of the first trains that went at full speed on the Kent high-speed section. First I noticed that the route we were taking out of London was a bit different. Then I realised we were on new track that looked more French than British. Then I realised we had picked up a fair old lick of speed. Finally there was an announcement over the tannoy, we are doing 183 mph, so proud, so sweet. They don’t announce it any more. They used to announce the speed in the French high speed sections, but eventualy stopped that too.
That day was a Saturday, there is a long section of track cut into embankments, with many little bridges. Each bridge was full of men and boys watching this exciting spectacle hurtle past.
It was always hilarious coming back from Paris on the Eurostar, you’d be rushing through France at 300kph, slamming the brakes on throught the tunnel, and then bumble through Kent at more like 30kph. K-ting, k-ting ………. k-ting, k-ting ……….. it felt like you’d just turned up in some 3rd world country.
