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Welcome to Earth — Chapter Two: The Chassis

By Milad Ghobadibeygvand, BScN (Western University, 2014) · Published August 1, 2026 · Zeus eBikes Canada

An empty clinic consulting room at dusk, two chairs facing each other, one shaft of light across the floor, beneath the title Welcome to Earth Chapter Two: The Chassis
Welcome to Earth — Chapter Two. A doctor asked a woman a routine question about her weight. Her answer changed what medicine understood about the body.

What this is: Chapter Two of Welcome to Earth: A Field Guide to the Human Animal — a book written from the vantage of an alien observer who has just landed and knows nothing about people. We publish it one chapter at a time, free, on The Bookshelf. This chapter's single claim: the body is not where the human lives — it is what the human is. Experience does not get stored in the mind like a document. It is written into physiology, and it keeps running there for decades. Nothing here is for sale; this is public-interest writing.

How this chapter was sourced. Every study named here was verified against the primary publication, not a secondary summary — including the exact odds ratios from the 1998 ACE paper, the publication year and later terminology of polyvagal theory, and the original 1975 conditioning experiment. Where the popular version of a finding is stronger than the evidence, this chapter says so and gives the real number. Where researchers genuinely disagree — as they do about the hippocampus — both sides are shown. Key sources are linked inline and listed at the end.


The Question the Doctor Asked Wrong

In the mid-1980s, a physician at Kaiser Permanente in San Diego ran an obesity programme that worked. Patients were losing weight — substantial, medically supervised, measurable weight. And then Vincent Felitti noticed something he could not explain: the patients dropping out at the highest rate were not the ones who were failing. They were the ones who were succeeding.

He began interviewing them. In one of those interviews — he has described it many times since, always with the quality of someone still slightly stunned — he was taking a weight history. He asked a woman how old she was when she first became obese. She either misheard the question or he misphrased it, and she answered with the age she had been when her grandfather first sexually abused her. She was eleven. She had gained over a hundred pounds in the year that followed.

He asked why she thought the two were connected.

She said: I had to make myself invisible. I had to make myself something they would not want.

Felitti kept interviewing, and he found it again. And again. Different details, same structure: patients for whom the weight was not a metabolic failure or a disorder of appetite. The weight was a solution. Being large had made them safer — less visible, less wanted by people who had once wanted them in ways that were not survivable. The threat that required the solution was, in most of these cases, decades gone. The solution was still running.

Hold onto this: the patients were not failing at weight loss. They were succeeding at something else, something older, that no one had asked them about — and that neither they nor their doctors had recognised as a strategy at all.


What the Body Actually Is

Here is the claim this chapter has to establish before anything else, because everything after it depends on the claim being taken literally rather than poetically.

The body is not where the human lives. The body is what the human is.

What happened to that girl at eleven did not produce a psychological wound that was then filed somewhere in the mind like a document in a cabinet. It altered the body. Its chronic state of alertness. Its baseline physiology. Its working answer to the question of who in the world can be approached safely. That alteration was so thorough and so integrated into the organism's ongoing function that twenty years later, in a clinic in California, the body was still maintaining it — still solving the right problem with the tools it had been handed. The problem was no longer current. The body did not know that, and could not know it in the way the conscious mind knows things, because the modification had not been made at the level of the conscious mind.

"The body remembers" is true and too vague to be useful. What follows is the mechanism, part by part, because knowing the mechanism changes what can be done about it.


Three States, Five Hundred Million Years Apart

In October 1994, Stephen Porges delivered a presidential address to the Society for Psychophysiological Research that was published the following year in Psychophysiology under the title "Orienting in a defensive world." It proposed what is now called polyvagal theory.

The vagus nerve — the tenth cranial nerve, from the Latin for wandering — runs from the brainstem through the body, touching heart, lungs, gut, larynx, middle ear and the muscles of the face. Porges's argument was that it is not one system but two, anatomically distinct and separated by a vast span of evolutionary time. The dorsal branch is unmyelinated, conducts slowly, and is shared with the most ancient vertebrates. The ventral branch is myelinated, conducts quickly, and is a mammalian development. These branches do not produce different intensities of the same state. They produce different physiological worlds.

Add the sympathetic nervous system — mobilisation, fight or flight — and you have three layers arranged oldest to newest: dorsal vagal shutdown, sympathetic mobilisation, ventral vagal social engagement. The order matters, because it is a hierarchy of last resort. Under threat the body works down through them, newest first.

Watch what happens on the way down, because it happens through direct anatomy rather than metaphor.

Extreme close-up of a human throat and lower jaw in raking side light, the skin over the larynx sharply textured

The throat is where the state becomes audible. When the social engagement system withdraws, the voice flattens before the person notices anything has changed.

The ventral vagus innervates the larynx. When the system is fully engaged, that innervation helps produce melodic, prosodically varied speech — a voice with warmth in it, which is also a voice that signals safety to whoever is listening. As the system withdraws toward sympathetic activation, the voice flattens. The melody goes out. Speech clips and shortens. Further toward shutdown, it slows and drops. Nobody decided to speak differently. The body already did it.

Porges also argued that the same system tunes the middle ear — the tiny muscles that determine which frequencies the ear privileges. Engaged, they orient toward the frequency band of the human voice. Under threat, they reorient toward lower frequencies, the range that across evolutionary history announced something large approaching. The implication is strange and worth sitting with: a person in a state of significant threat response is, in a real sense, less able to hear the human voice clearly. Not because they are refusing to listen. Because the equipment has been retuned for a different kind of listening.

If engagement cannot resolve the threat, the sympathetic system mobilises fully — heart rate up, blood to the large muscles, digestion suspended. And if mobilising is impossible, if there is nowhere to run and fighting would be fatal, the oldest system takes over. Heart rate drops. Movement stops. Consciousness narrows. The organism tries to survive by becoming inert.

Nine years later, Porges gave the trigger a name. In a 2004 paper he coined neuroception — deliberately distinguished from perception, because perception involves consciousness and this does not. The nervous system reads the environment continuously: the tone of a voice, the micro-movements of a face, the acoustics of a room, the breathing rhythm of the person across the table — and adjusts before the conscious mind is informed. You walk into a room and something is wrong before you can say what. The knowing arrives after the shift has already started.

An honest note about polyvagal theory. It is enormously influential in trauma therapy and it organises clinical observation better than anything that preceded it. It is also genuinely contested: some comparative physiologists dispute parts of Porges's evolutionary account of the two vagal branches. We use it here as the best available map of three states most people can recognise in themselves — not as settled anatomy.

The girl who was eleven in that house ran neuroception in an environment where threat was real and unpredictable, and it learned what preceded harm. A certain quality of silence. A particular hour. A specific footfall in the hallway. That learning happened below language, below explicit memory, below anything a child could have reported or chosen. When she became the woman in Felitti's clinic, the same calibrations were still running, still finding versions of those signals in the texture of an ordinary day.

The body was not malfunctioning. It was executing, with extraordinary fidelity, the programme it had been given.


The Study That Was Too Clean to Believe

Felitti brought what he was seeing to Robert Anda, an epidemiologist at the Centers for Disease Control. Together they turned a clinical hunch into one of the largest investigations of its kind. The first paper appeared in 1998 in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine.

Precision matters here, because this study is quoted loosely more often than almost any other in modern medicine. The 1998 paper mailed questionnaires to 13,494 adult members of a California HMO who had completed a standardised medical evaluation; 9,508 responded, a 70.5% response rate. (The full ACE cohort, across both waves of data collection, eventually exceeded 17,000 participants — a figure often mistakenly attached to the original paper.) It measured seven categories of childhood adversity — psychological, physical and sexual abuse; violence against the mother; and living with a household member who was a substance abuser, mentally ill or suicidal, or imprisoned. The familiar ten-item version, which added physical and emotional neglect and parental separation, came later.

More than half of respondents — 52.1% — reported at least one category. 6.2% reported four or more.

Then the results came back, and they were so orderly that Felitti has said he worried he had made an error.

What the study found was a dose-response relationship: as childhood exposure increased, adult disease increased, incrementally and directionally, across essentially every category measured. In pharmacology, a dose-response curve is the shape that distinguishes causation from mere correlation. Here are the actual adjusted odds ratios for people reporting four or more categories, compared with those reporting none:

Adult outcome Adjusted odds ratio (4+ ACEs vs. none) 95% confidence interval
Attempted suicide 12.2
Ischemic heart disease 2.2 1.3–3.7
Any cancer 1.9 1.3–2.7
Range across all measured risks 1.3 (physical inactivity) to 12.2 (suicide attempt)

Source: Felitti, Anda, Nordenberg et al., American Journal of Preventive Medicine 14(4):245–258 (1998), Table 4. Figures taken from the paper itself.

Note what that table does and does not say. The suicide figure is staggering — a twelve-fold difference. The heart disease figure is a doubling. The cancer figure is not a tripling, though it is frequently reported as one; it is 1.9, and its confidence interval starts at 1.3. This chapter would rather give you the real number than the impressive one, because the real number is still one of the most consequential findings in modern medicine — and because a claim that survives checking is worth more than a claim that doesn't.

The finding in one line: what happens to a child does not merely influence the adult's choices. It shows up in the adult's arteries, immune surveillance and mortality — in a graded curve, dose by dose.


The Mechanism: How a Year Becomes a Lifetime

The pathway runs through the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis, the body's central stress-response circuit.

When the amygdala flags danger — below consciousness, faster than any deliberate process — the hypothalamus releases corticotropin-releasing hormone. That travels to the pituitary, which releases adrenocorticotropic hormone, which travels through the bloodstream to the adrenal glands, which release cortisol.

In the short term, cortisol is exquisitely well designed. It mobilises glucose for immediate muscular use. It temporarily suppresses immune activity — a sensible trade when this minute matters more than next week's infection. It sharpens attention. The system was built for acute threats that resolve.

The girl in that house did not face an acute threat that resolved. She faced a sustained, unpredictable one. And when cortisol runs elevated for years rather than minutes, the same system that saved her begins to cost her.

The hippocampus carries an unusually dense population of cortisol receptors. Under normal conditions this lets it sense when cortisol is sufficient and signal the hypothalamus to stop — it is the braking mechanism on the whole stress response. Under chronic elevation, hippocampal neurons retract their dendritic branches, and hippocampal volume measurably declines. As it does, the brake degrades. More cortisol is produced. The chronic stress response tends toward self-amplification: the body gets better at running the alarm.

Meanwhile chronic cortisol reshapes immune function — reducing natural killer cell activity and impairing T-cell response, while systemic inflammatory markers rise. The organism becomes simultaneously less able to fight pathogens and more chronically inflamed than it should be. That is where the ACE study's cardiovascular and cancer numbers live: not only in the adult behaviours chronic stress can produce, but in the body itself — in decades of HPA dysregulation that began in a house when she was eleven and has been running quietly in her arteries and immune cells ever since.

When Felitti asked why she thought the weight and the abuse were connected, she said: I had to make myself invisible.

The HPA axis was running the same logic in a different currency. The body was still trying to make her harder to harm.


Where the Evidence Argues With Itself

A book that only tells you the tidy version is selling something. So here is the place where this chapter's own mechanism is contested.

The account above implies a clean causal arrow: chronic stress shrinks the hippocampus. Animal work supports it, and Robert Sapolsky's review of glucocorticoids and hippocampal atrophy lays out the case. But in 2002, Mark Gilbertson and colleagues published a study in Nature Neuroscience that complicates it beautifully. They studied identical twin pairs in which one brother had gone to combat in Vietnam and the other had not. Veterans with severe PTSD had smaller hippocampi — as expected. But so did their identical twins, who had never seen combat.

Which means a smaller hippocampus can be a pre-existing vulnerability to trauma, not merely a scar left by it.

The honest position, three decades into this literature, is that both directions appear real: stress can damage the structure, and the structure's starting size can shape how badly stress lands. Anyone who tells you it is settled in one direction is telling you a story rather than the state of the evidence. The chapter's larger claim survives either way — experience and physiology are the same conversation — but the reader deserves to know where the ground is still moving.


Three Traditions That Mapped It First

Around two thousand years before Felitti asked his question wrong, physicians whose work was compiled into the Huangdi Neijing — the foundational text of Chinese medicine, assembled across the late Warring States period into the Han dynasty — had already documented relationships between psychological states and organ function precisely enough to build a clinical system on. The claim here is not that ancient cultures had charming intuitions about wellness. It is that a tradition of sustained observation across centuries recorded relationships that biomedicine would rediscover by other means.

The entry point hardest to dismiss as coincidence is the Earth element. Earth corresponds to spleen and stomach; its emotion is worry — the circular, ruminative thinking that goes around without resolving. The clinical observation, refined over centuries: sustained worry disrupts digestion, and disrupted digestion sustains worry. Bidirectionally.

In Western terms, that is the enteric nervous system: a neural network embedded in the wall of the gastrointestinal tract, carrying somewhere between 100 and 600 million neurons depending on how they are counted — comparable to the spinal cord. It communicates with the brain continuously in both directions via the vagus nerve, and it goes on functioning even if that connection is cut.

Here a widely repeated fact needs its missing half. Roughly 90 to 95 percent of the body's serotonin is indeed produced in the gut rather than the brain. That statistic is usually deployed to suggest the gut is where your mood is manufactured — and that is not what it means. Peripheral serotonin does not cross the blood-brain barrier; gut serotonin is not the same working pool as brain serotonin. The gut genuinely does shape mood, but largely through vagal signalling and immune and microbial pathways, not by shipping serotonin upstairs. The relationship is real. The popular mechanism for it is wrong.

The other elements radiate outward with similar specificity. Wood — liver and gallbladder, the emotion of stagnant anger — sits alongside a Western literature on hostility and cardiovascular inflammation. Metal — lungs and large intestine, grief that will not release — describes the physiology of blocked grief exactly: the constricted chest, the catch in the throat, the shallow breathing that is the first thing to change when the body refuses a discharge. Water — kidneys and bladder, sustained fear, the body's deep reserves — and the adrenal glands sit directly atop the kidneys, which is where this chapter's cortisol comes from. Different vocabulary. Same territory.

The Ayurvedic tradition, developed across the Indian subcontinent over a comparable span, starts from a different question. The Western physician asks what is wrong with this person. The Ayurvedic practitioner asks what this person's nature is, and where they have drifted from it. The three doshas describe characteristic constitutions and their characteristic failures. Vata in chronic excess reads as sympathetic dominance: anxiety without an object, racing thought, insomnia, inability to settle — and the remedy prescribed is warmth, routine, grounding, less stimulation. Pitta in excess reads as inflammatory burden: heat, intensity tipping into anger, inflammatory conditions of skin and gut. Kapha in deficiency reads as shutdown: heaviness, withdrawal, the specific gravity of depression.

Porges described three physiological states. Ayurveda described three characteristic modes of dysregulation. They are recognisably the same three. A practitioner in the second century BCE and a psychophysiologist in 1994 were describing the same body and arriving at a similar topology of its failures.

The Buddhist tradition came at the body from a third direction. Vipassanā proceeds through physical sensation rather than thought about sensation: breath moving in the chest, pressure of sitting, the arising and passing of heat and tension. It identified a layer beneath emotion — vedanā, the raw feeling-tone of pleasant, unpleasant or neutral that accompanies each arising sensation before it becomes anything more constructed. And what the tradition concluded, after a very long time looking, is that most suffering arises not from vedanā itself but from the automatic reaction to it: grasping at the pleasant, pushing away the unpleasant, going numb at the neutral — all of it happening before any conscious deliberation.

That is remarkably close to what modern affective science describes as the construction of emotion from a raw body state, observed from the inside. The practitioner is training to catch the transition — the body state before it becomes the story about the body state.

Richard Davidson's laboratory has imaged long-term meditators, and in related work Antoine Lutz and colleagues found amygdala activation to negative emotional sounds negatively correlated with lifetime practice hours in adepts with 10,000 to 54,000 hours behind them — with evidence that the effect carries over into ordinary, non-meditative states. The initial response still occurs. What changes is what happens next: how quickly an activated system returns to baseline, and how little it elaborates.

Twenty-five centuries of practice produced the method. The last two decades produced a partial account of why it works.


The Rats That Learned to Be Sick

In the early 1970s, Robert Ader at the University of Rochester was studying conditioned taste aversion — pairing saccharin water with cyclophosphamide, a drug that causes gastrointestinal upset and also happens to suppress the immune system. The rats learned to avoid the saccharin, exactly as expected. To complete the protocol, the researchers force-fed the solution by eye dropper.

Then some of the rats died, and nobody had predicted it.

Ader's hypothesis was that alongside the taste aversion, they had conditioned the drug's immunosuppressive effect — that the taste of sweet water alone had learned to suppress immunity. With immunologist Nicholas Cohen he tested it, and in 1975 they published the result: conditioned animals re-exposed to saccharin showed significantly suppressed antibody response, with no drug present at all. The immune system had learned.

The implication overturned an assumption a century old. The immune system is not a sealed defensive architecture running its own protocols. It is in continuous conversation with the nervous system — and so it is, in a precise molecular sense, informed about the emotional state of the body it inhabits. When a human is chronically frightened, the immune system is not unaware of it.

The Chinese physician, the Ayurvedic practitioner, the Buddhist teacher and Ader's dying rats had all arrived at the same place. The body does not separate experience from biology. The body is biology experiencing.


Why You Cannot Think Your Way Out

What follows from all of this runs against one of the human's most cherished beliefs about itself.

The human cannot reliably think its way out of a body-level response.

Not because thinking is weak. Because the response runs on systems that precede deliberate thought by an enormous evolutionary margin. Neuroception is not revised by a conclusion. The HPA axis cannot be argued down. The woman in that clinic understood perfectly well that the threat was decades past. Her understanding was not the currency the system was denominated in.

Two people sit side by side on a bench seen from behind in golden late-afternoon light, not touching, not speaking

No words are being exchanged here. Something is still happening — and it is the most reliable intervention this chapter can name.

What does change a body-level state is another body-level experience. A voice the auditory system reads as safe. A face neuroception reads as open. The presence of a nervous system that is calmer than yours. This is co-regulation, and it is not a therapeutic technique — it is the ordinary mechanism by which mammalian nervous systems manage their state. The human was not built to self-regulate. It was built to co-regulate. The individual nervous system is not the fundamental unit of design. The pair is.

Which reframes the woman in Felitti's clinic entirely. She was not failing at weight loss. She was succeeding at survival, with a strategy installed at eleven and never given sufficient reason to revise. The body does not misremember and does not confuse past with present. It simply keeps solving the problem it was handed, because no new information has yet reached the level at which the solution was written.

That is the chassis. Not the vehicle, not the container — the prior condition in which everything the human thinks, feels, chooses and does is already, always, occurring.


Field Log: Day 58

Day 58. We have now observed 847 individual humans across 23 sites.

Today we watched a human in a state of significant physiological arousal — elevated respiration, reduced variation in vocal pitch, the particular facial management that accompanies a system running threat response — enter a room where another human sat quietly. Nothing was said. No information was exchanged. Within approximately four minutes the first human's respiration had slowed. The melody had returned to the voice.

We have documented co-regulation in social species before. What we had not registered until today is the scale of the effect in this one, and how little is required to produce it. No words. No deliberate act. Mere proximity to a regulated nervous system was sufficient to begin pulling a dysregulated one toward it.

We are revising an assumption we did not know we held.

We had assumed — always, without examining it — that a nervous system is a property of an individual organism. We now think this was an error at the level of category. The nervous system of this species is not built to run standalone. It requires another nervous system to regulate against. Remove the other one and the individual system does not become independent. It deteriorates.

The relevant unit of analysis is not the individual. It is the pair, at minimum. Probably the group.

We are filing an urgent request for additional observation time. Our instruments were built to measure individuals. We need different instruments.

Chapter Two in one sentence: the human body is not a container carrying a person through the world — it is the person, still running the solutions it was given, and it is reached most reliably not by argument but by the presence of another calm body.


Questions Readers Ask

What is the ACE study and what did it actually find?

The Adverse Childhood Experiences study was run by Vincent Felitti at Kaiser Permanente with Robert Anda at the CDC. The 1998 paper mailed questionnaires to 13,494 adults; 9,508 responded. It measured seven categories of childhood adversity and found a graded, dose-response relationship with adult disease. Compared with people reporting none, those reporting four or more categories had an adjusted odds ratio of 2.2 for ischemic heart disease, 1.9 for any cancer, and 12.2 for attempted suicide.

What is polyvagal theory in simple terms?

Stephen Porges proposed that the autonomic nervous system runs three states arranged by evolutionary age: ventral vagal social engagement (newest, mammalian), sympathetic mobilisation (fight or flight), and dorsal vagal shutdown (oldest). The body moves through them in order, newest first, as threat increases. Porges delivered the theory as a 1994 address, published in Psychophysiology in 1995. Elements of the theory remain debated among comparative physiologists.

What does neuroception mean?

Neuroception is Porges's term, introduced in 2004, for the nervous system's continuous, unconscious scanning of the environment for cues of safety or threat. It is distinguished from perception because it does not involve consciousness: the body begins shifting state before the person can say what is wrong.

Can you think your way out of a trauma response?

Generally no, not by reasoning alone. The response runs on systems that operate below and faster than deliberate thought, so understanding that a past threat is over does not by itself switch off the body's state. What reliably changes a body-level state is another body-level input — including co-regulation, the calming effect one nervous system has on another through voice, face and proximity.

Is it true that 90% of serotonin is made in the gut?

Roughly 90 to 95 percent of the body's serotonin is produced in the gastrointestinal tract, mainly by enterochromaffin cells. An important caveat usually left out: peripheral serotonin does not cross the blood-brain barrier, so gut serotonin is not directly the same pool that governs mood in the brain. The gut-brain relationship runs largely through the vagus nerve and immune signalling instead.

Does chronic stress really shrink the hippocampus?

Prolonged glucocorticoid elevation is associated with dendritic retraction and reduced hippocampal volume in animal and human studies. But the causal direction is genuinely contested: Gilbertson and colleagues' 2002 twin study found that the non-combat-exposed identical twins of veterans with PTSD also had smaller hippocampi, suggesting smaller hippocampal volume can be a pre-existing vulnerability rather than only a consequence of stress. The honest position is that both effects appear to operate.

What is Welcome to Earth and where can I read the other chapters?

Welcome to Earth: A Field Guide to the Human Animal is a book about human psychology written from the vantage of an alien observer. Zeus eBikes is publishing it one chapter at a time, free, on The Bookshelf. Nothing in it is for sale.


Sources

Verified against the primary publications, August 1, 2026.

  1. Felitti VJ, Anda RF, Nordenberg D, Williamson DF, Spitz AM, Edwards V, Koss MP, Marks JS (1998). "Relationship of childhood abuse and household dysfunction to many of the leading causes of death in adults: The Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study." American Journal of Preventive Medicine 14(4):245–258. PubMed. (Sample sizes, seven exposure categories, 6.2% reporting 4+, and all odds ratios taken from the paper and its Table 4.)
  2. Porges SW (1995). "Orienting in a defensive world: mammalian modifications of our evolutionary heritage. A polyvagal theory." Psychophysiology 32(4):301–318 — delivered as a presidential address, October 1994. Wiley.
  3. Porges SW (2004). "Neuroception: A subconscious system for detecting threats and safety." Zero to Three 24(5):19–24. ERIC.
  4. Ader R, Cohen N (1975). "Behaviorally conditioned immunosuppression." Psychosomatic Medicine 37(4):333–340. PubMed.
  5. Gilbertson MW, Shenton ME, Ciszewski A, Kasai K, Lasko NB, Orr SP, Pitman RK (2002). "Smaller hippocampal volume predicts pathologic vulnerability to psychological trauma." Nature Neuroscience 5(11):1242–1247. PubMed.
  6. Sapolsky RM (2000). "Glucocorticoids and hippocampal atrophy in neuropsychiatric disorders." Archives of General Psychiatry 57(10):925–935. PubMed.
  7. Lutz A, Brefczynski-Lewis J, Johnstone T, Davidson RJ (2008). "Regulation of the neural circuitry of emotion by compassion meditation: effects of meditative expertise." PLoS ONE 3(3):e1897. PLOS ONE.
  8. Huangdi Neijing — dating follows the scholarly consensus placing compilation from the late Warring States period into the early Han dynasty (approximately 2nd century BCE), with later Tang-dynasty redaction by Wang Bing.

Chapter Three — "The Face" — publishes next on The Bookshelf. The whole book is free, one chapter at a time. Read the series →

Milad Ghobadibeygvand, BScN (Western University, 2014), is the co-founder of Zeus eBikes Canada and spent seven years in psychiatric nursing — acute psychiatry, corrections, rehabilitation and public health — before building a bike company. Welcome to Earth is his book, published here free, one chapter at a time. Nothing in it is for sale. Corrections and arguments are genuinely welcome: milad@zeusebikes.ca.