Imagine yourself in a multiplex movie theater. Curiously, no walls separate the half-dozen theaters that form the multiplex. Miraculously, you are watching six different screens all at once, thoroughly understanding and enjoying every scene, word, character.
Welcome to ADHD.
[You in the Real World, be sure to click on the red underlined hyperlinks! And know these accounts are true … without exaggeration!]
ADHD-Powered people generally function at superhuman speeds.
Certainly your “six-screen” thought processing does, proudly points out Screen Five.
In so doing, we create enough difficulties for ourselves, well beyond those life already throws in the mix. So why would we ever put our bodies atop two wheels at high speeds when we struggle with four wheels beneath us at low speeds?
Reminds me of Rhonda, comments One, your bookworm buddy who reads each morning during her long commute on Washington State freeways. Which is nice, except she also is driving. During the last page-turning trip, she rolled her car three times.
I swing by my carpooling co-worker’s home to give him a lift. Scott is surprised at my choice of vehicles.
“You know it’s November, right?” his mouth asks. “Temp’s almost at freezing, right? Supposed to start raining any moment, right?”
Unless, corrects Four, it drops those last few degrees and turns to snow.
I nod “yes” to all three queries.
“Yet you’re picking me up on this?”
We lower gazes to my black, 1981, 650cc, Yamaha Heritage Special motorcycle.
“Fuel-efficient,” I say with a rev of the purring engine. Scott looks unconvinced. I prod, “Slap on wool socks, guy. Won’t even notice it’s cold.”
One dozen miles later, we notice it’s cold. Alaskan cold. That our lungs no longer want to exhale. That our joints and muscles lock in place. Scott questions whether he is rendered incapable of adding to his collection of daughters. I wonder if my angled wrist will rev an unseen cycle throttle hours after I’ve begun my job.
Rain begins. Cut headwinds – draft that big boy! urges Screen Six, eyeing a lumbering tractor-trailer ahead. Warmth will pop, gas will drop.
Assures Three, Truckers don’t mind being used this way.
The bike’s increased vibrations cause Scott to lift his helmeted head, which had been ducked behind my small frame. “We’re sp-sp-speeding up?” he stutters, lips dancing a chilled cha-cha.
Do not explain, counsels Four. Scott cannot hear. Soon he will see the wisdom of our acceleration.
Yamaha Special swiftly catches swaying trailer, but I keep a safe distance. Unfortunately, “safe distance” also means we buck madly in the trailer’s buffeting tailwinds.
“Dangerous!” shouts Scott into the swirling air. “Back off!”
Closer! shout the screens. Find the “eye of the storm” and –
“Isn’t that for hurricanes?”
– it will be calm in there. Warmer. Safer.
I aim for dead center of the truck and throttle up to 60, eclipsing the distance faster than calculated. Cruising just 48 inches from a huge bumper, we find the numbing cold replaced by noxious but warming diesel exhaust.
Buffeting winds stop. Vulcan neck grip starts.
Vulcan neck pinch, corrects Three. [See photo at right for graphic ADHD demonstration of technique.]
Scott, explains One. His carpenter hands, strong enough to tear apples in half, are applied to your frame in a death grip borne of desperation.
“I think he’s also shouting accusations,” I tell One, but the combined roar of truck and bike drowns exchanges.
Things worsen. Rain may leap past our shiny helmets but slick road invites Yamaha to a brouhaha. Still new challenges arrive moments later in the form of smoking tires, squealing brakes and swerving trailers, all because the –
Trucker missed his interstate turnoff, surmises Four. Course-correction underway.
Heightened neck pain certifies Scott’s continued presence. Foul smell of Goodyears gone bad suggests life as bumper bolts is likely if something does not change in the next breath.
My frozen fingers mimic carpenter strength and apply brakes. Black bike – slipping, sliding, tipping, chiding – rights itself, barely clears the entirely too firm trailer and glides to our place of employment.
Scott does stop having daughters. Scott still tears apples in half. There is nothing wrong with either point –
Unless, interrupts Two, you factor in the way he grits his carpenter’s teeth and mutters, “Blackwell!” just before he splits the fruit.
* * * * *
Blackie’s Weekly Wonders
Some heroes are younger than others
Still thanking our vets [daily, actually]