Although I’ve never been a great typist, my fingers rest as naturally on the home row as my head does a pillow. But lately typing is a never ending string of frustrations… a seeming combination of my fingers not following orders and the orders issued being flawed. I never get from capital letter to punctuation without a string of back-spaces and a correction. My pinkie reaches for…
Adam has two speeds: sprinting as if for his life and “this is as good a place as any to lie down and die.”
I asked him yesterday on our evening skate: “Why do you have to go so fast Adam? You’re not afraid of me are you?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have enough air in his lungs for speech.
I think it’s his way of competing and I hate to admit…