Motorcycles give me seizures.
Most people have visual triggers to set them off, like flashing strobe lights, but for me, it’s auditory. The sound of the engine revving reverberates through my ears and shakes my brain inside my skull and I zone out while my grey matter buzzes with over-activity.
You should have seen me the time I went to Sturgis, South Dakota with friends. I was there for five minutes and had a series of petit mal episodes. The only thing I remember as I was falling down to the ground, was looking up into the face of a giant, burly, bushy-bearded biker. I vaguely recall thinking this man was my Messiah and I was at the Pearly Gates of Heaven and I somehow didn’t question the fact The Son of Man was wearing leather chaps and a Harley Davidson skull-cap.
I fell and knocked my cranium on his steel-toed boots.
After the spell passed, I was taken to the hotel room so I could seize in peace instead of at the foot of a biker Jesus.