It was at the end of the Foxton straights, at the end of 1978, at 100km/h, that someone tried to grab me from behind on my Yamaha.
They seemed to be yanking my backpack. My first thought was outrage. My second was: but how? Where have they come from? And my third — and these all came in pretty quick succession — was: better brake.
I soon established that my problem was not someone capable of leaping on a bike at infeasible speeds, but a dangling backpack strap wrapped around my chain.
