I was at my boss's house after work one night in the early 1970s and we were talking about and tinkering with motorcycles. He had been working on a Honda 750 build. You know, RC big bore, cam, 4 into 1, all the usual go-fast stuff. Fred offered me a test ride. Before he could change his mind, I was blasting through the late night L.A. streets, racously loud exhaust reverberating off of traffic, chasing stoplights, nearly doubling the speed limit, drifting around corners and generally being a reckless risk to myself and others. And when finally I streaked back into his driveway with one of those you-know-what grins on my face, I was followed, nearly run over, actually, by a jacked-up, custom-painted muscle car with two guys in windbreakers inside. They jumped out and began grilling my boss and I. Seems they were narc officers and I'm not sure what exhibition of speed had to do with their mission that night, but you can be sure Fred and I did some fast talking. These "Starsky and Hutch" characters wanted in the worst way to cite me and give me the legally allowable what-for, and no doubt should have. But evidentally our answers satisfied them and they decided they had to get back to their original field of inquiry. The rest of the night was uneventful.