By Brian May
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My every move was being tracked, especially when I traveled. Beth and I rented a Hummer H2 to take the drive up the coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Two minutes into the trip I noticed the front bumper guard was loose so it made a jittery noise the whole time. To make matters worse, the wind was gusting at speeds of up to fifty mph along the coastline, so the noise got louder as we drove. Beth turned on the radio to try to drown out the constant clanking, but it didn’t really help. There are parts of Highway 1 that get very narrow, especially along the water, which made driving a Hummer on these roads treacherous.
I was up and over the hedges like an Olympic high jumper. I hit the ground hard, so hard I momentarily lost my breath. I rolled out of my fall and made it to my feet in one fast motion. My legs were moving as fast as they could run. I was in a full sprint. Sweat from my brow stung my eyes. I turned the corner onto Sixteenth Street to find it barricaded with cops and patrol cars. The police had formed a human chain so I couldn’t bust through. I scanned the perimeter to see if I could take a chance.
It was an unwritten rule in our gang that if you pulled a gun, you’d better shoot. What’s the point of shooting to wound? There is none. You had to aim to kill or be prepared to take a bullet for your hesitation. I knew I’d killed him. I punched the throttle so that the sound of my engine would drown out the thoughts of prison racing through my head. Police cars sped past me as I made my way out of town. The last image of Boulder I recall that day was the spinning red lights of an ambulance in my rearview mirrors.