My wind was strong, and my legs were responding, despite having had no warm-up or stretching. I sensed I was leaving Bikas far behind, and I settled into a pace that would have been perfect for the 440. To be sure I was safely ahead of my pursuer, I looked over my shoulder again. I couldn’t see him in the dark. He had no chance. I’d be halfway across Poona before he got back to the main road.

Then I tripped and fell hard to the ground, landing on my left wrist in the sloppy road. The loud crack told me all I needed to know; it was broken. I rolled over to see if Bikas was bearing down on me. He was. About twenty yards now, and he was running at a full sprint.

In my high school days, our football coach, Mr. Galligan, used to make us do a particularly cruel drill. He’d have one player—the tackler—lie on his back, ten yards from another guy—the runner—who was on his feet. A chalk line marked the halfway point between them. Coach would then blow his whistle and toss the ball to the runner, who charged forward. At the same time, the tackler had to leap to his feet, turn around, and try to stop the runner. The two met head-on in a violent collision. If the runner passed the chalk line, he won. If he didn’t, the tackler won. Coach called it the Nutcracker. I remember my share of stingers—those awful tingling sensations in your extremities after a jarring tackle—and I was about to risk another one.

Grimacing from the pain in my wrist, I rolled over, pushed myself to my feet, and lunged toward Bikas. No time to run away now; he was too close, and he’d raised his right hand and was pointing it at me as he charged. He was armed. I knew I outweighed him by thirty pounds, and—broken wrist and all—I was going to teach him how to tackle. Be tackled. I lowered my shoulder and planted it right in the sweet spot in his midsection, lifting him off his feet. Then, driving him to the ground, I knocked the wind out of him as I flattened him. Might have broken a couple of his ribs, too. If he’d been carrying a gun, he lost it in the collision.

I left him lying there in the mud, groaning and gasping for air, and I resumed my run to safety. Jogging through the rain, I held my left wrist as I went. Soon I was crossing the river over a bridge. I tossed the gearshift into the water and pushed on.