Back in 1991, the time some people nostalgically refer to as "The second Summer of Love", the rave scene was just starting to become recognised as a cool new musical movement. Raves were held in whatever venue could accommodate the crowd, a DJ and a sound system. Ravers were not fussy – all sorts of geographical features could be transformed into an ad-hoc club as long as there was space and shelter.

The most desirable kind of venue was an empty warehouse. After identifying a suitable building, the party organisers would let people know the location through 'party lines' – phone numbers connected to answering machines that had details of the venue. The telephone numbers of the party lines was a closely guarded secret amongst more organised ravers.

As raves became more popular these illegal raves became more frequent. I even heard alleged stories of a farmer being woken up in the middle of the night to find his cow-field transformed into a party. Naturally this provoked outrage amongst the conservative press – the Daily Mail had a new enemy to campaign against!

Unfortunately for ravers, and to the delight of club owners, warehouse parties were abruptly ended in 1994 by legislation called the Criminal Justice Act. This gave police powers to remove or arrest trespassers; it was specifically targeted against this kind of unlicensed party.

I went to my first warehouse party on my friend's 20th birthday. He belonged to a New York City based rave-throwing crew, and one of them actually owned the second floor of a warehouse in Connecticut. Even though I had to leave early, it was certainly one of the most comfortable parties I've ever been to. I had actual conversations with other dancers, and I gave my friend (who was spinning) a box of six cupcakes with trick candles.

On the way back, about an hour away from my girlfriend's house, where I was spending the night, I feel a whole lot of bumps. At first, I thought it was the road, since I-95 in Connecticut is always under construction, but the truck behind me flashed its lights, so I pulled over.

After inspecting under the hood and finding nothing, I looked around the rest of the car and found that my left rear tire had EXPLODED.

Now, I've changed tires before. It's certainly not difficult or life-threatening. However, all those times had been in my garage with a rather strong hydraulic floor jack. Now I was changing a tire at 1:30 AM, with a wimpy mechanical jack, and 18-wheelers doing 85 in the right lane 5 feet away from me. I was about to put 70 miles on miniature tire with a recommended usage of 50. I had no cell phone, and light was hard to come by, as that area of I-95 is unlit.