After leaving the West Midlands for a life of adventure, I found myself hitchhiking around the United States in early 1980. I was 28 at the time. On arriving in San Francisco, I had a clear choice between keeping the last few dollars I had or finding somewhere to sleep. Luckily, I found an empty skip and decided to stay there for a few days.

A week later, I moved to Los Angeles, where I’d been offered a job driving an ice-cream van for a company called Mr Jumbo’s. On my first day at work, I picked up the van and was given Watts County as my beat. I didn’t know a lot about the area, other than having read about the race riots in 1965.

My first shift was going well until I ran out of bananas – banana split was the only thing I’d been selling all day. I stepped out of the van to get more from a liquor store. When I came back, I found myself standing on the sidewalk with a bunch of bananas in my hand and no van.

I phoned the company and they were not happy. I decided that I had no option but to leg it, and made my way to Santa Monica Boulevard with a view to hitching back into town.

After about 30 minutes, a red Ford Pinto stopped for me. I opened the door and got in. The driver didn’t say anything and just nodded when I said I wanted to go downtown. He wasn’t physically imposing, but he was squat and well-built. He was clean-shaven, with short hair – a swarthy-looking bloke. There was no recognisable smell in the car, but the bad vibe this man gave off was almost overpowering.

A mile or so into the journey, the man started muttering under his breath, cursing Palestine and Israel. He didn’t seem to notice that I was there.

I told him that I didn’t need to go any farther, and the car drifted to the side of the busy freeway and stopped. Suddenly, without a word, he took out a piece of cord, lunged across and wrapped it around my neck. I thought, “This is it – I’m dead.”

Somehow, I managed to get my fingers under the rope to stop him tightening it. He was strong, but out of desperation I managed to pull it away. I twisted around in the seat and kicked out, catching him in the groin. He fell back and started shouting. I somehow opened the door and stumbled out.

I lay there on the grass verge as he drove off, the car quickly disappearing. After a few moments, I saw a police cruiser and flagged it down. I got into the back of the car, told them the story and showed them the rope burn mark on my neck. I was shocked to learn that they knew of three or four people on the loose who were going around killing hitchhikers. The police asked me to describe my attacker and told me it was likely I’d come up against a man called William Bonin, otherwise known as the Freeway Killer.

After I described the car he was in and which way he went, the police asked me to get out and set off after him. It was the last I heard from the police about the incident.

I was left standing on the side of the freeway in shock. The thought of hitching again made me sick, but I had no money and had to catch a ride back into town. I left Los Angeles shortly after that, hitching back across the country.

Afterwards, when people did stop to offer me a lift, I’d talk to them first. Bonin was the only scary encounter I’d had in the months I spent hitching, so I decided that those were, in a way, good odds.

He was caught 10 days after my escape. I heard the news on the radio and thought, “Thank God they got him.” Bonin was later convicted of killing 14 people.

As far as I know, I’m the only surviving victim. Years later, I still wake up in the middle of the night, experiencing flashbacks. When I finally realise where I am, I’m always overwhelmed with gratitude to be awake, miles away from that highway.

• As told to Tom Ward

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