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take these drives. Not long after I obtained a license, I was passing through San Leandro, a suburb south of Stanford University when a woman in a Ford came out of a sidestreet. I was probably wool-gathering as usual. In any case, I didn't see her until the last second before I hit the rear of the Ford. My car bounced off and went out of control, zig-zagging down the street. A man on a motorcycle tried to take evasive action while I, struggling to bring the car under control, appeared to be pursuing him relentlessly. The car sideswiped him and I saw him fall into the street. Then, utterly panicky, I stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake, ploughed through a wooden fence, smashing it to kindling, and stopped with a jarring crash against a tree. 

A policeman put his head through the window. "Lady," he said, "that was the damnedest exhibition I've ever seen. You did just about everything wrong in the book. It was a grand slam. Are you all right?" I said I was, and asked