A few years ago the battery in my beat up Volkswagen Beetle had died because I'd left the lights on overnight. I was in a hurry to get to work, so I ran into the house to get my girlfriend to give me a hand to start the car.
I told her to start our second car, a big old monster sized gas guzzler. I told her we're going to use the big car to push the bug fast enough to start it. I pointed out to her that because the VW had an automatic transmission (a rare one, indeed), it needed to be pushed at least 30 miles per hour for it to start.
She got in the car and drove off.
Drove off? What the hell was she doing?
I was waiting in the bug, getting impatient. After a moment I looked in the rear view mirror.
She was coming at me at about 40 miles per hour.
I suddenly realized I should have been a little bit clearer with my instructions . . .