They were positively threatening, like a nearly blind rhino in a
rage. I can picture one of these monstrosities of steel
roaring around stack of hay bales in reverse, seeking its
prey like a rabid dog, or an sixteen year old boy after
that girl of his dreams.
I can picture the driver, his arm over
the seat like that sixteen year old at the drive-in making
his move, but in this case his neck is craned to see,
through the back window, the "Hit Me!" painted on the
drivers' door of the 53 Chevy (what was left of it). Smash!
The driver of the Chevy was occupied with the Olds he was
trying to immobilize, and didn't see the Ford roar around
the haybale (which sheltered the light pole from certain
destruction, or the stock cars from the pole, when they ran
them instead.) Steam poured from the radiator, as the Chev
had unfortunately spun a bit, placing his front end in line
as it made contact with the Olds, just before the Ford
sandwiched him. Getting hit in the front was the worst, the
reason everyone went rampaging around in reverse.
Sometimes a hit to a corner was bad, as those immense chrome
bumpers, or the fenders flared like umbrellas, could be bent
into the tires, freezing the ton of steel just-like-that. Or
at least forcing them to spin in little circles, like a dog
chasing its tail, leaving it defenseless to the pack of
snarling hounds pounding the dust around it.
Someone has a page devoted to this insanity