This happened many years ago, in the US, when I was forced by social and family pressures to participate in a birthday party for a spoiled eight-year old boy. Among the gifts presented to the little prince was a child-sized motorcycle. It looked just like the real thing - metallic blue paint, shiny chrome, all the bells and whistles. The birthday boy squealed with joy upon seeing the thing unveiled, but lost interest in it after a few spins around the yard (which was several acres in size, as is customary in rural US, and was full of stuff - buildings, pergolas, and a sort of playground, with swings, toys and a trampoline). Soon all the adults have also taken a ride on the bike. "C'mon, try it" urged my then-hubby. I was bored out of my mind by then, so I got on, had about 15 seconds of instruction and pressed the gas lever. What followed can be attributed to two major communication failures: 1) the fact that despite its pint size, the bike packed 80hp of power and 2) that gripping the handles for dear life only gave it more gas. Eyewitness accounts have described me as a superman, flying behind a rocket. I headed directly for the "playground" and the only thing that saved me from being decapitated by the trampolin was my hubby's quick reaction - he managed to catch up with me and grab a hold of my superman cape-like trench. I have twisted my right thumb out of its socket, but that was about it for the physical damage. The mental damage...that's another story.