A lot of years ago, near my home there was a space owned by the father of my friend Johnny.
In this space, on open air, there were wooden chairs, a table and a couch.
Everything on open air.
Once, a friend of us (Vic) brought with him a nice double-cut knife, like the one Rambo used to have. He sharpened it by himself, making it become a terribly dangerous weapon.
All of us were fascinated. After having the chance to have a look at it, Vic started to listlessy stab the couch with it.
Johnny said: "Give that to me, you are not even able to kill a couch!"
Now let's try to figure in our mind this scene on slow-motion:
Vic stabs the couch
Johnny get near to the knife with the hand
Vic extracts the knife from the couch
Johnny grabs the knife, but in that moment there's not the handle, but the blade
Johnny grabs the blade
Suddenly there's blood everywhere. Johnny takes his hand and run to his home, with a deep cut on the index finger of his right hand.
Her mother, seeing this, knows istantaneously what to do: she take the good old fashioned denaturated alcohol (or mmethylated spirit, as you prefer) and pours it on the living flesh.
When I saw this, I decided I had seen enough.
Some minutes later Johnny went to the hospital and there he got his hand fixed: the knife cut his finger's tendon.
Ok, when is this story going to be fun?
Well, Johnny was around 12, but this was not blocking him from driving.
Even if he had an arm locked into a plaster, well, this was not blocking him from driving.
Everything was simple: Johnny moved the steering wheel with his left hand and Vic, on his side, used the gear lever.
Piece of cake.