Jerry was incensed, and shouted "Don't let him do that!"
"Take it easy," I said, and I kept driving, thinking of other things besides punks in muscle cars. Jerry, in a paroxysm of impatience and fury, reached his leg over and stomped his great fat #12 boot down on my gas pedal foot, and the old jalopy lurched forward with alarming velocity, causing me to suddenly white-knuckle the wheel, while attempting to yank my foot from under the clamping boot; at the same time trying not to veer at accelerating speed off the road. I must have come out with a pretty severe explosion at Jerry, because he picked up his foot as I was shouting, "Don't you ever do that again!"
We didn't crash; neither did we find the pot plantation. Also, we did not catch the punk in the muscle car, although only one of us cared about that. We we came home safe and sound and went to school the next day.
I love that memory, and Jerry and I are still good friends 55 years later.