Like all old and many-times retold anecdotes, the details are fuzzy, and depend largely on who is recounting them, but the general outline is always the same. It takes place just outside the ritzy Swiss ski resort of Gstaad, in the more low-key village of Rougemont, where Bill and his wife, Pat, spend their winters. Bill is behind the wheel of his white four-wheel-drive station wagon, driving down one of those steep, windy roads that cling to the side of the mountain -- a narrow strip of pavement with sheer rock on one side and a hundred-foot drop on the other.

It's an unseasonably warm day; too warm for Bill, who decides to remove his sweater. The passengers watch in terror as he fumbles with one hand -- the other still on the wheel -- to yank off the pullover, now wrapped around his head and completely blocking his vision. Amazingly, the car stays on course, and the passengers live to tell the tale.

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