The gravel basher

Trundling down the road towards us, trying to bash the road to make us walk.
You might call it a bulldozer, I call it a basher. That’s what the bashers
do to us and three other cars right up our bum. I’m sure the cars are trying
to smash us into the back of the basher, but they just don’t know how to do
it and not get blamed for it. As I wonder how you say “it was them” and
“not us, them you fool’ in German, Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian, Dad and
the triplet suddenly stop behind us. The basher came right up to the buggy
wheels, then stopped just in the nick of time. Dad looked behind him and
then looked at me. His face looked terrified, like he had just heard the
news that the police were coming after him. Then he gave me a grin and I
knew at once that everyone and thing was all right, so with the cars beeping
us we signalled for them to over take, and got back to fighting our way up
the gravel road. Again.