OK: 1984; I need to put a new (well, new from the junkyard) driveshaft on my '76 LeSabre (if you are unfamiliar, this was before downsizing; a serious pile'o'steel). Backed it onto the ramps, put it in park, set the emergency brake, climbed under, unbolted it, and whacked it with a hammer.
You will note the lack of any mention of wheel chocks.......
Came off the ramps, dragged me about 10' through the crushed limestone (destroying ny beloved Nighthawks T, given me by Mark Wenner his own self - didn't do the epidermis beneath it a lot of good either, i must say).
So, there I am - my right arm across my chest, a frame member across said arm (the scars are still there), my glasses pushed into my face so hard it required stitches (yeah, that scar, too), the then-youngest (getting potty-trained) butt nekkid with my Spitfire as a playpen, and Her off at work. I couldn't fully exhale, because if I did, I couldn't have inhaled again.
Bright side? Number 1 son was in 1st grade, and that week they'd learned to dial 911. He got an award from the PTA (who were nice enough to not point out in the ceremony what a idjit I is....) It took about 20 minutes for the cops to get there with the tow truck that lifted it off me. I have not even been able to change my own oil since.
Peter