We crept along; every few minutes the driver had to jump out and clear the windshield.
This is a bit more than Ambien-fueled sex and a golf club through the windshield.
It was a journey we made in a broken-down Lada that had no seat belts or windshield wipers.
Some wielding signs hit the roof, windshield, and body of the car I was traveling in.
Fat rain droplets, like little eggs, started to splatter on my windshield, smearing with each sway of the wipers.
While Mr. Parker read his newspaper, the attendant polished the windshield and checked the oil, finding it low.
She was still sitting rigid, staring through the windshield.
This picture represents the windshield of the President's special automobile as we are looking into it.
She snatched the windshield open, and concentrated on that left rut.
It sizzled over my head as he swung and crashed against the windshield.