They (Ford) were treating the journalists to a few laps at the wheel of the GT40. You know, the type of articles that results from that: “We test the Champion GT40.” Like that.
When it came my turn the Ford folks, God love their chauvinist souls, opened the passenger’s door for me, not the driver’s side, and asked Richie to give me a ride around the course. I didn’t say a thing. After all, it was their car and they had a right to choose who drove it. Or so I thought then. Perhaps inured to being slighted because I was a woman I didn’t realize until years later how mad at Ford I was. Maybe I was the only woman among the writers, but I was also the only writer there with a competition racing license. (And the only one to have won an international rally as a Ford works driver.)
Nonetheless, it is always a privilege to ride with a really good driver so I hopped in the car. But Richie was furious for me. “Why aren’t you driving this?” he said. “This is stupid! This is ridiculous. He had a very precise way of saying “ridiculous” and the word hissed in the confines of the GT40.