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my favorite headline?”
    Tapping his teeth, he sorted through his memory. “Yes. I remember: ‘Pit Bull Woman Hangs on for Victory.’”
    She laughed again. “That one was better than ‘Ladybug Stomps Back.’”
    She shook her head. “You know, in some ways, it’s great to be a woman driver. In other ways, it can drive you nuts.”
    Uncle Mike leaned forward. The way he did as a director when he sensed he was about to learn something that would help him frame his subject. I knew why. We had discussed this ahead of time. The thing that would make this documentary interesting was the “woman driver” angle.
    â€œIt’s great,” she said, “for the very reason that you’re going to be hanging on every word I’m about to say. You and the rest of the world treat me differently because I’m a woman. That translates into big media exposure. Big media exposure means big sponsorship. When it costs millions a year to run a team, sponsors are important.”
    She looked Uncle Mike directly in the eyes. “Let’s face it, if I were just another male driver, you wouldn’t be here, right?”
    I felt guilty, as if she had read our minds.
    â€œLet’s not forget that you have won a few races,” Uncle Mike said.
    â€œThe fact that you ducked my question proves my point,” she answered. “And that’s what’s bad about being a woman driver. People can’t look past my being a woman and see me simply as a driver.”
    She pointed beyond us at the track. “Out there, it takes guts to survive. And, at times, almost a mean streak. Think about it. When a driver bumps your car at two hundred miles an hour to make room for himself on the track, you know it’s not a tea party. Especially when a second or so between first and second place might be worth enough money to buy a house. But what happens when I bump back and send someone into the wall? He’s the victim, and I’m Pit Bull Woman.”
    Again, I wished the cameras were here. I knew exactly what I’d do if this were my film. I’d cut back and forth between her words and some bang-bang race scenes, and there would be some real juice to it.
    She looked at her watch. “Anyway,” she said to Uncle Mike. “We don’t have much time. Practice days are the only time I haveto really learn the track; they’ll have me back in the car any second. So tell me what you plan to do.”
    â€œThe usual,” Uncle Mike said. “Cameras everywhere. We’ll get a hundred hours’ worth of film and sort it out in production.”
    â€œSounds boring,” she said. “How’d you get this big creative reputation?”
    â€œOuch,” he said. “A shot like that hurts.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “there’s a lot riding on this for me. The danger of giving you permission to film is that you guys might become a real distraction, and that might hurt the racing team. But on the other hand, I couldn’t afford to pass up a one-hour shot at prime-time television. So make it worthwhile.”
    â€œI do have one thing in mind,” Uncle Mike said, “to make this different from other documentaries.”
    â€œGood,” she said.
    â€œI want to put lightweight cameras in the car. Views out the front window and back so we can film what’s happening around your car. I’d like to have you miked too.I want you to tell us about the race as it happens: What’s going through your mind. What you’re trying to do as you do it. I want the viewers to feel like they’re on the track right beside you.”
    Sandy thought about it for a second.
    â€œYou’re asking a lot,” she said. “Most of the time I can’t afford to be distracted. It’s just too dangerous. But there are times during the stretches when I might be able to talk...Okay, you can mike me, but I won’t