Silverstone, Saturday, May 11, 1963, the day the two Petes might have met, but didn’t. Bryant is the mechanic in the white coveralls next to the Ford V8-powered Lola GT, which is about to run its maiden race. At the left is last-minute driver Tony Maggs—he’d never even sat in the car before racing it, but would charge from the back of the grid to finish 9th. Lurking somewhere nearby would be young Lyons, who fell in love with this car this day and would never get over her—nor the GT40s that came after.
Photo: Peter Bryant Collection
Take something for granted, and we risk having it ripped away.
For me, foolish me, Peter Bryant was always going to be there. An interesting guy, a very human guy, fun, warm, witty—often scandalously so—bright and innovative, astoundingly energetic. A ball o’ fire whose boisterousness could be alarming, but mostly charming. Everybody seemed to like and admire him. Over the past 40 years I enjoyed many times spent with him and, more recently, his wife Lois.
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