"I've never forgotten the impact Jimmy made on me," Windsor says as he tries on the gloves. "When I thought he might be arriving in Australia for the Tasman races, I'd ring up Qantas or Air New Zealand or whoever and say, 'Look, could you go through the manifest of the flight coming in?' And when they'd say, 'Oh, yes, there's a J. Clark on this flight,' I'd rush out to the airport, and all of a sudden, Jim Clark would appear, and I'd be the only guy standing there! In '67, I ran out onto the tarmac and carried his briefcase to the terminal. In '68, when I went to see him off after the Longford race, the plane had a technical fault, so he came back into the terminal and said, 'Oh, you're still here? Come and have a coffee.' We sat down, and I chatted to Jimmy for about twenty-five minutes. I was the last guy in Australia ever to speak to him, because he died about a month later."
Born in England, Windsor moved to Australia with his family when he was four and began covering races when he was thirteen. By the time he was eighteen, he was stringing for Autosport, the bible of English-language racing magazines. At twenty, he moved to England to immerse himself in Formula 1, apprenticing with photojournalist David Phipps and then working for Nigel Roebuck. Windsor was named sports editor of the august British weekly, Autocar, when he was just twenty-three. But more important to Windsor's career was the friendship he forged with driver Carlos Reutemann. "Carlos used to say to me, 'Go stand at such and such corner and tell me at what point Fittipaldi and Andretti are touching the curb on exit relative to me,' " he says. "I learned a lot from Carlos. I can watch cars out on the circuit, and within a lap or two, I can tell whether a driver is singing with the music or whether it's all bravery and reflexes."
In 1985, Windsor rejected a job offer from Ron Dennis at McLaren and became sponsorship manager for his friend Frank Williams. The following year, he was riding shotgun after a test at Circuit Paul Ricard when Williams lost control of their rented Ford Sierra on the way to Nice, France. "I buried myself in the footwell area in the crash position as Frank fought the car," he recalls. "We left the road, and I heard nothing - just nothing at all - as we flew through the air. It took forever. Then there was this massive upside-down impact, and we rolled several times. We came to rest with fuel everywhere, and I remember Frank saying, 'I'm trapped. I can't get out. I can't get out. Help me. I can't get out.' I dragged him out the rear window by his armpits to protect his neck. Then I lay in this plowed field with Frank, cradling his head as he lost consciousness, for about fifty minutes before an ambulance got there."