Wendy,
You and I should definitely take a car trip together one day. You're my kind of driver.
I confess I can barely remember any male freaking out while I was driving. (Except for the cops, that is, but they weren't inside the car.) Oh yes, the two French guys who drove cross-country with me in '69--they freaked out considerably. But they didn't really understand that once we got over the state line, everything would be copacetic and they wouldn't have to worry about the state police arresting all of us. It was just a speed trap.
And I have to admit, despite my customary supportiveness of other women who struggle against trivial convention, that it is the gentle sex who have been more likely to freak about my driving. Men can't bring themselves to show fear that way. Women may shoot me a dirty look when I back out of a driveway too quickly (they just didn't see me look in the rear view), or whatever. [Honestly, the truth is my radar or luck, whichever it was, held out for so long that I don't want to stress it any more. I've survived so many close calls I can hardly believe it myself. I'd prefer a horse for the city. The mounted police have them; why can't I?]
I defer to you as a horsewoman, dear wendy. Probably as a bicyclist too. I can't quite give in on the cars till I see you behind the wheel.