Paris fades into the mist in the rear-view mirror. My gear's in the boot: two Canon cameras, four lenses, a cobra flash, a gold reflector I'll never use.
And my laminated, gold accreditation card, the photo showing an unshaven me with the eyes of a guy who went to bed at 3am.
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First contactwiththe organisers
"Insurance problem, sir. Your accreditation doesn't cover track access. Sorry about that."
A three-hour drive only to end up with the tourists behind the barriers.
The 'official' photographers are already in the pits.
I'm in the shit
FirstA red Ferrari, number 9, doing 125 mph past the stands.
shot
A red Ferrari, number 9, doing 125 mph past the stands.
Classic, predictable. But I see something else in my viewfinder. A spectator in his vintage '70s helmet, absolute concentration on his weathered face.
He looks more authentic than all the drivers put together. More passion in his eyes than in a thousand press releases.
I decide that if I can't photograph the race, I'm at least going to shoot what's happening behind the scenes and the people behind all those machines.
First lesson of the day
sometimes it's when they won't let you in that you find the good stories.
And sometimes it's when everything goes pear-shaped that you get the best shots.