FirstcharacterDidier
Didier, a mechanic working for a private engine tuner.
52 years old, smoking red Marlboros between laps, blue overalls open over a Metallica t-shirt faded by multiple washes.
"Want to see how to change a set of tyres in two and a half minutes? Watch and learn, kid."
He's got forty years' experience as a mechanic under his belt, and hands that can spot a faulty bearing just by the way it sounds.
Gulf Oil everywhere: that Steve McQueen petrol blue. But I've got a different take on the mythical colour: from the back, in profile, a motion blur.
Car number 1 doing 110, just a blue and orange line in my 300mm lens. The poetry of speed, an accident of framing.
In the pits, from my distant vantage point that same Gulf blue is sweat beading under helmets, dirty hands greasing O-rings, technical arguments in broken English between an engineer from Tokyo and a driver from Grenoble.
"Ze suspension, she is too soft, you understand?"
"Yes, yes, soft, we change, no problem."
Coloursof reality
The true colours of Le Mans aren't to be found in the golden light bathing the track in official photos.
They're in the distorted reflections of helmets dumped any old how on car bonnets, in Castrol-stained overalls, in the tired eyes of men who've been working since 6am.