Twenty Tours de France. It seems faintly ridiculous when I write it down. My first was the year Lance Armstrong\u2019s carefully constructed empire was beginning to wobble. I photographed him circling the Champs-\u00c9lys\u00e9es with a film SLR, blissfully unaware that neither film cameras nor Armstrong\u2019s reputation would age particularly well.<\/p>\n
Today I\u2019m back where it all began, sitting outside a cafe a stone\u2019s throw from Place de la Concorde nursing a caf\u00e9 cr\u00e8me while Paris carries on entirely oblivious. A couple laugh over breakfast. Someone walks an exceptionally pampered poodle. A waiter in a waistcoat unsuccessfully attempts to persuade two tourists that vodka is an acceptable accompaniment to a croissant. In a few hours the world\u2019s biggest bike race will thunder through these streets<\/a>. Right now, it\u2019s just another Sunday morning.<\/p>\n That\u2019s one of the peculiar things about the Tour. It arrives like a travelling circus, creates absolute chaos for a few hours, then quietly disappears.<\/p>\n First stage of the Tour<\/a> and I\u2019m on the moto. Those days have become something of a luxury. Before Covid, there were 18 accredited in-race photography motos weaving through the Tour. Now there are just nine, with smaller agencies pooling their allocations and sharing pictures to retain access. I work with a small Belgian-Italian collective, so when it\u2019s your turn, you make the most of it.<\/p>\n This year, my draw included the opening team time trial, a handful of sprint stages, and the mountain finish in Orci\u00e8res-Merlette. It wasn\u2019t Alpe d\u2019Huez, but nobody turns down a day on the back of a Tour moto.<\/p>\n The opening stage offered little drama from the bike itself, so I let Barcelona do the storytelling instead. The Sagrada Fam\u00edlia became my backdrop. As my characteristically cheerful moto driver disappeared into the distance, I realised every one of my water bottles had disappeared with him. Good job it wasn\u2019t the middle of a Spanish heatwave. This could be a long day.<\/p>\n A 400mm lens picked riders out from the cathedral\u2019s shadows before I switched to a 24mm as they swept past, trying to cram Gaud\u00ed\u2019s masterpiece into the frame \u2013 crane and all. By the time the final teams rolled through, I\u2019d become surprisingly adept at juggling cameras while panning at speed.<\/p>\n Between runs an older guy leaning over the barriers, brandishing a couple of professional cameras, entertained me, saying that, having started as a Navy photographer, he\u2019d photographed everyone from Reagan to Obama. I quietly Googled him afterwards, half expecting to discover he was a bit of a lune. A quick search revealed that he wasn\u2019t making it up. He\u2019d had the sort of career most photographers could only dream about.<\/p>\n Perhaps sensing I was slowly dehydrating on the baking tarmac, a group of Danish fans adopted me for the afternoon, keeping me supplied with ice-cold water until the final team rolled through.<\/p>\n Returning to the moto for stage 18<\/a> couldn\u2019t have contrasted more with Barcelona. The narrow Alpine roads left barely enough room for riders, support cars and the occasional motorcycle. We spent most of the afternoon leapfrogging between the breakaway and the chasing peloton, stopping occasionally for sweeping mountain views before racing back into position.<\/p>\n Then, with three kilometres remaining, Richard Carapaz attacked. Unfortunately for us, he chose our side of the road. One moment he was behind us, the next he was almost alongside. My driver instinctively grabbed another handful of throttle just as I swung the camera round. For a few entertaining seconds I was photographing one-handed while hanging on to the back of the bike for dear life. Unsurprisingly, the sharpest thing about some of those pictures was the memory.<\/p>\n