There have been a few iconic photographs of the Paris Olympics thus far. There was the flying surfer, of course, and in cycling, Remco Evenepoel with the Eiffel Tower. Of the hundreds of finish-line shots that came from that race, the one that kept popping up on our feeds was from photographer Zac Williams. This is how an imperfect finish line setup resulted in an image that’s been shared thousands of times, as told in Zac’s own words.
You can follow Zac on Instagram and purchase prints of the Evenepoel photo here.
I got off the moto, on the wrong side of the bridge to the finish line, looked up at the screen and, with no context whatsoever, saw Remco standing on the side of the road, screaming at his team car for a new bike. Had he crashed? Mechanical? No time to find out, he had 2.4km to go, I had the bureaucratic red tape of Olympic security protocols and 400m between me and the finish. It was time to run.
Photographers run a lot. After being barred from two different entrances to the finish line, agonisingly close to my colleagues and where I was supposed to and allowed to be, I had to run around the back of the stands, jump two fences and enter behind the other photographers, doing so just as I saw the blue, yellow and red dot turning onto the bridge I had just crossed. I’d made it, just. Now all there was to do was find a spot at what I would argue was the worst positioned finish line in the history of our sport. At least if you compare potential to end result.
Here’s the problem. The finish line was at the bottom of a 50m ditch, while you’re trying to capture a 300m high structure, with a rider no bigger than an ant. Whoever decided that was the place for the finish, (instead of the top of the rise) to achieve this “Image of the games” everyone had been banging on about up until this point, needs to look into a different career path.
Still, we’re paid to shoot with what we’ve got. I wedged myself between two TV cameras and framed up the shot. The beauty of turning up to the finish with literal seconds to spare is that everyone who normally tries to tell you that you can’t stand somewhere you should be allowed to stand are powerless to stop you. There simply wasn’t enough time for them to ruin my day. I frantically held down the shutter as Remco rolled to a stop, cold as ice, showing off the spare bike that had only travelled 3 of the 273km, the most important 3km of his life.
In all honesty, I didn’t like this shot. I had reconned the finish line the day before, I was distraught at how badly mismanaged the placement of the finish line was. I wrote off the chance to get “THE PICTURE,” a feeling that didn’t change until the messages started pouring in later that day about my post.
My framing was total instinct. I knew I should at least commit to trying to get the tower in, even though it was so awkward to make it all fit in a frame. I just decided to back myself and only shoot on my wide [pro photographers tend to swap cameras, not lenses, with different camera bodies set up with different lenses – ed.]. I didn’t have time to swap between my cameras. In the end, it was the right call, but in the moment all I was doing was cursing whoever chose to put the finish where they did.
More often than not, you get a feeling about a photo. Whether it’ll do well, whether you felt like you really nailed it. I felt that way about my Sacre Coeur images the whole weekend. I love that place, I was beyond stoked I got to shoot there, it felt like the Muur Van Geerardsbergen on steroids. I didn’t feel the same about the finish line.
Maybe it’s because Montmartre contained more fans than I’ve ever seen at a bike race. More than any TDF Grand Depart, more than any Spring Classics or Monument, more even than the finish line of Boxing Day papas. The wave of emotion and joy that washed over me with the roar of the crowd when I first entered the city circuit is a feeling I hope to never forget. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, speeding past umpteen sights and monuments, past places I’ve always admired as a lover of this country and this city, this time, with a front-row seat to the action unfolding over the streets of Paris.
I channelled that energy through the final laps, as the attacks flew and the racing got more frantic, finally shooting Remco during his race-winning move with 15km to go. It almost felt inevitable that the finale of this race was going to come down to a single push from a solo rider, and this time, as is becoming more and more common, it was Remco’s turn.
It felt like living three lifetimes across those six or so hours, I barely had time to reflect on what I’d shot, what people were saying or what the next steps were before I was back on the moto with Florian, my driver, kicking it into gear for the women’s race. I’ll confess I worried that the women’s race wouldn’t get the same support as the men’s, I’d seen that at events before, it’s entirely unjustified but a reality that has faced the sport up to this point. Luckily, deservedly, Paris didn’t disappoint. It felt like a perfect encore to the day prior. I knew where I wanted to shoot, I knew my angles, I knew what else I wanted to get, I had it all on lock.
The only thing I didn’t know was just how strong Kristen Faulkner was going to be. I don’t think many people did. I’d left Vos and Vas (future comedy duo name?), swapping turns up the final climb to Monmarte with 9km to go, certain it was going to come down to the two of them and fairly confident in the GOAT to get the job done in the two-up sprint. In a moment of bemusement, I got to the end of the bridge, just like the day before, bearing witness to another surprising race situation, watching Faulkner ride away from pre-race favourites with ease. As I started my run towards my red-tape-wrapped destiny, once again making the finish line with seconds to spare, I couldn’t help but think that I really don’t want to make a habit of this.
I almost felt like my sprint had been for nothing when Faulkner didn’t celebrate crossing the line. I think she was as shocked as I was to see the result, one that when you consider it and her abilities, shouldn’t come as a shock at all. Luckily for my (until that point) unsatisfied photographic needs, her soigneur unfurled a US flag and Kristen well and truly understood the assignment. Impressive really, I can only imagine the lactic acid she was dealing with as she held her arms above her head, hoisting the stars and stripes up, coupled with some lovely Parisian afternoon light. I had my photo.
The Olympic road weekend was unlike anything else I’ve covered. It’s felt amazing to tell people that I get to shoot the Olympics this year, instead of trying to explain what the Spring Classics are, or telling people that the Giro or the Vuelta are the Italian or Spanish Tour de France equivalents. When you say Olympics, people’s eyes widen with understanding, it’s the ultimate leveller.
That’s a bit of a shame given how special so many of the races are for the rest of the season, but having seen what I have this last weekend, the Games really do operate on another level. One million people turned out on Saturday, it felt very similar on Sunday too. That’s absurd numbers, not even Dutch Corner felt like those cobbled streets in Montmartre.
Being privileged enough to see every inch of that course on the weekend, I don’t think anything is going to come close for a long time. It’s not lost on me how fortunate I am to be in this position, it’s something I’ve dreamt of since I first picked up a camera at a bike race when I was 12 years old. If you’d shown me what I’d be doing in 13 years time from that day, I’d have signed on the dotted line then and there.
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