Pacing

Now he started to pace back and forth. It was raining relentlessly with nary a sliver of light on any visible horizon to indicate that it might burn off. He was soaked. The gear was wet. He paced hands clasped behind his back, thinking, talking to himself as all the other motorcycle pilots and their charges gathered in small circles, smoking. They had it easy, just cruise out to a location on the course with a decent backdrop, fire off a quick 2 or 3 hundred digital stills with a protected camera body and lens, and get the heck out of this ugly, wet grayness. Even the TV guys with their heavy duty JVC artillery could get the requisite highlight shots (including the obligatory water dripping into a pothole in slow motion) and keep comparatively dry. He, on the other hand, had challenges of a different magnitude altogether. So he paced, searching for a solution.

The easiest answer, of course, is to bag it. Quit. Rained out. No work today. This is what almost all production houses, rental facilities, schools, and most people that value the cost of their equipment do. Number one rule: DO NOT USE THIS GEAR IN THE RAIN. Hollywood and TV stations, being in it for the gold, have another motto: GET THE FUCKING SHOT. They don't really care how, just bring me the footage that I can use. We have insurance for the cameras (and your stint in the hospital).

So quitting was out. Just the thought of traveling all the way to Germany, prepping for five days, having every duck in a row, and then having an uncontrollable element wash away the day, was almost more than he could bear. To say nothing of the expense. He thought about asking one of the pilots for a smoke. He thought about kicking the press bus. He thought about screaming at the top of his lungs. He thought about how silly he must look to Pascal, his pilot, who stood by the coffee car watching him and awaiting instructions.

OK, if we wait, it may never stop raining. Now, may be the best conditions of the day. But there is no way he could control both cameras, constantly swabbing their lens', keeping the tapes dry, batteries secure, framed, steady, covered, all this (as expected) capturing perfect video, and here's the kicker, of every inch of this amazing course all the wile sitting on a sport bike, Pascal's Ducati 700 with no back rest and nothing remotely useable to HOLD THE FUCK ON TO. Jesus, you might as well take me now.

But wait. STOP PACING and DO SOMETHING. It is not going to ease up. Face that. Let's use the shoot priority list and at least give it a go. On the priority list, way down at item six, was, when everything else fails, get some highlight footage. OK, fine. He marched back towards where Pascal and the Ducati were and grabbed his backpack, Pascal jumping to attention. Let's use just the B cam, lighter and with a 37" lens opening to the Canon's 72", this to catch less moisture, mount it on the mirror arm, wrap the sucker in a baggie with a hole cut for the lens and secured with snap ties, set the focus, frame the shot and see what we get. And, let's ride a bit faster than normal, say 35-40 avg/mph in order to blow as much water off the lens as possible. Start the Garmins, start the Skyclock, tighten the adjusting knobs on the Manfrotto 3025, tie the cameras jacket underneath to make sure it doesn't blow into the shot, say a quick prayer, and join the fray. After all, now at 0830, a steady stream of triathletes had been coming up the ramp from T1 for almost 90 minutes. So, throttle-up that motherfucker my friend, here we go.

The long line of motorcycles, photographers, fans, officials, and assorted soggy hangers-on, parted like the Red Sea as we passed. The Lord only knows what they were thinking as we set upon our journey of somewhere between 1 and 112 miles, and he also know what I was thinking: This is a serious long-shot. Borderline preposterous.

So we rode among the athletes, up hills, through villages lined with shouting locals, across bridges, into forests, past verdant fields, into the rain. He thought often how cold they must have been on their bikes, some in Speedos, but most with arm warmers. He was cold. To the bone. At one point his right hand went numb and he reached way down alongside the exhaust pipes for some recuperative heat. His back started to ache. Not being able to see the viewfinder on the camera because rather than leave it exposed, he decided to keep it closed and inside the bag, they were literally flying blind, and when his watch chronometer hit 80 minutes he hollered to Pascal to find a covered and safe place to stop for a tape change.

Or not. So many things could have terminated the video, moisture being the most likely culprit, but also excess vibration, issues with the rain jacket, the camera settings, auto exposure, manual focus, the last of which was the fact that he had no idea how the footage was being framed as they rode, he had made just a quick set up and then said giddayup. So now as they each stretched and shook out limbs from the cold, he inserted a fresh battery and pointed at the rewind arrow with a pink, frozen and wrinkled index finger. The rain pounded the wood shingled roof over the loading area of the barn where they stopped as triathletes sped by. The moment of truth was at hand. He knew that he wold know almost instantly weather or not the footage would be anywhere close to useable. Now, at least, he could say, well, we tried. As he stooped to look closer, Pascal came to peer over his shoulder.

They stood up and faced each other like two mongrels just fetched from drowning, each with the same expression of amazement, as if they had just witnessed a miracle.

"WOW"