DREAM MONTAGE
A very rough montage of some of the footage shot throughout the course of an incredible two weeks in Argentina and Chile. All footage copyright UNLTD Creative 2010. Hopefully this will whet your appetite for the upcoming Dream Racer movie. ENJOY! Feel free to let us know what you think at simonultd@gmail.com
It’s a week since I wept in San Carlos de Bolivar. Rather than sweltering in the desert, I’m now sweltering by the beach. It’s funny returning to some sort of normality after the intensity of the preparations and then the race itself. Yes it is nice to be home and to spend time with my wife and children, but I’d be lying if i said that a small part of me (at least) isn’t already hankering for the next adventure. What will it be? Where will it be? We’ll see. In the meantime, I have hours of footage to trawl through and months of post production to put together what, having looked through a heap of rushes already, I can tell you is going to be a heck of a movie! I’ll update this blog as we progress. Feel free to email me any time at simonultd@gmail.com
I’d like at this point to say a huge thank you to the people who have helped us get this far:
www.sportscamera.com.au for providing us with the helmet cameras that have delivered some incredible images. Without a doubt, the best people in Australia for sports cameras.
JVC for providing us with the HM100E - the “Bulldog” of lightweight HD pro cameras. Beautiful images, incredibly easy workflow (essential when shooting, uploading and backing up on the fly) - an all-round legend of a camera for adventure documentaries.
All of my investors who shall remain anonymous. Thank you all for your trust in the project.
Hyundai and Zac Speed for supporting Christophe’s seemingly impossible dream.
My wife Melissa and daughters Anoushka and Philomena for undying support and attempted understanding. xxxx.
To everyone who has kept us going with unnumerable messages of support. Amazing the power of a cheery email when you’re starting to question what you’re doing.
THANK YOU, THANK YOU. This movie will be for all of you. Simon
I have no words today, just tears and photos. Two men, one bike, five cameras. Against all odds, WE DID IT.
More coming in the next few days when I recover some composure.
The Dakar is a race against time. For the drivers, assistance teams, mechanics, the press – for anyone involved, the clock starts the minute the hint of a thought of possible involvement in the race crystallises into a “yes I’m going”, and it doesn’t stop until you hit the finish line. We’re not quite there yet, and the relentless “tick” of the Dakar clock still keeps me up long after the sun has gone down, wakes me up long before the sun rises.
I awoke to the sound of my alarm. 4.30 was the time shown above the photo of my baby daughter Anoushka. I resisted the strong urge to press “sleep”, grabbed my camera and dragged myself out into a dark field filled with a melee of vehicles nearing the end of their 10,000km odyssey.
Christophe was in high spirits for a man with a “sun gun” light being shined in his face as he dressed and put his tent away. We sat at breakfast with the guys from the truck that has been carrying his tires, joking, talking happily. I might even say that we were enjoying ourselves.
I filmed him departing the bivouac as the sun began to rise. I took a rare moment to appreciate the dawn, then began my daily rush for the penultimate time. Clothes and sleeping bag out - tent packed - in the boot of the Fiat – electric tooth brush only luxury of the day – spit on the grass – get in the car – roadbook out – cameras ready – GO.
350 km later, we were at the end of the special. We’d been expecting the same madness as yesterday, but it was surprisingly calm. Our new “friends of the TV crew” status meant there was none of the “shouldn’t really be here” paranoia that I have experienced at times over the last few weeks. I was able to set the camera up on a tripod and settle down for a few hours of a game I’ve become pretty good at, known as “waiting for Christophe”.
The relative ease of my morning was a stark contrast to what Christophe was experiencing on stage.
The last day on sand was pushing him to the limit. Watching the footage from the POV helmet camera, you see Christophe ploughing up a dune, falling below the top, the bike coming down on its side. You hear him shouting in exasperation. He quite literally screams as he tries to push the bike back up, his injured back causing him serious difficulty, his torn triceps thwarting his efforts. And this happens time and time again – bike hits the deck, Christophe struggles to right it, his panting in the helmet microphone bringing home just how much effort he is putting in.
Throughout the rally I have seen Christophe mostly at the beginning and end of stages. His calm, humorous demeanour on most of these occasions makes it easy to overlook just how hard it is to complete even one special – let alone a special, every day for fifteen days. When Christophe finally rode-in today, through the dust kicked up by a car in front of him, it was to successfully finish the penultimate stage of one very hard, very long race.
I am oddly calm, perhaps too tired to feel that much right now. An hour or so ago, I sat on the top of a truck watching the sunset over the bivouac. I turned a camera on myself, trying to capture some thoughts on this night before the final stage and the end of this adventure. I watched myself blinking into the lens, lost really, for anything to say. Perhaps I’ll find words tomorrow, when, if Christophe can stay in that space he has found, we roll into Buenos Aires. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Almost there.
I am writing this under siege, in a service station, about 100km from San Rafael, Argentina. Although we are clearly not driving in the race – merely reporting on it, we were mobbed as we pulled up. I signed autograph after autograph before finally stumbling into this air-conditioned haven. Right now we are holed up with two confused looking American drivers from the Monster Hummer team. The crowd are banging on the windows, staring in, trying to attract the attention of the yanks (my ego would like to think that it’s all about me, but it’s definitely not).One of the many fine things about Argentine servos is the fact that they sell beer, long necks of beer. So as I write, I am supping cold Heineken and watching the mayhem unfold outside.
Last night I felt like I was filming something of a last supper, this morning as I pointed the camera at Christophe over the bivouac table, I was unable to shake the fear that by the end of today, it could all be over. Everything I shot was coloured with “last?”.
We hit the road at around 7.00am, heading to the end of today’s special. This latter part of the rally is attracting spectators in their tens/hundreds of thousands and we had to weave a torrid path through their cars to find a space to leave the car close to the village of San Martin.
It was hot as we walked towards the arrival checkpoint – very hot, definitely up in the high 30s with very little shade. The prospect of a long, hot, nervous wait for Christophe was not one that I relished. I have taken to carrying the hard drive that holds all the footage I have taken with me at all times. I was worried that the intense heat would somehow damage it, so I practically crawled under a thorn bush which offered some shade and prepared to wait.
I soon tired of this uncomfortable predicament and longingly eyed the shady awning under which the official Dakar TV crew were waiting. Earlier in the day, I had sent an SMS to one of the TV guys at the race organisers to have him tell people to expect me at the finish. I had little hope of this leading to anything, but it is at this point that the day started to become officially good. As I wandered over to the awning, a rough looking, Gauloises smoking TV guy was on the phone. I heard my name. “Am I hallucinating? Is it the heat? The exhaustion?” No. before I knew it, I had escaped the sweaty solipsism of the independent film maker and was sat in a camp chair, enjoying banter with the French guys.
The crowd at the finish were frenzied. In amongst the dust being kicked up by a hot wind, they mobbed every bike or car that arrived, chanting, shouting, touting T-shirts, flags, bags, stickers, underwear? To be signed. The French TV producer seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, chain smoking like a madman as he attempted to “shoo” them away from the TV area. It made for great viewing from the luxury of my chair.
It was at least an hour and a half before I even thought about filming – expecting Christophe to come in 2 ½ hours or so behind the leaders. Eventually, I got up and captured some of the madness – a long lens bringing the action close up to me, quite literally in my face. Fifty or so bikes had come through. Rob Pollard among them. Another great performance, finishing in the thirties despite a broken elbow that is causing him serious discomfort.
The Volkswagen cars that are leading the race arrived in, and the crowd broke ranks and went wild. Monsieur Gauloises lit a whole pack at once and ran into the fray, looking ready to cause serious harm to anyone who’d interfere with his broadcast. An immaculately dusty long-haired French TV presenter complete with neck scarf flowing in the wind attempted to look composed as he reported from the heart of the madness.
I stood back, well away from the chaos – letting my long lens bring it all to me. It was out of the corner of this lens that I spied an orange helmet, forging a path through the throngs of passionate fans. I blinked, pulled my face away from the eye-piece, wanting to check this apparition for myself. The French TV presenter laughed a perfectly manicured laugh at a comment from one of the VW drivers. The TV crew’s camera captured the whole manufactured scene, and right out of their shot and into mine came Christophe.
There is, so I’m told a position you can find on a motorbike where riding becomes effortless. In the face of an injured back, a torn triceps and 13 days of hard riding, it is this Zen riding state that Christophe found today. He rode better, faster, more efficiently than he has on any day since the race began. How, I do not know, but somewhere amidst the sun scorched rocks and parched sierra earth between San Juan and San Raphael, Christophe found the something that maybe, just maybe could take him through to Buenos Aires.
The conventions that govern movies in the western world are so entrenched in our consciousness that we can almost sense when a crux event is about to take place.
Not so real life.
The day began early. Guido, the Argentine photographer now joining us in the Fiat awoke me at 2.30 am. We were in the car, winding our way up through the Andes by 3.00am. by 5.00, we had stopped and I was hiking up an empty trail to get a dawn view of Mount Aconcuagua – the highest mountain in the world outside of the Himalayas. The air was freezing, as one would expect at an altitude of 3000m. Despite two fleeces and a jacket I was shivering, and, as I tried to shoot images of the majestic peak, I genuinely worried about frostbite to my fingers. But what a sight – over 6900m of pure beauty in the perfect dawn light. To complete the dawn tableau, I watched a mule train weave its way up towards base camp, carrying supplies for the climbers no doubt preparing for an attempt on the summit.
I had few thoughts of the race as we started off once more, heading down through the mountains, enjoying the views, contemplating climbing or hiking trips in the area with my wife and daughters.
I look back now, barely 10 hours or so later and realise I had started to see us making it to Buenos Aires as a given. Since the dramas of 3 or 4 days ago, everything had gone smoothly, stage after stage taking us closer to a happy ending. Yes we were tired, dirty, hot, ready to go home, but we’d be heading home victorious. Now we are tired beyond anything I’ve ever known, dirty, hot and ready to go home, but an agonising question mark hangs over whether Christophe can finish this merciless race. The Dakar has pulled yet another card from the banker’s deck – remains to be seen whether we can trump it.
We stopped at a point not far from Checkpoint 1 to shoot some images of the special. It was spectacular stuff, in a spectacular setting. The cars, bikes and trucks drawing long plumes of dust through the scrubland as they raced up a valley that creates an impression on the spectator of a natural fish – eye (or have I been spending too much time staring through a camera lens?). I fired off a minute or so of footage of Christophe as he passed – comfortable, in control, every kilometre taking him closer to Buenos Aires.
It can’t have been very long after this that it happened.
The bike fought out of Christophe’s control. He hung on with such fierce desire, reasserting his command with such an adamant refusal to give in to the bike’s dark intent that he tore the triceps of his left arm.
It was about 5.30 pm as we pulled into the bivouac – about 15 hours since we set out. We headed straight for Christophe’s camp. “Just three to go”, I said, slapping him on the back. In my mind I was contemplating a potential white water rafting trip tomorrow after shooting the start of the special. That was before I saw the bandage, heard the story of 150 agonising kilometres over harsh rocky ground and felt the lash of a new twist in the tale.
I filmed Christophe over dinner; unable to keep the lens off the mask of grim determination that has overtaken him. He couldn’t get much down, despite having been extremely hungry. I couldn’t pull the lens away. We sat opposite each other, silent, knowing what we have shared, are sharing, what we have set out to do. The camera somehow the bond that joins us in this insane adventure. Scenes like these can’t be scripted; they have to be lived.
On the falsely cheerful walk over to dinner, Christophe told me the story of a one armed guy on the Ivory Coast who used to compete in motocross. “If he can do, so can I” is what he said. Perhaps he can. But what had appeared to me as three formalities are now three long, painful stages – tomorrow over rocks, the next day over sand dunes and if, against what any sane human being would rate at the very least as long odds, he gets through those – a final leg into Buenos Aires.
I believe. We believe. We didn’t come this far to go out before the end. The Dream is still alive.
Last full day in Chile. I’m afraid I’m writing this in a huge hurry, about to hop in the car and drive 500km to San Juan in Argentina. So no waxing lyrical today. Suffice to say it was a long very hot day. Christophe is in, safe and sound but with a very sore back. I speak for us both when I say we’re looking forward to getting home. Even terminal positive thinker Christophe seemed to waver a little as we picked our way through the scorching rocks and scrub to the tents.
Another day, another baking bivouac. I have dust in every available orifice. Today felt like one of those days where you feel the need to convince yourself that you’ll look back on all this as an amazing experience. Amazing the power of fore-hind-sight.
Must not and will not grumble. The Dream is alive. I can almost smell the podium. Reminds me - I haven’t had a shower in about 5 days. Lucky you can’t scratch and sniff a blog entry.
I promise I’ll do better tomorrow. My post should include a dawn photo of MT ACONCAGUA at 6959m. Excited!
Would have been useful to post this at the start of the journey. But here, by request from the kids at the Little Red Schoolhouse in NYC is a map. I hope you guys are enjoying the journey. I’m currently in Santiago, about to cross the Andes back into Argentina and San Juan.
I used practically every camera I have today, gradually downsizing as batteries ran flat or SD cards filled up. Started with the JVC HM100E and ended up filming Christophe eating dinner using my little pocket FLIP HD camera. I’m now sitting in the media tent at 10.00pm with hours of recharging and data transfer ahead of me.
My day started with a hitch up to the starting line of the special with some guys from a Polish team with a 4x4. The incredible variety of nationalities involved is definitely one of the great pleasures of being part of the Dakar. Whether you’re a motor sports fanatic or not, the great mixture of people that the race brings together is fantastic. We seem to speak an odd patois fusion of French, English and Spanish to communicate with each other – very entertaining.
Today, the bikes started in lines of 20 – motocross style (so I’m told). A spectacular sight to see them roaring up a massive dune side by side with the TV chopper overhead. I’d already run out of batteries on the JVC so was shooting 60FPS hand held on the little Go Pro, hoping to get some nice material for a slo-mo. We’ll see.
Christophe was a little nervous as he lined up. After all, it was on this day that he fell and broke his arm last year. His back is also pretty sore from his fall the other day, and every time the bike goes down on the sand, it takes a lot of effort and pain for him to lift it back up.
I watched him tear off into the distance in the dust and headed back to the bivouac and then back in the car on our way to La Serena.
Most of the journey was unremarkable in the sense that we have been in the desert for so long now that it has become the norm. As we neared La Serena, however, we saw greenery for the first time in what seems an eternity. It wasn’t the sight that struck me so much as the smell. You are only aware of the smell of living plants when you have not experienced it for a time.
Among these plants are innumerable cacti (cactuses) – the kind that you see in westerns and Wiley Coyote comic books. You can apparently tell a male from a female cactus by the number of spines. Probably some botanist geek’s idea of a joke!
Also among the cacti and scrub as we approached La Serena was a young lady, who, much to the delight of two males starved of female company for almost two weeks was kind enough to flash her breasts as we drove past. Not wishing to let such a kind gesture go unrewarded, Jacob promptly pulled a U-turn and returned to present her with one of the small Australian flags we’ve been carrying for such occasions. No, unfortunately there was no repeat performance.
Our arrival in La Serena was spectacular. Everywhere we have been, we’ve been greeted my swarms of people, but here, the streets were chock a block with flag waving, smiling, happy people all wanting to be part of the Dakar. Amazing! We had people tapping the roof and rocking the car – and we’re not even racing. It must be an incredible sight for a rider or driver after a hard day in the desert. Once we’d parked the car in the bivouac, I went back out on foot with a camera to try and catch some of the atmosphere. The vibe was so warm and up-beat that I even forgot to worry about how Christophe was going. So much so that I almost missed a great shot of him, arms raised as he rolled through the ebullient crowd at the end of another successful stage. Day 8 broken arm demons – GONE! Onwards to Santiago…
The footage you see below was shot using a POV 1.5 helmet camera provided by our good friends at www.sportscamera.com.au
