Two decades covering the Tour de France feels almost absurd when I put it in writing. My debut came as Lance Armstrong's empire first started to falter. I shot him riding around the Champs-Elysees using a film SLR, not realizing that neither film cameras nor his standing would hold up well over time.

Now I find myself back at the beginning, seated outside a cafe near Place de la Concorde and enjoying a cafe creme as Paris goes about its usual business. A pair shares a laugh over their meal. A person strolls with a very pampered poodle. A waiter in a waistcoat tries in vain to convince two visitors that vodka pairs well with a croissant. In a few hours the world's largest cycling event will roar through these avenues. For now it remains an ordinary Sunday morning.

One odd aspect of the Tour is how it rolls in like a mobile circus, stirs total disruption for several hours, then slips away without fanfare.

On the first stage I rode the moto. Such opportunities have grown rare. Before the pandemic eighteen accredited photography motos followed the race. Now only nine remain, with smaller agencies combining resources to keep their spots. I work alongside a modest Belgian-Italian group, so when my turn arrives I make full use of it.

My schedule this year featured the opening team time trial, several flat sprint days, and the mountain finish at Orcieres-Merlette. It may not have been Alpe d'Huez, yet few decline a day aboard a Tour motorcycle.

The opening stage lacked drama from the bike, so I let Barcelona tell the story. The Sagrada Familia served as my setting. Once my usually upbeat driver vanished into the distance I noticed all my water bottles had gone with him. Fortunately it was not the height of a Spanish heatwave. The day could have been far longer.

A 400mm lens isolated riders from the cathedral shadows before I changed to a 24mm as they passed, attempting to fit Gaudi's creation into the frame, crane included. By the last teams I had grown skilled at managing cameras while panning quickly.

Between passes an older spectator at the barriers with two professional cameras kept me amused, recounting his start as a Navy photographer and his work with figures from Reagan to Obama. I checked him online later, half expecting an odd tale. The search confirmed his stories. He had enjoyed the career many photographers only imagine.

Perhaps noticing I was wilting on the hot asphalt, Danish supporters took me in for the afternoon and kept me supplied with chilled water until the final team finished.

Returning to the moto for stage 18 felt nothing like Barcelona. The tight Alpine roads left little space for riders, team cars and the odd motorcycle. We spent the afternoon moving between the break and the peloton, pausing now and then for wide mountain views before rushing back into place.

With three kilometres left Richard Carapaz attacked. He chose our side of the road. One instant he trailed us, the next he drew level. My driver twisted the throttle while I swung the camera across. For several lively seconds I shot one-handed while gripping the bike. Not surprisingly the sharpest element in some frames was the memory.

Stage 19 belonged to Tadej Pogacar. On Alpe d'Huez he broke Marco Pantani's long-standing climbing mark. My task was to wait at the finish rather than ride the mountain. Recent Tours have restricted access near the winner, swapping the old photographer scrum for tighter control, so placement matters greatly. At this stage it means anticipating how riders will behave after the line.

Because the finish climbs and the podium sits close by, he will not travel far, so I took a spot on the back line of grey-bibbed photographers and readied a wide lens for close work. To catch the line I photographed the celebrations there and tracked where Pogacar would stop. Moving carefully to secure my spot I avoided blocking colleagues while holding my ground and finding the right angle.

The images succeeded and I can relax knowing we have what the evening news requires. Records stay abstract until you stand twenty metres away when they are broken.

On the last Alpine stage, positioned on the Galibier, I chose the composition, mounted the camera on a tripod with a cable release, yet needed someone to trigger the remote while I worked elsewhere. Ryan, a cycling writer and travel partner with no photography background, suddenly held responsibility for my third camera. I explained the job. See rider, press button. A few anxious nods followed. Then I left, hoping for the best. He succeeded. Chapeau, Ryan.

On the final day I walk the now-barriered Champs-Elysees as the publicity caravan moves toward the finish. I have allowed enough time to cover the two-kilometre stretch, passing sturdy gendarmes who wave me past with calm detachment. In dark blue uniforms, bulletproof vests, heavy boots and sunglasses, pistols at their hips, they look formidable. I smile and offer a quiet bonjour to each, curious whether I can draw even the slightest response.

The Champs feels altered now. Security has grown stricter, with officers placed every few metres behind the barriers. They accept no errors. Years earlier an American photographer tried to enter the race by jumping a barrier and spent the afternoon in a police van. It serves as a reminder that however relaxed the Tour may seem, it never truly is.

By the time I reach my spot a dozen photographers already stand ready. After several laps I return for extra gear before crossing to the central reservation. Normally the move is automatic: step over the low plastic barrier, land cleanly, continue. I have climbed volcanoes, crossed mountain passes and waded through mangroves without trouble. Yet a two-foot plastic barrier on the Champs-Elysees trips me up.

The camera takes most of the impact. Sadly I still need it for the rest of the race.

An organiser hurries over to check on me while another photographer helps me stand. Apart from minor scrapes I am fine. My pride has suffered nearly as much as the camera. Looking up I see the sympathetic smile of another photographer and a TV cameraman struggling not to laugh. Right. I need another camera.

I call Jim, my companion in the crowd shooting his own images. Minutes later he arrives with a spare body. Crisis avoided.

Twenty Tours later I have learned the race is not really about yellow jerseys or mountain stages. It is about the people you meet, the mishaps you endure and the friends who quietly help when things go wrong. That is what brings me back.