24 Hours of Le Mans Classic with Leica: A photographer’s dream weekend

There are, in this life, moments of unadulterated delight. Like finding an extra French fry at the bottom of the paper bag. Or discovering that the hotel you’ve just checked into has a bidet that doesn’t double as a medieval torture device. And then there’s getting an invitation to the 24 Hours of Le Mans Classic — with Leica.

I don’t mind telling you that when the Leica Camera Academy in Paris, via the boutique in Marseille, extended the offer, I very nearly wept into my espresso. Not out of sentimentality, but mostly because I was halfway through a fasting protocol and quite lightheaded. Nevertheless, I rallied.

I packed the car, and departed from the Luberon just as the first light crept across the lavender fields. My Friday morning drive north should have been a pleasant jaunt. Should have.

In practice, however, it was a slow-motion exodus of every human being in France who’d also decided that this school holiday weekend was the perfect time to clog the arteries of every A-ROAD. You know, the ones that you haemorrhage money to at every toll booth. Thankfully, not all of them were heading to the Le Mans Classic.

Arrival in Luceau: ducks, charm, and very little sleep

Eight hours later—eight hours that included a near existential crisis somewhere near Tours, and a brief but passionate hatred of GPS voices—I arrived in the tiny village of Luceau, or as I now refer to it, paradise near Le Mans. Sadly, I was too exhausted to even take one photograph of this small paradise before falling asleep.

My accommodation was a chambre d’hôte, so picturesque that it made you want to take up watercolour painting to do it justice. It was built around a pond, or perhaps a moat, complete with waterfowl that clearly took their role as nighttime troubadours quite seriously. You have not known true rustic charm until you’ve been serenaded by a choir of deranged ducks at 3.47 am.

Leica hospitality trackside: croissants and cameras

Saturday began at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m., which should frankly be illegal unless you’re a baker or a milkman. I drove in the pre-dawn murk to the designated parking area near the Le Mans circuit. I was collected there by a professional driver named Pedro in a 1963 Citroen 2CV so clean it may have doubled as an operating theatre. Just kidding.

It was cluttered with enough tiki-themed accoutrements to make Jimmy Buffett consider Margaritaville a tad underdressed. Pedro whisked me past hordes of bleary-eyed spectators who were already queuing for overpriced sausages, and deposited me at the Leica Terrace. That sounds like a wine bar in Kensington but is, in fact, an exclusive viewing platform adjacent to the grandstand.

Next door to us were terraces hosted by Richard Mille the watchmaker, and Ferrari. Leica, bless them, know how to do things properly. There was a breakfast spread that could only be described as sublime. Flaky croissants, dense pain au chocolat, and enough coffee to jumpstart a Boeing.

We were briefed on the Le Mans Classic schedule for the day and the photography access we would be granted, which turned out to be as close to a golden ticket as one can get without being a blonde German boy named Charlie.

Photographing the race: in the heart of the action

The plan included pit access. That meant we would be photographing the ongoing classic races from vantage points normally reserved for people wearing lanyards and headsets. People who use the word “aero” unironically.

These were not static museum pieces posing for Instagram influencers. These were proper, glorious, rumbling beasts—Ferraris and Ford GTs and Jaguars and Bentleys, some from my birth year, some so old they probably remembered the Treaty of Versailles.

To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I had imagined a series of fenced-off concours d’elegance displays with bored millionaires polishing their bonnets with microfiber cloths. What I got instead was pure, unfiltered mechanical joy.

The pit experience: grease, glamour, and glorious noise

These cars were being raced, not coddled. Driven hard, pushed to limits, and occasionally limped back into the pits with bits trailing like wounded soldiers. Mechanics darted about, drivers barked in various languages, and the whole thing had the slightly chaotic energy of a Wes Anderson film directed by Guy Ritchie.

And there I was, in the middle of it all, camera in hand, trying to remember how to breathe. One of my favourite moments came while photographing a 1965 Ford GT40, the sort of car that turns petrolheads into poets at events like the Le Mans Classic.

The driver climbed out, glistening with sweat, and greeted his crew with the kind of brief, masculine nod that says, “Yes, I did just happen to chase a 1959 Aston Martin DBR1 around the Bugatti circuit at speeds that would make my cardiologist weep.”

The Leica SL3-S performed beautifully, as it always does, rendering every oily detail and carbon stain with such elegance you half expected the photos to smell faintly of tobacco and heroism.

I was particularly drawn to the Jaguars, who wore their age with British aplomb—stoic, powerful, and slightly disdainful of anything newer than Margaret Thatcher.

Golden hour at the circuit: a photographer’s nirvana

There was a break midday where we were treated to a proper lunch on the terrace—canapés, salads and countless other snacks all served by a wonderful young man who worked tirelessly. l had in depth conversations with fellow Leica obsessives who used words like “bokeh” in a non-ironic way.

It was all delightfully nerdy and oddly intimate, the kind of gathering where you realize that while your family may never understand why you needed another lens, these people do. After lunch came more pit visits and grandstand shooting opportunities.

As the day wore on, the light softened into that golden-hour brilliance that makes every photo look like it belongs on the cover of Octane or L’Automobile Classique. I stood trackside, listening to the rise and fall of engines, the air thick with the scent of fuel and ambition. It was, in the truest sense of the word, intoxicating.

Final thoughts: Leica, Le Mans Classic, and lingering exhaust fumes

There is something deeply humbling about watching these machines perform as they were meant to. They’re not locked away in temperature-controlled garages or polished beyond recognition. They are used. Raced. Loved. And in their movement, they tell stories of engineering excellence, of driver bravado, of a time when the world moved faster and smelled of Castrol and cordite.

By early evening, I was back in Luceau, exhausted in that deeply satisfying way that only comes from standing in one place for ten hours with a 280mm lens glued to your face. The ducks were still at it, obviously. But I barely noticed. My head was filled with the low growl of V12s, the click of a shutter, the murmur of Leica enthusiasts arguing over Summilux versus Summicron.

Would I do another trip to the Le Mans Classic? In a heartbeat. But next time I’ll bring substantive earplugs for the races and the ducks.

More photos will be forthcoming—just as soon as I sort through the 1,147 I took. And yes, one of them might just be of a duck. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday. Those remaining images will find their way to my SL3-S Gallery page eventually.

Equipment used

All of the included images were shot with the Leica SL3-S, accompanied by the Leica Q3. Lenses used were the Leica 24-90mm, 28-70mm, 90-280mm and the 100-400mm.

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