After the race

It’s not the roar of engines or the scent of oil that stays with you—it’s this.

Two men, backs turned, still in their Fiat overalls. The crowd has begun to blur into the night, and the adrenaline has softened into conversation. Maybe they’re swapping lap times, maybe just trading silence.

I took this shot at the end of a vintage car competition. Not during the parade, not at the peak of noise and chrome, but after. When everything meaningful often happens.

Their suits are creased from hours of wear, and the red stitching on the white cotton glows under the street lamps like the last ember of something freshly burned. One leans slightly toward the other—tired, but still tuned to the shared frequency of a long day behind the wheel.

There’s no spectacle here. No glory moment. Just the ordinary poetry of camaraderie and endurance.

Because sometimes, the real race ends not with a flag, but with a conversation.