to beige, and then a pale pink as her glow emanates across the sky. Edo is at the wheel, and we're moving quickly across the desert, dancing the old Prado down a dirt road, the tracks barely visible in the low morning light. It's 6:30am and we've been up since shortly before five. The truck is loaded with four photographers, racing across this heartless landscape to get out ahead of Ricky and Skyler and Mason and Ross. All the racers whose social media feeds we will be producing images for - vignettes into their lives here at the Dakar Rally - a quick look at their Stage result, and then you swipe onward, to the next channel, the next content creator, the next racer. In a century that seems obsessed with making sure nothing stays the same, or nothing sticks around, the legacy we leave on this sport through our photography may get lost in the bulging oculus that we see the world through nowadays. Everything disappears. Swipe right for the next post. Scroll past and carry on. Dust in the wind, or whatever....
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