Le Mans 2025: Engines, Heat, and Heartbeats

There’s something wildly romantic about road trips, especially when you’re married, expecting your first child, and heading to one of the most iconic races in the world. This year, to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, Marc and I packed up the car and drove from London to Le Mans, just the two of us—and one very active baby bump.

It was hot. Not the gentle kind of warmth, but the kind that clings to you—thick and golden, buzzing with sunscreen, dust, and excitement. As we pulled into town, the air already shimmered with heat, the streets alive with the hum of fans and engines. It felt like stepping into a world suspended in motion, where everything moved fast but somehow slowed down at the same time.

We settled into our Airbnb, a simple but charming place tucked just far enough from the noise but close enough to feel the pulse of the race. I changed into a light dress, slung my camera around my neck, and we set off toward the circuit.

As someone who’s long admired Ken Miles, it felt surreal to stand where he once raced. There’s a certain reverence at Le Mans if you know its history—a sense that legends aren’t just remembered here, they linger. I paused more than once just to take it all in. I’d watched the films, read the stories, felt the ache of how things ended for him. And now I was here, with Marc beside me and a little life growing inside me, walking the same ground. It felt big—bigger than a race track ever should.

I spent a lot of the day behind my camera, searching for moments between the roar of engines. The light was harsh but cinematic, and the cars gleamed like they were posing just for me. My absolute favourite? The hypercar class—those machines were beautiful. Aggressive and elegant all at once. I must have taken fifty photos of one Toyota, completely mesmerised by the curve of its nose and the way it seemed to glide across the tarmac like it belonged to the future. Marc teased me later: “Pretty sure you love that car more than me.” I didn’t deny it.

As night fell, the track transformed. Headlights sliced through the dark, and a kind of electricity filled the air. The engines took on a new voice—deeper, almost haunting. I tried to stay out as long as I could, not wanting to miss the magic of Le Mans at night. But by around 1 a.m., the day had caught up with me. My back was aching, the soles of my feet were sore, and the baby had begun a gentle protest of kicks. We made our way back to the Airbnb.

The walk back was slow and sweet. We didn’t talk much—just held hands, listening to the hum of distant engines and our own quiet contentment. It was one of those moments that sticks: not loud, not grand, but full of something deeper. The kind of moment you don’t take a photo of because you know you’ll remember it anyway.

That night, lying in bed, I still heard the race in my ears. The sound of engines, the cheer of crowds, and the soft rhythm of the baby inside me—all blending into one steady beat.

Next time, we’ll be back with a little one in tow. Probably with ear defenders. And probably still in awe of those hypercars.