That would be from room 235 of the London Marriott County Hall. I plan on requesting it from here on in.

It’s a tradition I have after every British open; treating myself to a day’s stopover in London. Nothing to do, no one to see, no pressure–just leave the equipment cases in storage at Heathrow, hop on the train, and be back in London in time for a little nap and a wander into Soho for some dinner. Maybe a little sightseeing the next day, a trip to Jermyn Street for a couple of shirts at Harvie & Hudson (my favorite), and of course a stop to load up on literally pounds of Cadbury Dairy Milks, Wispas, and Nestle Aeros to smuggle back across the pond.

And of course there’s The Run. My favorite in the world, and not to be missed. Forget the double-decker bus tours; here is my way of seeing the sights in London: Leave the County Hall at 5:30 a.m. just as the sun is starting to glint off of Big Ben. Cross Westminster Bridge, hang a right on the embankment, and run up Northumberland Street to Trafalgar Square. Head up the Mall, with Buckingham Palace right in front in the distance, and continue all the way to Wellington Arch and Hyde Park Corner. At 1.6 miles, a round trip from there is a nice little 5K; or if I’m feeling up to it, Hyde Park beckons for as much as I feel like. And then back down the Mall, over the Jubilee Bridge, and, again depending on what distace I feel like doing, either turn left and head for Tower Bridge, or turn right and slip past the Eye–either way I’ll wind up at the Starbucks just past the hotel for a much needed cool-down cup of coffee.

It’s a great way to unwind from a week of craziness, and a tradition I hope to continue for a long time to come.

Going on no sleep is not good; doing it for five straight days is a bit insane. Look, I’m not complaining and please don’t take it that way. But the next time someone tells me that they’d love to have my job I’d like them to consider this: Since getting off of an overnight flight (that was the last of four starting at 6 a.m. Tuesday) on Wednesday morning, I’ve gotten no more than 3 1/2 hours of sleep a night, left the house at 6:30 or earlier every day, and been at the golf course until at least 10 each night. Dinner has never been eaten before 10:30 p.m., and I will have completed no less than seven full circuits of the Old Course in a four-day span–half of them in the pouring rain. This is hard, tiring work, fun as it may be.

Of course I wouldn’t trade it for the world, though. And now the St. Andrews Starbucks beckons one more time, as does a nice long nap in London this afternoon!

No pressure, right?

I’ve written more about my work with the device–in fact, I’ve devoted an entire section of this site–here if you’re interested. But for the purposes of this week’s project, it entailed getting access to a balcony that overlooks the 18th hole at the MacDonald Rusacks Hotel, setting up the system (A Gigapan Epic Pro unit, Canon EOS 7D, and EF 70-200mm f4 lens), and letting it run while I left to photograph the champion arriving at the 18th green.

In addition to being an amazing hotel steeped in the tradition, lore, and personality of the town of St. Andrews (and one I’d highly recommend looking into if you ever need a place to stay while there), the staff at the Rusacks is top-notch. I’d contacted hotel’s general manager a couple of months earlier, and then, once on site, met with its sales and marketing director, and they could not have been more helpful or professional. I explained that I needed to clamp a camera rig to a balcony railing, and that I, or someone helping me, would need to access the balcony intermittently, all on what is probably the noisiest, most hectic day they’ll ever see.

That's the Gigapan unit with camera and lens attached, in operation (it's next to my backup, single-frame remote, mounted just in case). If you look closely, you can also find Christian on the balcony, third head from the left.

They gave their blessing, and at 7 a.m. on Sunday, so as to stay out of the way of the staff and guests, I began setting up the system and shooting test shots. The entire image comprises 512 frames, shot across 32 columns and sixteen rows, with an elapsed time of approximately 30 minutes. When the leaders were on about the 13th hole on Sunday afternoon, I made my way up to the balcony, double-checked the positioning and setup of the unit, and started it on its way. I then left for my predetermined spot at the back of the 18th green (if you look carefully you can spot me in the gigapan image–I’m wearing a blue and black jacket and looking at the back of my camera) to cover the winning putt. In order to get the timing right, Christian positioned himself out of the way on the balcony in the afternoon during the final shot and paused and re-started the unit to ensure that the players were on the green at the appropriate time during the shot. As I told him later, he nailed the timing, even getting it so that the flagstick was still in the hole.

All in all, I’d call it a successful shot. Feel free to linger and browse around a little!

Years ago I thought that was a very altruistic approach. I mean, we should all have the opportunity, at least once per tournament, to walk eighteen holes with the greatest golfer who ever lived, right?

Only lately have I come to realize that it’s not that at all, and that the situation needs to be turned on its head. The reason we all get Tiger at least once isn’t because it’s good for the person who’s covering him–it’s to give the other guys a break. Forget sharing the wealth. It’s only fair to spread the hell around a little.

Fair to spread the hell of massive, crushing galleries, of being cursed at, spit on, pushed, and pulled by spectators who, unlike those who comprise your typically knowledgable, “normal” Open galleries, apparently have very little regard for the game or its traditions (to say nothing of us photographers, but that’s neither here nor there). Of having the rules for coverage changed on us at the last second without warning–of being able to sit in a particular spot all day long, only to be told two minutes before His Greatness appears that we can’t be there. Of goon-squad security guards and uniformed police officers packing pistols in the middle of the fairway. Of the need to operate with an even more heightened sense of awareness that even the slightest misstep could cost you a tongue-lashing from The Man himself or, worse yet, his caddie, even if the real culprit was the guy next to you with his Rebel XT who can’t figure out how to turn off the autofocus beep. Following Tiger is about as stressful an assignment as one can have on the golf course. And today was my day.

Well, tomorrow’s Sunday. The really important one. And I have a special little project to work on that you’ll hear all about later…

We had all, of course, planned ahead, and I took up a position in a photo tower overlooking the 17th green, for a wide shot of the bridge, the town, and the R&A clubhouse. I got there early, figuring it would be packed. It wasn’t. My good friend Fred Vuich had gotten there before me, and for the next hour or so we waited, freezing our asses off and trying to talk to each other above a howling wind. Thanks to the weather delay earlier, it was 9:45 p.m. and barely bright enough to see–let alone shoot–by the time Tom crossed the bridge. In a stroke of good fortune, I managed to catch a few strobes from the photographers who were lined up in front of the bridge for the occasion.

On a related weather note, can we talk about something else? It rained today.

Let me amend that: It rained sideways today.

It was, in short, typical Scottish golf weather. Cold and chilly in the morning, with a little mist that gave way to intermittent showers, and then all hell broke loose. The wind kicked up and a cold, driving rain, its heavy drops pushed sideways by the gusts, hammered the course. And then, the sun popped out, for a little while anyways, until the clouds rolled back in. And then, as the evening arrived, the sun broke through the clouds one last time, bathing the 18th hole in a glorious, golden light.

It was the kind of day when you had no choice but to leave the rain gear on all day, because you just never knew. Okay, here comes the shameless plug: Thank heaven for Think Tank rain covers.

Here’s what I love about these things: You can leave them on all day. They go on in a second without having to disconnect the lens from the body, sure, but here’s the problem with that: In Scotland, you may not have a second. And today we didn’t. Once the covers are on, its just as easy to shoot with them as if they were off. The peace of mind that that offers (not to mention the ability to not miss a shot as you scramble to find shelter to put covers on, as was the case in the past) cannot be underestimated.

I remember a few years ago, shooting the British Open at Hoylake, we had a similar day. I was very excited to test out a new cover for my 400 f 2.8 that Think Tank had sent me to evaluate. It rained sideways that day, too, and while the covers repelled everything, I noticed a few flaws. That night I e-mailed Mike Sturm and Doug Murdoch at Think Tank, and told them what I thought. The cover was fantastic, I said. But it needed a flap to cover the eyepiece, and they needed to work on some kind of cap for the front of the lens, too.

Now, I’m sure I couldn’t have been the only one who noticed this. But a week later, a package arrived at my door. Mike had sent along a cap he’d devised, and asked me to give it a go. Fast forward a year or so. the Think Tank Hydrophobia for the 70-200 comes out–with an integrated eyepiece flap and a drop-away cover for the front element. These guys listen. they implement. And it shows in their finished product. When I took my 70-200 cover out of the box earlier this year, I e-mailed Mike and told him that, just after looking at it and not even testing it, I think he may have just created the perfect camera rain cover. This week, the true test occurred. In two days of hard rain so far, I’ve had zero equipment failures. None.

In fact, I haven’t even been worried. That’s how confident I am in their stuff.

Every. Single. Time.

It seems oh-so-important on the Thursday of any major, but especially this one: the Open Championship at the Home of Golf, the historic implications of what might happen in four days’ time banging around in my head about as loudly as the alarm clock that just informed me it’s either 5 a.m. in Scotland or, according to my head, midnight back home. I haul my jet-lagged rear end out of bed, discover, to my dismay, that there’s no coffee maker (let alone coffee) in our rental house, and yet still manage to navigate the winding road from Cupar to St. Andrews in time. My brain is already fried not only by the time difference but then, too, by a sunrise that seems to have occurred at three in the morning. But whatever fog I’m in, I tell myself that I have to be there. Because whatever might happen this week, it all starts today.

I have to get the “First ball.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

Nobody’s told me I have to do it. Nobody’s expecting it. Hell, I don’t even really want to do it, but there’s something nagging in my head that makes me feel the need to go, to stand out on the golf course with a bunch of other brave souls in the bleakest hours of the morning, and make sure I get a picture of a guy hitting a tee shot. One that looks just like any other tee shot. Without a caption to tell you, you’d never know the difference. Hell, if it weren’t for the fact that this was the very first shot of this year’s Open, this picture probably wouldn’t make it past my first edit. Call it a work ethic if you want. Call it guilt. Mix the two together and call me a Calvinist. Or just call me stupid.

You see, it happens every time. When it’s hit, that first ball seems like it’s the most critical shot of the tournament, a piece of living history. There won’t ever be another one. And for my part, it proves to me that I was there. I wasn’t late. I didn’t miss it. I feel good about myself.

And then, about an hour later, I start running into people I know in the press room. They haven’t unpacked yet, but they see me all ready and raring to go. Cameras out, rain pants on, wide awake and alert from the five or six cups of coffee I’ve already downed. “Man, you’re here early,” they’ll say. Or offer some variation thereof.

“Had to get the first ball,” I say.

“Really? Why?”

It’s at that moment that I realize that that’s a damned good question.

6 a.m. Tuesday: Jake and I board a flight to DFW, onward to La Guardia. ETA: 12:30.
12:30 p.m. Tuesday: Jake and I are on board our flight from DFW to La Guardia. But we’re not there yet.
1:30 p.m. Tuesday: Jake and I are in Richmond. Something about weather closing LGA and the plane running out of gas if we don’t land somewhere soon. Under the circumstances, I’ll settle for Richmond. While we’re there, in the interests of keeping a 5 year-old occupied, I ask the pilot if he wouldn’t mind giving Jake a tour of the cockpit. He obliged, and Jake was ecstatic.
3:30 p.m. Tuesday: I’m on the phone with American Airlines trying to get myself protected on the 11:35 JFK-London flight. I never dreamed a 9 1/2 hour connection wouldn’t be enough, but it’s starting to look like a possibility.
4:00 p.m. Tuesday: We’re off. To La Guardia. They promise.
5:30 p.m. Tuesday: Mom and Dad meet us at LGA. Time for a quick dinner, and then straight on to Kennedy for my 9:15 to London.
9:15 p.m. Tuesday: We have what in airline-speak is called a “Decision Time” of 10 p.m. on our flight. In English, that means, “Sit down, shut up, and wait for an hour until we decide to tell you if this flight as actually going tonight. Have a nice day.”
11:15 p.m. Tuesday: Wheels up over Jamaica Bay. ETA at Heathrow is now 10:45 a.m. My flight to Glasgow is at 12:15. If worrying would make the plane go faster, I would. But it won’t, so I don’t. My upgrade cleared at the last second, so I’m able to change into some sweats and stretch out. I order a scotch and soda, sip it while I watch two episodes of “Entourage,” put the seat in the full-flat position, and sleep like a baby for the next six hours.
11:35 a.m. Wednesday: I clear immigration at Heathrow T5. My Glasgow flight is boarding. So much for having a nice relaxing shower, changing clothes and grabbing some breakfast in the British Airways lounge. I feel like dirt. I feel sorry for the person who has to sit next to me on the flight to Scotland.
2:30 p.m. Wednesday: Ah, Scotland. Even at the airport there’s a certain smell in the air; it’s misting, it’s chilly, and I love it. Yes, even at a dreary, gray airport I’m reminded of how much I love being here and how much I’ve missed it.
2:32 p.m. Wednesday: I walk across the street to Hertz, pick up the keys to my sporty little Renault Scenic, and promptly get into the passenger’s seat and wonder why the steering wheel is missing. I gingerly exit the vehicle, checking to see if anyone caught that. I try to appear as nonchalant as possible. It doesn’t work.
4-ish p.m. Wednesday: I love driving in Scotland. Mark Knopfler making a guitar sound like bagpipes on the iPod, road signs for towns that roll off the tongue like Stirling, Braemar, and Auchterarder whizzing by… It’s too bad I really have to concentrate on keeping the car on the wrong side of the road. I’d like more time to take this all in.
6:00 p.m. Wednesday: At long last, 30 hours later, I’m here. The real work starts tomorrow. First tee time is 6:30 a.m., and I plan on being there.

ROB BELL, 2001 NATIONAL FINALS RODEO
Bull rider Rob Bell got himself hung up on Real Deal, a bull who was not in the most favorable of moods, at the 2001 National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. I’ve covered the NFR every year since 1998 for Sports Illustrated, and this image is my all-time favorite from the event. Captured at the moment Bell lost consciousness, and shot using arena strobes (in other words, single frame, with no motor drive) from an elevated position that I’ve come to like for bull riding, it certainly involved a little bit of luck. But there’s a lot more that went into it than that, which calls to mind Louis Pasteur’s reasoning that “Chance favors the prepared mind.” (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1V with a Canon 400mm f2.8 lens, Fuji Provia 100 film, Speedotron 2401B strobes with quad-tube heads).

BYRON NELSON, 2006
Photographed as part of a Sports Illustrated portrait series on former United States Ryder Cup Captains, I had the opportunity to photograph golfing legend Byron Nelson at his home in Roanoke, Texas shortly before his death in September 2006. Kind, outgoing, and not to mention patient with me as I photographed him in his garage on a hot late summer afternoon, this was easily my favorite portrait assignment of the decade. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Linhof Master Technika with Schneider-Linhof 240mm f 6.3 lens, Polaroid Type 55 film, Profoto strobes with an Elinchrom Octa-bank).



TIGER WOODS, 2003 WESTERN OPEN
Say what you want about the guy, given the past month’s turn of events–but Tiger is still arguably the greatest golfer to have ever walked the planet. He’s so good that he can tell whether his shot is good, bad, or horrendous in the time it takes his club to get from the point of impact to his follow through. And when it’s horrendous, the pictures can be pretty interesting… (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1D with a Canon 400mm f2.8 lens, available light).


SMITHSON VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL LOCKER ROOM, 2004
Following a David vs. Goliath-type victory over rival Westlake, the Smithson Valley High School locker room erupted in cheers. Photographed as part of Sports Illustrated’s 50th Anniversary project, the game was played outside of San Antonio and was used to represent Texas’ primary contribution to sports in America–high school football. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1D with a Canon 14mm f2.8 lens, available light).

THE GREAT TEXAS BIRDING CLASSIC
Bill Baker and Greg Mason team up during the 2008 Great Texas Birding Classic near Galveston, Texas. Photographed on assignment for Texas Highways magazine, I had the chance to spend three days with that year’s winning team, and to be introduced to a “sport” with which I was not familiar–and pleasantly surprised at the passion and camaraderie exhibited in the process. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Leica M6 with a Leitz 21mm f 2.8 lens, Tri-X 400 film, available light).

OPENING TIP-OFF, TENNESSEE AT TEXAS
Rigging a remote camera triggered via radio in the scoreboard hanging over mid-court at the Frank Erwin Special Events Center in Austin yielded a rarely-seen view of the opening tip-off of the Tennessee-Texas basketball game in December of 2005. As this was shot using arena strobes I was a bit apprehensive about getting this as a single frame, but everything only had to work once, and it did. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1D with a Canon 17-35mm f2.8 lens, Pocketwizard Multi-Max transceivers, Speedotron 2401B strobes with quad-tube heads).


TEXAS MOTOR SPEEDWAY, 2007
I really don’t have anything against auto racing, but there are only so many times I can watch people make left turns while zipping past my trackside position at 150+ miles an hour. So as the sun went down over the Texas Motor Speedway during the 2007 Dickies 400, I climbed up to the roof of the grandstand, and for good measure brought my tilt-shift lenses along with me. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 5D with a Canon 90mm f2.8 tilt-shift lens, available light).


ROBERT EARL KEEN, 2008
It took a move from New York to Austin to learn to appreciate the music of this Texas songwriting legend, but I’m glad it worked out that way. And speaking of things working out, his agreeing to make the two-hour trip from his home to New Braunfels and Gruene Hall, Texas’ oldest dance hall, for the portrait shoot allowed me to finally make a picture that I’d had stored in the back of my mind for years. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Linhof Technika III with a Schneider-Linhof 150mm f5.6 lens, Kodak TXP 320 film, Profoto strobe with beauty dish mixed with ambient light).


THE MIKE COOLBAUGH STORY, 2007
By far the hardest series of portraits I’ve ever had to do. Sports Illustrated assigned me to illustrate a feature on the death of Mike Coolbaugh, former major league baseball player and first-base coach of the minor-league Tuslsa Drillers, who was killed by a foul ball hit by Driller’s catcher Tino Sanchez (on the left), leaving behind his pregnant wife, Mandy, and sons Joey, age 5 (left) and Jake, age 3. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1Ds Mark II with a 28-70mm f 2.8 lens, Profoto strobes).


DOUG SANDERS, 2004
A flamboyant golfer of the 1960s and 1970s who stood three feet from golfing immortality–or at least a major championship–at the 1970 British Open before missing the putt to win, Sanders still likes to think of himself as a man about town. To others, he’s still stuck back in the glory years of his heyday. While he’s still funny as hell on the set and a rather harmless charmer toward any female crew member in the studio, I’m inclined to believe the latter. This shoot, for Golf Digest, was my third time photographing him; each time he opened up a bit more and the facade began to crack. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Mamiya RZ-67 with a 180mm f3.5 lens, Fuji Provia 100 film, Balcar strobes).


PHIL MICKELSON BLOWS THE U.S. OPEN
“I am such an idiot,” he said, and truer words were never spoken than on that Sunday afternoon in June after Phil Mickelson double-bogeyed the 18th hole at Winged Foot to lose the 2006 U.S. Open. Photographed on assignment for Golf World magazine, I was actually positioned behind Mickelson when he crouched down and ever so briefly held his head in his hands after realizing the enormity of what he’d just done; fortunately I had a remote camera clamped to the grandstand which was able to capture a wide view of the scene. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1D with a Canon 28-70mm f2.8 lens, Pocketwizard Multi-Max transceivers).


JUSTIN LEONARD, 2005
Assigned to photograph golfer Justin Leonard at home for a Golf World cover story, my assistant and I showed up at his house loaded for bear with cameras, lights, and whatever else we could fit in the truck. After scouting out the house and determining which elaborate setups we’d like to do and where we wanted to do them, I asked Justin if he wouldn’t mind giving me about twenty minutes or so to set things up. No problem, he said, and promptly plopped down on the sofa in the living room, whereupon he began tossing his daughter, Reese, into the air. “Forget the lights,” I told my assistant. I grabbed a camera and we were done in the twenty minutes I thought I’d need to set things up. (Info for the gear-obsessed: Canon EOS 1Ds with a Canon 17-35mm f2.8 lens, available light).