Waiting and Chasing at the 2025 Trans North Georgia Adventure

I followed the Trans North Georgia Race (TNGA) not as a dot watcher or a racer, but something in between: a photographer driving and pedaling along the route. With a camera in hand, I dropped myself into the race at points along the way, mostly silent, trying to blend into the background. I’ve raced and dot-watched before, but this was different.

• 
• 

• 
• 
• 

I wouldn’t know if racers were stopping for a nap or if their satellite trackers had just stopped updating. Many times, I would find a spot to photograph and wait hours for one person to roll through. It was what I call “actively waiting.” I spent hours in the woods listening to the subtle life going on around me while waiting for the distant sound of tires rolling on dirt. It made those moments when a rider finally appeared feel even more alive.

My goal was to show the race from an authentic point of view and capture the essence of the route set in North Georgia, an area I’m unfamiliar with. That meant pedaling up some trails myself to find those special shots that were earned along with the riders. By the end of documenting the race, I learned how much patience is required to photograph an ultra while walking away with a new level of respect for the riders. I wasn’t racing, but in a small way, I felt like I was on my own endurance test, carrying gear, losing sleep, and adjusting plans constantly.

• 
• 

The TNGA route is 350 tough miles through the wilderness of the North Georgia Appalachian Mountains. It takes riders through remote areas from the Alabama border to the South Carolina border. It usually starts from the South Carolina border and moves west, but the organizers reversed its direction for 2025. The long distance means that the riders are bound to get stretched out as the race goes on. For me, this meant I needed to pick and choose what and where I would photograph wisely. I wanted to shoot enough unique samples of the route as well as most of the participants at least once. I focused on capturing as many riders as possible on the first day, before the gaps became too large, so that I wouldn’t have to drive back and forth across the state constantly.

• 
• 

In a way, the first day was the easiest to photograph because the riders were still close together, making it possible to capture interesting sections of the course without waiting too long. The first trail they hit with soft morning light was a spot I knew would make for incredible images. I wanted to capture every rider as they set out from there. It was beautifully wooded, and every single person was stoked to be there. I caught all the smiles and energy as they began the long journey across the state. I could feel the collective buzz and the optimism of day one, before the grind really set in.

• 
• 

By the second half of the first day, I realized it wouldn’t be feasible for me to drive back and forth to catch every single rider. Instead, I had to commit to certain sections and trust the choice. One of these choices was to pedal along a ridge section on the Pinhoti Trail, outside of Dalton. I pedaled for an hour and a half, searching for the most interesting shot along the ridge. None met my expectations. The best spot I found was actually at the beginning of the trail, which I pedaled back to. Not every effort paid off with the shot I hoped for, and that was one of the lessons I carried through.

Another time, I chased a mountaintop shot at sunset and then again around sunrise, climbing and descending 700 feet multiple times for a single frame. I was unable to time the dots correctly and didn’t get that shot I hoped for. More often than not, I’d sit in the forest for hours, alone, expecting a rider to come through before I started questioning if I’d blown the timing. With my camera in hand, I listened quietly for the sound of tires rolling on dirt because I didn’t want to miss anything. When the timing worked out and the shot was as good as I imagined, it all became worth it.

Watching the riders’ appearances change over the days was eye-opening. They went from looking fresh, clean, and buzzing with energy at the start, then later reduced to glassy eyes, salty jerseys, and half smiles after long stretches of heat, climbs, and night riding. I couldn’t help but feel great respect for what they were doing. Watching them ride through the night while I camped at the trailhead showed their determination and persistence that goes beyond what shows on the tracker dots. A photo goes a long way in showing what it means to take on such a challenge.

One evening, a rider paused for a quick snack, and I raised my camera. He gave a tired grin and a thumbs-up before going off into the forest again. It was such a small exchange, but it captured the spirit of the race perfectly. My challenge was to document it without causing interference, which meant not interacting with the racers. This was simple in theory, but I had to be active in this thinking, as I wanted to cheer everyone on. Respecting the self-supported nature of the race, and to get the most authentic stills, I stayed out of the way as much as possible. I was a quick trailside blip for the riders and tried to be a fly on the wall.

• 
• 

Entering the first night at Dalton, I watched riders pour in, taking over gas stations and fast-food joints. An oasis in the middle of two remote sections that begged them to book a hotel and call it a night. However, riders continued from there after refueling and restocking. I took what felt like a luxurious four-hour sleep in my car while the dots moved through the night. I was surprised to see how many people continued through the night and how far along they were. The pre-dawn chase into the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest didn’t go well for me since I had minimal phone signal to track the dots, and the toughness of navigating the maze of unfamiliar gravel roads meant not getting the dark, moody shots I was hoping for.

I eventually found myself at Mulberry Gap, another oasis along the route. This place was smack dab in the middle of the forest, where riders can get food, sleep, and even their laundry done while they hang out in their loaned robe (not sponsored). I caught a glimpse of the women’s leader, Bridget, on a mission there. I later learned that after she found out she was in fifth place overall, she had the drive to just get 90 minutes of sleep before continuing. Respect. Watching this perseverance up close was a special thing. I had the luxury of pausing and watching everywhere from the trail to the rest areas, while they didn’t.

• 
• 

The finish line had its own kind of vibe. I got there far earlier than I needed, not wanting to risk missing the leaders. The final three dots were inching closer to each other, and the gaps were shrinking in the final hour. I wasn’t alone in the anticipation, as a couple of friends of one of the riders were waiting as well. It was nice to share the tension with others after mostly being alone while photographing for multiple days. Finally, we saw movement coming from around the bend of the road. While I thought the racers would be fighting for position, it turns out they were coming in together, happy to share the glory of finishing.

For me, this was the first time I allowed myself to break character from a silent observer. After days of resisting the urge to cheer, it was really nice to say something as simple as “Good job.” It was then that I wasn’t just documenting anymore, I was sharing in the relief. Not long after, Bridget appeared around the bend. The finish line energy was thriving. I had shadowed their journeys for days with minimal interaction, and here at the line, I could finally connect while capturing the moment.

• 
• 

• 
• 

As the night stretched on, I would see eight more riders come in sporadically. The finish line was on a lonely, dark road, so I used a flashlight to light up their smiles. Not all moments were joyful, though. Two riders finished in the middle of the night without a ride back home, their exhaustion colliding with the reality of logistics. Another came in hours later than expected due to dead lights. His girlfriend waited excitedly in the parking lot until his barely charged lights finally appeared. It was raining, so he had to charge his lights in his bag, hidden from the rain, while walking a dark trail with just 10 miles to go. Between arrivals, I dozed off in my car, waking to their lights, fumbling for my camera and flashlight to catch another finish.

• 
• 

I realized the finish line wasn’t just the end of the race. It pulled together everything I’d been capturing over three days. For the riders, it was the relief of finally finishing 350 brutal miles. For me, it was the point where all the waiting, chasing, and pedaling around with my camera finally came together into one story.

Further Reading

Make sure to dig into these related articles for more info...