The fights, the gripes and the crÿme brulée. Just another day with the rally boy racers...

At the Paris motor show last week, it was announced that Colin McRae will drive for the Citroën World Rally team in 2003. McRae, who has won a record 25 rallies and a world championship, leaves the Ford team at a pivotal point in his career. A series of errors and spectacular crashes have compromised his reputation, and some insiders have started to question whether he has lost his grip.

Citroën are happy, at least. They will contest their first full year in the World Rally Championship next year (having competed in only seven rounds this year, Citroën will enter all 14 in 2003), and their managing director, Claude Satinet, claims that McRae "can win in Monte Carlo in January". But what is life like behind the scenes for a rally team yet to prove themselves on the world circuit? And how is rallying adapting to its new high media profile? I joined the Citroën team in June for the Acropolis Rally in Greece and watched the spanners fly...

It's the final day, and Citroën's Thomas Radstrom is struggling. He is in eighth place, and behind his inexperienced team-mate, Sebastien Loeb. Michael Park, a co-driver in the Ford team, is emphatic in his condemnation: "This is the death knell of his career," he says. "He'll be back on a Swedish farm before long."

Radstrom's team boss, Guy Frequelin, is more careful with his words, but no less critical: "Thomas isn't comfortable in the car," he exclaims, "but I don't understand why." In a sport undergoing a rapid expansion, Radstrom has been given the unfortunate tag of "journeyman".

The Swede defends himself: "Everything is new – our team, the car, and even the world championship are changing fast. The increased television coverage makes it easier to attract big companies, but not everything is for the best."

He is scathing about the new breed of "superstar" drivers, who have seen their fame rivalling those of Formula One stars. "The top drivers now want as much time at home as possible," Radstrom continues. "They have millions of dollars in the bank and they don't give a shit. They're not under the same pressure and they don't have the respect for the sport."

It would be easy to dismiss Radstrom's ranting as the last stand of man at the end of the line – after I finished my stint with the team came the news that he is effectively being replaced by McRae, and won't be retained by Citroën for next year. But he raises some interesting questions. The days are gone when rallying was the preserve of strange men in bobble hats, and the sport even has its equivalent of the Formula One supremo, Bernie Ecclestone.

He is called David Richards, and he owns the television rights to the championship, is a director of Prodrive (who run the Subaru rally team), and he is also the team principal of the BAR Formula One team. For some diehard enthusiasts, Richards is a hate figure intent on ruining rallying in the interests of commercial exploitation. He has already shortened the length of rallies to three days and reduced the number of amateur participants. But to listen to him is to hear a man who knows why people like to watch rallying.

"This isn't Formula One," he keeps repeating like a catchphrase, "it's all about reality motorsport. Rallying is about real roads and real terrain, and then when you make it accessible to people, it becomes part of their environment. Do you see any diminution of public access?" he asks in a manner that suggests the question is rhetorical. Determined to test his thesis, I take a wander around the Acropolis paddock, which has been plonked in the middle of the Greek countryside. We are near the town of Delphi, about three hours north-west of Athens and in a landscape that has changed little since the time of Aristotle. The special stages, which total 374km, are held on rugged mountain tracks; this is one of the toughest events in the calendar.

Against this backdrop, the liveried motorhomes and helicopters of the major teams look incongruous. The fans, most of whom sport the colours of a team or driver, congregate in a central area, but they are not caged like they are in Formula One. In most cases a solitary piece of tape separates them from their heroes, yet it's a line that is respected. Later, when we visit the stages, the same fans will be found clinging to earth banks, lunching on dust as the drivers blast past.

Still, it is also possible to detect a battle of old and new. Unusually for a sport on the rise, rallying already has too many spectators. Several stages have been cancelled this year due to excessive crowds, and marshalling thousands of people has become a major concern – remember, you don't have to pay to enter a stadium to watch a rally event. Richards admits: "It's a problem we will need to manage very carefully." He must also reconcile what he describes as rallying's "man and machine against the elements" appeal with rapidly inflating budgets, salaries and egos. If not, Radstrom's sentiments may become more commonplace.

A chat with Claude Satinet confirms that the sport's earthy appeal is crucial to its continued success. "Victory on a rally stage gives ordinary drivers an impression of power in their car," he says. "Rallying as a competitive activity is very important to us, because there's a direct link between the rally and the road car. People can understand both the make of the car and the model." Maybe – yet the Xsaras that Citroën have entered in the championship bear absolutely no relation to the road car apart from the basic outline of the body shell.

This year is a learning curve for the Citroën team. They have entered seven events to gain data for next year and, in the words of Guy Frequelin, to "put some kilometres on the cars". The team have been fashioned from the remnants of Citroën's ZX Rally Raid campaign in events such as the Paris-Dakar Rally and, unusually for a rally team, are run from the factory rather than being franchised to a motorsport specialist such as Prodrive.

The principal language is French, not English (another novelty) and the whole operation has a distinctly Gallic feel, despite Frequelin's claim that "it's not important to have a French team, it's important to have a good team". It's also littered with characters, including a chef I find perfecting a crème brulée with the help of a blowtorch in 100-degree heat. "How many hours a day do you work?" I ask. "I don't count the hours," he replies, indignantly. "I do it for the passion." Notwithstanding McRae's arrival, the team's great hope for the future is also French. Sebastien Loeb is just 28, and this is his first proper year in a full world rally car. He would have won the Monte Carlo Rally had it not been for an illegal tyre change. Matching his team-mate's speed, while trying to communicate with mechanics who don't speak English (or Scottish), will be a major challenge for McRae, but it will also give him a chance to prove his doubters wrong.

Loeb stands at a bridging point between the old and the new worlds of rallying. He is yet to attain the superstar status of a McRae, a Makinen or a Sainz, but it will happen, and he admits that the fans' attention can already "be too much".

The challenges he faces on a personal level are a microcosm of those facing the sport as a whole. To survive, it needs to expand, yet, as the comments of Citroën's outgoing driver Radstrom make clear, this must not be achieved at the cost of its core appeal. But the omens look good. Too many people, including McRae, care too much for it to fail.