(Yanqing) From Montreal, the plan seemed solid. Being settled in the mountains of Zhangjiakou, I would only have to jump on the high-speed train to Yanqing and follow the downhill skiing. The map traced a nice straight line. A matter of nothing.
Posted at 9:00 a.m.
When I set foot here, I quickly realized that it wouldn’t hold. Colleagues were telling me about a four or five hour bus adventure, with no guarantee of arriving on time. A Swede had left at 3 a.m. to cover the giant slalom…
The nice volunteers from the press center didn’t reassure me any more, drawing me a plan including six shuttles and as many transfers. Yves Boisvert inquired at the transport office in Beijing. He sent me a photo of a “multi-zone” graphic that was not really any clearer.
Eventually, it was determined that the most efficient way to reach the Alpine area was to take the rapid train to Beijing, go back up to Yanqing on another train, and take three or four shuttles thereafter.
To cut the trip short – and give myself a chance to cover the women’s downhill – I decided to sleep in Beijing the night before.
The train ride was a real charm, a matter of barely 50 minutes for 175 km. Accompanied by colleague Didier Debusschere, photographer of the Quebec newspaper, we followed the final of the jumping event in an almost empty wagon. While warm, we vaguely sympathized with Émilie, who covered the competition at -25°C with seven hot shots on the body.
Yves was the lucky one to welcome me to his room. We even shared the Valentine’s Day dinner, passing the bottle of his Chinese red wine from one side to the other of the plexiglass panel. I fell asleep to the sound of his vigorous drumming on the keyboard, of which I don’t give a lot of life expectancy.
Return to Qinghe station the next day at 7 a.m. to reach Yanqing, 87 kilometers northwest of the capital. Much like in Calgary, the mountains rise just outside the city. Their sides are bare like the Colorado Rockies. With the sun, their hue was vaguely reminiscent of the Dolomites, minus the sharp ridges.
Strange scene on the side of roads surrounded by rows of trees: dozens of road workers scrape snow and ice with shovels. My girlfriend would need it for my ice rink in Rosemont.
Two shuttles later, there is only one stage left before reaching the press center and the finish area: a long ride between heaven and earth in a brand new gondola with heated seats. I went up together with Ulrik, a Danish freelance photographer:
“Where are you from?
— Zhangjiakou.
“What time did you leave?”
– 7 a.m. »
No, I didn’t toss it down.