The goal was to get there, no matter how. You had to be at the Chateauroux National Shooting Center before 12 to see Julián Gutiérrez compete in the final of the 10-meter air rifle test in Paris 2024. The problem was that the car he was sent shared with a couple of colleagues couldn’t get past a police barrier to continue the trip because the driver had no accreditation or ticket.
There was no way to convince the agents to break the rules. The minutes passed, the desperation grew and there came a moment when there was only one option left: get off and walk (almost run) those last 2.7 kilometers that separated the blockade from the firing range.
“It’s not that far, how long can it take us to get there?” the Argentines asked themselves. Luckily the shoes were not tight.
It was not an easy task. With the backpack loaded until it explodes, a relentless sun that made your head burn and missing the dark clouds that had darkened the Paris sky days before, and the clock ticking faster and faster, the journey was painful.
Signs with directions on how to get to the competition venue were conspicuous by their absence. The illusion was lit when a small pink square was seen in the distance, the official color of the Games’ posters, only to go out when, upon getting closer, it was noticed that it did not have any useful information.
“How can it be that nowhere does it explain how to get there? This is unusual,” was heard very often, while the search continued.
The road was a maze of streets and roundabouts that made you dizzy. A labyrinth located, almost literally, In the middle of nowhere (the polygon is 10 kilometers from the town of Chateauroux, far from the urbanization, and almost 300 from Paris) and where meeting a Games volunteer to ask for help seemed like an impossible mission.
Technology didn’t help either. With the internet signal coming and going – again, saying it’s in the middle of nowhere isn’t exaggerating much – the phone’s GPS was dying. And when he finally marked the path, between the fatigue from having gotten up early (the odyssey started in Paris at 6:30, a hard sacrifice when coming from a week of little and bad sleep) and the anguish of knowing that Julián had already started shooting , it was difficult to interpret.
Furthermore, without speaking French, when a soul appeared who stopped his path and tried to lend a hand, more than once there was a wrong (or misinterpreted) indication that led nowhere.
Between comings and goings, walks to one side and retracing one’s own steps, and turning in circles (at roundabouts, when one did not know which exit to take), those original 2.7 kilometers were transformed into several more, in the harsh heat of the noon. But it came. With heavy breathing, the face red as a tomato and an urgent need to drink a liter of water in one go – and a little later than expected – arrived.
“Are they going to bring the headquarters here? You can’t believe it. Tell me, how do people get here? There is no way to find this place!” was the opinion shared by Argentine journalists when the objective was already had been fulfilled. In the end, everything is to tell a nice story.