EGRV 26 | Last Run

【And on this last run, something happened.】

After the party, Liang Muyie sent Chi Yu several messages: thanking him for coming, for the birthday cake, and finally telling him, “You left your jacket at my place.”

Chi Yu didn’t reply to any of them.

The next morning, before the sun was up, his internal clock woke him. After washing up, he grabbed his car keys and backpack and headed up the mountain in the dark. To prepare for Sunday’s competition, he hadn’t taken on any students for the past few days and had also asked for time off from Boss Yu at the ski shop.

Sure enough, as he had expected, the venue for the WinterLasts Freestyle Challenge was set in Diamond Bowl on the Blackcomb side. Two days before the competition, athletes had to pick up their bibs and attend a briefing by official volunteers about the competition zone. Chi Yu already knew the volunteers, so he deliberately avoided the crowds, grabbed his bib first thing in the morning, and went to ski the big mountain.

From the moment the lifts opened to the moment they closed, he skied almost nonstop. After a few warm-up runs, he started practicing item by item, mentally checking them off a list: high-speed descents on steep slopes, speed control, sluff management, and then aerials. Once he finished all the basic training, he allowed himself to ski in the Diamond Bowl competition area for the last two hours, silently planning the line he would choose on competition day.

Eight hours flew by. It wasn’t until he got off the mountain that he felt his legs were weak with hunger. He found some random snacks in his trunk and checked his phone.

A message had floated in on WeChat. Chi Yu was about to dismiss it when he caught a glimpse of the sender’s name: Gao Yi. He was asking how the competition prep was going and if he needed help filming.

After registering for the competition, he had naturally told Gao Yi. Gao Yi seemed even more excited than he was, saying that he hadn’t seen him compete since their chance encounter in Banff two years ago. This would be Chi Yu’s first official comeback season, and he and Xiang Weiwei absolutely had to be there.

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The next day, the weather was cloudy, turning overcast.

There had been no new snow for several days in a row, and the gem bowls were all hard-packed. Diamond Bowl got even less sun, so there were occasional icy patches. Chi Yu just skied his planned line twice, at most doing an air-to-grab or a simple 360 off the key cliff drops, just to link the jumps together and get familiar with the line and rhythm.

“Do you think it’s a bit late for me to start praying for fresh snow overnight?”

Below the chairlift, volunteers were already setting up the media area for the next day. The dedicated Gao Yi sat in a folding chair, his two crutches beside him, watching Chi Yu through a pair of binoculars. The camera next to him had a complete recording of Chi Yu’s last two runs.

Xiang Weiwei had just finished a couple of runs on Crystal Ridge nearby and came over to help supervise. For most challenge-level competitions below the official FWT tour, the venue is announced a day or two in advance, allowing athletes to scout and choose their lines. Chi Yu didn’t have a coach; he relied on his friends. Freeride competitions are held in open zones with countless possible lines. To know which lines are better and which cliff drops are viable, you need a third-person perspective on video. Gao Yi had offered to help the day before, and he hadn’t refused.

“You have to have faith in Chi Yu. He came up skiing on the East Coast. The worse the snow, the more badass he is,” Xiang Weiwei said. Compared to the precipitation-heavy Pacific Northwest, the ski resorts on the East Coast of North America were mostly giant ice sheets. There was a funny inside joke among them that The North Face should be the one to sponsor Chi Yu. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west; the south-facing slopes get more sun and have softer snow, while the north faces are prone to icing over. Chi Yu’s aggressive ice-carving was famous online, and he dared to do flips on choppy, icy snow with an extremely low margin for error. Over time, people even started calling him the Little Prince of the North Face.

Gao Yi said, “True, it looks alright. It’s just that he didn’t really jump much today, sigh…”

“Maybe the feeling wasn’t right, or maybe there were too many people. I just came down one run, and I saw a lot of athletes. They were all lining up to drop in at the top of the bowl,” Xiang Weiwei said optimistically.

As they were talking, Chi Yu swooshed down. Gao Yi handed him some water and, with his other hand, passed him the camera to watch the video.

Chi Yu said nothing, just chugged water while watching the footage. His phone buzzed. He took it out and saw it was his ski-tracking app notifying him that a friend was nearby. He had hundreds of friends on the app and usually just swiped the notification away. But this time, he looked closer and saw that it was—Liang Muyie was nearby.

Chi Yu frowned and said to Gao Yi and Xiang Weiwei, “Hold on a sec.”

He opened WeChat and, sure enough, saw another message from Liang Muyie: “I’m on the Blackcomb side today. Should I bring your jacket?”

It was sent that morning. Chi Yu had been so focused on skiing he hadn’t seen it at all. But on his phone, the little white circle marking the person’s location was getting closer and closer to his own.

Chi Yu had been playing turtle for two days, and now, seeing that the other person was coming to find him directly, he could no longer hide. He dialed Liang Muyie’s number.

As soon as the other end picked up, he shouted, “Don’t come up to the alpine! The weather is bad today. If you come up alone, you won’t know how to get down.”

Whistler was massive, with the gondolas divided into lower, middle, and upper sections. The top section was called the alpine zone and was only open depending on weather conditions. The alpine was treacherous, and generally, the most difficult open terrain and double-black diamond runs were in this area.

The wind was strong on Liang Muyie’s end too. He yelled back as loudly as he could, “I wasn’t planning on it. I saw you didn’t reply this morning, so I didn’t bring your jacket. I’m over on Crystal. The GPS is probably off.”

Chi Yu let out an “oh,” feeling a bit awkward. After that night, his emotions had been stretched taut like a string. He had no mental energy to think about anything besides the competition. Just now, he had been overly vigilant.

“Oh, then it’s fine. I… I made a mistake,” he unbuckled his helmet and pressed the phone’s earpiece tight against his left ear so he could hear clearly. He spoke again, his tone softening a little as he explained, “This area is expert only, not even a blue run. I was afraid you’d get lost and couldn’t get down.”

“So you’re prepping for the competition?” Liang Muyie asked.

“Yeah, this is tomorrow’s venue.”

“Then I’ll come down and watch.”

Chi Yu paused, then refused. “You go ski your own runs.”

Liang Muyie hadn’t expected such a firm refusal. He paused for a moment before composing his words. “You… signing up for this, I think I made a tiny little contribution, right?” His tone was lighthearted.

Chi Yu hesitated, then hung up the phone.

Two minutes later, Liang Muyie saw a new message. Chi Yu hadn’t said a word, just sent a digital contact card for a person named Gao Yi.

Gao Yi gave him directions. When Liang Muyie took off his board and walked over from a nearby lift, he could see a red helmet from afar, pointing at a camera screen.

“One, two, and four, these three cliff drops are okay. The one in the middle, I feel is still lacking a bit. If here—” he paused, showing the screen to Gao Yi. The video was blurry, but Chi Yu clearly knew what he was talking about. “The snow accumulation here is higher than I thought. If I go rider’s left*, I’ll lose about ten feet of vertical, but I can add another jump, link a frontside 360 with a backside 360. There’s enough space. I’ve checked the weather forecast; the snow conditions tomorrow shouldn’t be too different from today.”

Gao Yi and Xiang Weiwei greeted Liang Muyie first. Liang Muyie took off his goggles and responded, and the three of them exchanged a few pleasantries. Only Chi Yu remained engrossed in studying the video, not looking up.

Gao Yi felt a bit guilty. “Your clothes are hard to spot today, so my filming isn’t great. Good thing Weiwei’s here. Let her help you this time.” Since fleeing Liang Muyie’s apartment that day, he hadn’t had a chance to retrieve his orange snow jacket, so he was wearing all black, making him hard to distinguish on the slope.

Just as Xiang Weiwei was about to nod, Liang Muyie offered, “I’ll do it.”

Chi Yu still didn’t look at him, acting as if he didn’t exist, seemingly still contemplating the best line.

It was Gao Yi who thanked him. Just as he was about to show Liang Muyie how to use his camera, Liang Muyie had already gone in and switched the mode to manual. Gao Yi was using his own DSLR to record, equipped with an 18-200mm lens, which had more than enough focal length for long shots.

“How big do you want the person in the frame? Is this okay?”

Only then did Chi Yu grant him a sliver of attention. He glanced at it, nodded once, and gave his tacit approval.

The frame captured both the rider and the line below him. It was indeed perfect.

Seeing he had an expert on his hands, Gao Yi left it to the professional and turned to ask Chi Yu, “Why didn’t you jump just now?”

“A bit crowded, I guess,” Chi Yu said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Before Chi Yu left, Liang Muyie even took off his own red jacket and insisted on handing it to him. “Wear this, it’ll be easier to see in the video. Your other jacket is in my car. I’m parked in Lot 8. Come get it with me when you head down.”

This time, Chi Yu did a cork 720 off the first, highest, and most intimidating cliff drop as planned. The cliff was steep, at least forty feet, and he almost lost his balance on the landing, forced to switch edges to slow down, which greatly compromised his fluidity. The snow was just too hard, offering no cushion at all. The impact sent a painful jolt from his back down to his ankles. In these conditions, the margin for error for any aerial trick involving even a slight shift in center of gravity was practically zero. He cared about his body; this was also part of the reason he hadn’t done the full run earlier.

Liang Muyie focused on filming him, while Gao Yi flailed his arms beside him, letting out an “Oof!” one moment and stomping his feet in excitement the next.

“Three, four, five… good, he linked them… Indeed, this is almost no challenge for him and looks better.” Gao Yi provided a near-live commentary, but the person next to him was constantly adjusting the camera and barely responded.

After the entire run was finished and the recording stopped, Liang Muyie finally asked Gao Yi, “Brother Yi, what’s the verdict?”

Gao Yi said, “Compared to his own runs, this was his best one today. Compared to others, it’s hard to say. But I can tell you, probably no one else would dare to throw a cork 7 on an ice sheet. If he stomps it, he’s top three. If he doesn’t, he gets nothing. Honestly, on that last run, I really didn’t expect him to be able to hold on after that—”

Freeride competitions are extremely strict about falls. One fall means no score. That was a given.

By the time Chi Yu skied down, Xiang Weiwei saw it was already three o’clock and said they had to start heading down. Gao Yi was still injured and needed to catch the gondola before it closed, so the two of them left first. Liang Muyie took Gao Yi’s spot, pulling out his phone to help record, but Chi Yu said there was no need.

“Not one more?”

“Training too much leads to fatigue and injury. I won’t be hyped for tomorrow,” Chi Yu said, looking down. “It’s a home-turf competition. I need to get amped up for it.”

“So you’re heading down too? Get some early rest?”

“I’m going to practice some 720s alone to get the feel,” Chi Yu said. “The feeling wasn’t right today.”

“Snow’s too hard?”

“It’s never the snow’s problem,” Chi Yu’s face remained hard and cold. “Only my problem.”

The first lesson his coach in Mont-Tremblant had taught him was never to complain about snow conditions, or else he had no right to call himself a “freestyler.”

Liang Muyie nodded and tactfully didn’t press the issue, just offering a plan. “Then I’ll go with you? We’ll take one last run down the mountain, and you can get your jacket from my car?”

But Chi Yu was still the same, not even looking at him, just saying, “Whatever you want.”

Beneath the windproof mask and goggles, it was hard to see his expression. For a moment, Liang Muyie wasn’t sure what he meant.

“You don’t want your jacket?”

Chi Yu bit his lip and thought for a moment. That jacket, he had bought it years ago at Mammoth Mountain in California. He’d always had good luck in competitions in the US, so it was sort of his lucky charm. Liang Muyie had been filming him for a long time; he didn’t deserve this kind of attitude. Between evasion and guilt, the latter gained a slight edge. Chi Yu nodded, signaling for Liang Muyie to ski a couple of runs with him.

He chose a steeper blue run with a large-sized feature that could better simulate the incline and impact of the take-offs and landings in Diamond Bowl. He all but told Liang Muyie to go ski by himself somewhere else, but Liang Muyie would ski a little and then glance over.

He saw Chi Yu, all alone, doing 720s over and over. Each one was beautiful, high and floaty. Sometimes a melon grab, sometimes an indy, even a tail grab—a different grab each time.

Raise a hand at the top of the slope to drop in, rotate 720 degrees, land, unstrap, and walk back up the slope with his board. Again. It was like a video on rewind. He had infinite patience and perseverance, just repeating the motion.

Other people used the feature in between, and Chi Yu would wait patiently. After he’d done six or seven, Liang Muyie had just finished a run and was waiting at the top of the slope for Chi Yu to feel confident enough to leave together.

“Last run?” he said.

Chi Yu put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, then said, “If you don’t say ‘last run,’ there is no last run.”

Liang Muyie wanted to laugh at his superstition, but he never expected his own words to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And on this last run, something happened.