Time to read: 15 minutes(s)

Author: Sergey Tashevsky.

It happened long ago, when the grass was greener, the air was cleaner, gasoline was sold in pharmacies, and newspapermen ruled the world. On January 31, 1907, the Parisian newspaper Le Matin printed this appeal on its front page: "It must be proven that if a person has a car, he can do anything and get anywhere. Will anyone dare to drive from Peking to Paris this summer?" The newspaper promised to publish regular reports on this journey—and its circulation immediately increased by half.

However, the journey soon turned into a race, as several "self-propelled vehicle" crews decided to try their luck: Prince Scipione Borghese of Italy (in a luxurious and powerful Itala specially built for this adventure), Charles Godart in a car from the Dutch company Spyker, and three racers in French cars. Five cars in all, one of the French "chariots" was a homemade three-wheeler with a small and weak engine, outfitted by a group of enthusiasts with their last money, while the other two, on the contrary, were what they called the "factory team" of the then-famous French brand De Dion-Bouton. For them, this unprecedented road trip of over 16 kilometers was supposed to be an excellent advertising campaign.

The race route ran alongside telegraph lines and stations in places, and each car carried a correspondent to report on the situation on the route at every opportunity, so Le Matin's editorial office was on top of every piece of news. But, of course, the newspaper had no intention of financing the race—the participants themselves would have to pay a hundred thousand francs for the support along the route. And there was no prize other than a bottle of expensive Mumm champagne. But the winner was assured of worldwide fame, no doubt about it.

The plan was to leave Beijing on May 17th, to cross China before the start of the Great Rains. But the rains arrived earlier that year, and all five vehicles were stuck in deep mud at the start. They were dragged kilometer after kilometer by mules, and sometimes even by hired porters. The rules didn't prohibit this—the main thing was to avoid using railway cars.

Along the race route, depots were set up with gasoline, oil, and spare parts (all shipped in advance from Beijing by camel caravans), but there was no real need for fuel. Engines were rarely started—the cars were dragged through the mud by horse-drawn vehicles. Often, their route was blocked by swollen rivers during the floods, across which the cars had to be ferried in pieces. Then they were dragged again across the muddy ground or hauled up mountain passes by ropes. Sometimes, the racers only advanced 30–40 kilometers in a single day.

In June, when they finally reached the Gobi Desert, the torrents of water gave way to sweltering heat. The engines now worked, albeit overheating, but the sand proved an insurmountable obstacle for the only French tricycle (three-wheeled vehicle) participating in the race. It became stuck in the Gobi Desert forever.

The rest, one after another, albeit not without the help of camels, managed to cross the desert and reach the borders of the Russian Empire. They had to travel through it for most of the route—almost 13 kilometers. And the main obstacle was Siberia.

The first to reach the Russian border near Kyakhta was a bright red Itala, driven by the dazzling Prince Borghese (though dust and dirt made him seem less dazzling—only his eyes sparkled from beneath the hood of his filthy burnoose). But if he'd been thoroughly cleaned and dressed (which they soon did), we would have seen Italy's foremost aristocrat and wealthiest man, a member of the Borghese family, a paragon of good manners, a superbly educated man, and fluent in a multitude of languages ​​(including Russian).

In Italy, the 36-year-old prince was a fixture on the newspapers, as he was, among other things, a race car driver and athlete, a keen mountaineer, and had scaled the most inaccessible peaks of the Alps without guides. Yet, his looks made thousands of girls' hearts ache. In short, he was a legend—if you brushed away the layers of sand and dust. And in the passenger seat of his car sat another legend, a luminary of Italian journalism, 30-year-old Luigi Barzini, the "golden pen" of the newspapers Corriere della Sera and the Daily Telegraph. He looked like a solid piece of dirt.

But this did not bother the border guards.

Everything had been arranged with the Russian court, so the military welcomed the racers with open arms. The Italians were taken to the luxurious (by local standards) home of the director of the local branch of the Russo-Chinese Bank, where they were given bathrooms, their clothes washed, and the next morning, all the necessary documents for travel across Russia. Half of the documents, incidentally, concerned the right to bear arms—they were also issued two revolvers each. The border authorities decided that Siberia was in turmoil after the events of 1905, and the racers needed to protect themselves. The prince looked with disdain at "those iron things" and ordered them immediately stuffed deep into their luggage. He was right—they didn't need the pistols.

If only there were gasoline instead of revolvers...

But there was no gasoline in Kyakhta or the surrounding area. Despite promises from the Russian authorities, fuel was simply forgotten. It was also forgotten in Verkhneudinsk (now Ulan-Ude), where the Russian Nobel Company hadn't managed to deliver gasoline, so the prince was forced to buy up all the supplies from grocery stores (the locals only needed gasoline to remove stains from clothing). "No matter, they'll just walk around in their dirty clothes," one of the salespeople cynically remarked, handing out the last bottles to the Italians. This was just enough to half-fill the tank and barely make it to Mysovaya (now Babushkin), where a large gasoline depot had finally been discovered. From there, having filled all the canisters, they were ready to set off on their long journey.

However, the road was also missing. Or rather, it existed only on old Russian military maps that Borghese had somehow obtained beforehand. In reality, after the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, the Siberian Highway was abandoned in many places: parts of the road were overgrown with forest, many bridges could barely support the weight of a person, and sagged dangerously under the car. "The car, like a racehorse, bounced over potholes, rocks, and fallen trees. We often had to slide along the very edge of a sandy cliff, the sheer wall of which dropped straight into the waters of Lake Baikal. Every hundred meters or so, we were forced to clear a path with axes and shovels. The bridges were in a most unsightly state: without railings, built of half-rotted round logs, they gave the impression of haphazard piles..." wrote Barzini.

After a long day of torment (sometimes they had to drive across bridges at full speed to prevent them from collapsing under the weight of the car), the travelers reached the Mishikha River and realized they could go no further. The journalist was in despair and was already scribbling an urgent article for the newspaper, titled "The Siberian Trap," but Borghese merely yawned and thoughtfully tossed pebbles into the river, watching as a train crossed the river nearby over a fine iron bridge. Then he got behind the wheel and decisively turned the car around. By evening, they were back in Mysovaya.

There, the Italians checked into a hotel, and the prince immediately requested permission from the Irkutsk governor-general to allow his car to continue its journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway. Two days later, permission was granted—and, taking with them a couple of wide boards and a train schedule, the Itala's crew continued their journey. This time, they drove onto the tracks.

The machine's wheels were quite large, and although it jolted mercilessly on the ties, it still continued to move forward at a respectable speed. However, the abundance of tunnels and high embankments promised serious problems in the event of an encounter with a train. And despite Borghese's cool calculations, such an encounter soon occurred. Approaching a siding, he and Barzini saw a switchman shouting, "Clear the tracks! The train is moving; it's just left Tanhoy." But just then, the machine's front wheels sank between the ties. The train was already whistling somewhere around the bend and clearly showed no signs of slowing down. Workers rushed over, placed planks under the machine, and pushed, but it remained glued to the tracks. The prince and his workers strained against the levers, trying to push the machine off the rails, while Barzini seemed paralyzed—he remained in his seat, his eyes wide-eyed, watching as a huge locomotive came speeding around the bend a hundred meters away. But just at that moment, the levers "triggered," and the machine leaped off the tracks like a grasshopper, along which a freight train immediately rushed.

"That train wasn't worthy of running us over," the prince said coolly, getting back behind the wheel. However, an hour later, at the station buffet, he ordered champagne for everyone and drank it himself—without any toasts or explanations. Borghese was generally a man of few words.

After this, the governor ordered the Itala added to the train schedule. But that didn't make things any easier. The most difficult part of the journey between Omsk and Tomsk was still on dirt roads, only occasionally crossing the tracks. And several more times the car had to be pushed off the rails at the last minute. Once, the engine caught fire, hot oil splashed onto the hapless Barzini's legs, and the fire had to be extinguished with the prince's mink coat. The one-and-a-half-ton Itala flipped over, fell through bridge decks, and got stuck in the mud again and again... Finally, near Perm, its rear wheel completely disintegrated. This was the final disaster—and although Borghese had been two or three weeks ahead of all the other racers at the time, he was now losing all his advantage. Manufacturing and transporting a wheel from Italy in less than a month was unrealistic.

However, the prince's knowledge of Russian came to his aid: it suddenly became clear that just in the next village lived a famous coachmaker, a true genius! He eagerly took on the unusual task and, in two days, had crafted a wheel no worse, if not better, than the Italian one. At least, it not only made it to Paris but also survived the next century—and now hangs in a place of honor in the Turin Automobile Museum with a simple plaque: "Russian Wheel."

Naturally, with such a will to win, Borghese was simply obliged to win the race. When he approached Moscow, his rivals were still floundering in the mud somewhere in the middle of Siberia. Confident of his undeniable advantage, the prince made a considerable detour and stopped in St. Petersburg, where he was received at court. Only after this "courtesy visit" did he continue on to Paris, along the excellent European roads, finishing on August 10, 1907, two weeks ahead of his competitors.

A week later, his red Itala (although almost nothing of the red remained, the paint having faded and darkened during the journey) finally reached Rome, where crowds of admirers awaited it—but its wheels never made it to the city center. Because there was no need. Somewhere on the outskirts, the one-and-a-half-ton colossus was picked up by a jubilant crowd—and, just as at the beginning of the races the car had to be towed by hand, so it completed the final kilometers with the help of human strength and enthusiasm. As for Prince Borghese, he became a national hero of Italy for a long time. And, of course, deservedly so.

But there was another hero in this race. Or rather, an antihero, the complete opposite of Prince Borghese: the Frenchman Charles Godart, who had no noble birth, no titles, no money. He also had little automotive experience. But he was filled with a spirit of adventure and really wanted to participate in the race. So he resorted to deception. Contacting the owners of the Dutch company Spyker (whose cars weren't selling particularly well in Europe, so they could use some publicity), he persuaded them to provide him with one car for the race and deliver it to the starting line in Beijing. Godart promised to cover the remaining expenses. Then everything was simple: in Beijing, he went to the Dutch embassy and declared that he was representing his country at the race and needed a hundred thousand francs for expenses (guaranteed by Spyker—here was their car and the papers!). And they gave him the money.

That's why, while Godart was making his way through the Gobi Desert and the Siberian backwaters, a criminal case was brought against him in Paris, following a lawsuit filed by the Dutch. French investigators initially believed Godart had fled with the money he'd received, and they would never see him again. But soon, messages from his correspondent began arriving along the route. Godart was on his way. And he was determined to win, believing that winners are not judged.

Alas, the Dutch Spyker proved less reliable than the Itala. Somewhere near Irkutsk, its magneto failed and the drive axle seized. The Borghese was already out of reach, but the two French De Dion Boutons, which had been left behind, were now rapidly gaining on him. This meant that Charles had given up hope of even second place in the race, and had no chance of reaching the finish line at all.

But Godart had heard that somewhere here in Siberia there was a Tomsk University. A real one. With all sorts of laboratories. Maybe they could repair the car there? He (contrary to the race rules) loaded the car onto a railway carriage and set off for Tomsk, simultaneously sending a letter to Holland asking for a new rear axle. And with a different gear ratio, to increase the car's speed.

And it must be said that Godart was right on target—the electromechanical workshops at Tomsk University had everything he needed, and the magneto was successfully repaired. At the same time, the owner of the Spyker company responded. At first, he was stunned by the brazenness of "this scoundrel," but upon learning that the car had already completed half the route, he realized it was excellent publicity for his company. So he sent the necessary parts.

A few days later, the Spyker was back on the road. To comply with race regulations, Godart returned to Irkutsk by train and resumed driving from where he had left the race. Now he had to catch up with two French cars that were thousands of kilometers ahead—and he spent twenty hours at a time behind the wheel. Finally, a week later, at 4:00 a.m., the De Dion crews, vacationing in Kazan, were awakened by the roar of an engine. The drivers jumped out onto the balcony and were met with a surprising sight. Right under the hotel windows sat a dirty Spyker with its headlights on, its driver slumped over the steering wheel, as if unconscious. It was Godart—in the last 24 hours, he had completed a distance that the other drivers had struggled to complete in four days.

And from that moment on, the rivalry in the race ended. From then on, they drove together, helping each other—especially since all the crews were French. However, the roads were getting better, and Paris was just a short distance away. But at the end of August, a surprise awaited them at the French border: Godart's car was stopped by police and handcuffed, and another driver, hired by Spyker, took the wheel. The Dutch believed that their car was the most important thing, and who was behind the wheel was irrelevant. However, the racing jury disagreed, and the Dutch company was disqualified. Second and third places were shared by the French with their De Dion Boutons.

So France might have celebrated—but a bitter taste, as they say, remained, and the drivers' meeting in Paris was rather muted. Moreover, every French newspaper reported on the injustice that befell Godart.

The press was a powerful force back then. So it's no surprise that a few months later, all charges against him were dropped and he was released from prison.

A few months later, Godart and dozens of other drivers prepared for a new rally—New York to Paris—which was scheduled to pass through Alaska, the Bering Strait, and then back across Siberia. It took place in 1908, although, of course, along a slightly different route (the cars were ultimately loaded onto steamships and sent to Vladivostok, as the ice in northern Alaska is impassable for automobiles). But an attempt to reach the Bering Strait and cross it on the ice did indeed take place.

It was these two early-century car races that later inspired the screenwriters of the American film "The Great Race," a classic 60s comedy. But the more you study the history of these races, the more you realize that almost nothing in the film's script is fictional (except perhaps slightly embellished). The characters, the passions that consumed them, and the crazy situations that occurred along the way—all of it was real.

Revolutions and wars have almost erased the memory of this remarkable automotive history. In Russia, no one remembered those "great races" for a hundred years, and only recently, with the help of the Italian company Pirelli, was a monument to his car, the Itala 35/45НР, erected in Kirov (formerly Vyatka, through which Borghese passed).

But in Europe, this race is well remembered, and in its memory, the Beijing to Paris Rally, featuring vintage cars, has long been held. The ninth edition of the event, won by a 1920 Rolls-Royce, just concluded in June of this year. The route was a dotted line of stages through China, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Eastern Europe. Alas, Russia, which once accounted for the majority of the roads of this captivating motoring show, is no longer on the route map.