In the aftermath of the Paris-Madrid débâcle, motor racing in France kept a low profile for a couple of years. But the staging of the first French Grand Prix in 1906 once again whetted the appetite of the pioneer motorists, and thoughts turned to an epic test of endurance rather than one of pure speed. On 31 January 1907 the celebrated French newspaper Le Matin carried the following headline on its front page: ‘PARIS-PEKING AUTOMOBILE: A Stupendous Challenge.’ The article dismissed circuit races such as the Grand Prix and accused organisers of motor races of failing to realise the car’s full potential. ‘The whole raison d’être of cars is that they make possible the most ambitious and unpremeditated trips to far horizons. For this reason the general public fails to see the logic of making motor cars chase their tails in tight circles … What needs to be proved today is that as a man has a car he can do anything and go anywhere.’ Then came the killer question: ‘Is there anyone who will undertake to travel this summer from Paris to Peking by automobile?’
The first to respond was the Count de Dion, doyen of the French motor industry, who replied in heroic terms: ‘It is my belief that if a motor car can get through, the De Dion-Bouton will get through. I take up this challenge here and now.’ The challenge also captured the imagination of Prince Scipione Borghese, an Italian nobleman, who wasted no time in ordering a car from the Itala factory in Turin. By the end of the first week in February as many as ten works teams were believed to have expressed serious interest in the great adventure. The organisers then decided to reverse the route so that the race started in Peking and finished in Paris. This would not only avoid the beginning of the rainy season in China, where the ‘roads’ were nothing more than dirt tracks, but would also provide Le Matin with the glorious spectacle of a Parisian climax.
Although 25 teams would eventually consider taking part, many were scared away by the entry fee of 2,200 francs and, as the day drew nearer, by the sheer enormity of the task. In the end the starting line-up was just five. Prince Borghese, who appeared singularly undaunted by the trans-continental trek, was very much the race favourite in his four-cylinder, 7.4-litre Itala in which he was joined by mechanic Ettore Guizzardi and Milan journalist Luigi Barzini, whose account of the race would grace the pages of, among other publications, The Daily Telegraph. Borghese’s rivals were former jockey and stunt motorcyclist Charles Godard, driving a four-cylinder Dutch Spyker with Jean du Taillis as his passenger; Georges Cormier and passenger Edgardo Longini in a two-cylinder De Dion-Bouton; Victor Collignon with mechanic Jean Bizac in an identical De Dion-Bouton; and last, and certainly least, Auguste Pons and mechanic Octave Foucault in an alarmingly lightweight one-cylinder Contal tri-car, a vehicle so small that it had no room for serious rations or bedding – something of a handicap when planning to spend the next three months travelling across the wilds of Mongolia and Siberia. From Peking, the route was to take them north-west to Mongolia, across the barren Gobi desert, over the uncharted plains of Siberia and eastern Russia to Moscow, and then, via more recognisable roads, to Warsaw, Berlin and Paris. The total race distance was some 10,000 miles (16,093km). Even getting to Peking in the first place was an ordeal, Borghese being obliged to cross Asia on horse, camel and foot. It was scarcely the ideal preparation, but seemed to have no adverse effect on the redoubtable Italian.
It was with a degree of unease that the Chinese authorities observed the start in their capital at 8a.m. on 10 June. The State Council of the Celestial Chinese Empire feared that these ‘fuel chariots’ were using the race as a cover for surveying routes by which the West could invade China at some future date. The Council were also concerned that these strange machines might exert a disturbing influence on the Chinese people and declared that they wanted the cars out of Peking as quickly as possible in the belief that ‘they would cause an upheaval in the popular mind and spread everywhere the fatal germs of western corruption’. Given the unpredictable nature of the route through China, the quintet of drivers agreed to stay in convoy until they reached Irkutsk in Russia, after which the race could begin in earnest. It was an admirable notion, but one which foundered almost immediately when, barely a quarter of a mile (0.4km) out of Peking, Collignon and Pons both succeeded in getting lost. Godard fared little better. Unable to read a map, he had only the vaguest idea of geography. His Spyker was decorated in vertical stripes of red, white and blue and along the body were painted the words SIBERIA, RUSSIA, GERMANY. This was supposedly to inform passers-by of the route, but there was also the suggestion that it served to remind Godard which way to go. The hopelessly inadequate Contal was struggling so badly on the uneven Chinese roads that Pons decided to retrace his steps and complete the first leg to Nankow by train. The other four pressed on, but took seven days to cover the initial 200 miles (322km), constantly being delayed by having to be manhandled over ancient bridges on the Peking plain. Teams of coolies with mules had to drag the cars through the Nankow Gorge and over the mountains towards the Great Wall after first stripping the bodywork to a bare minimum and removing all provisions on board. The Chinese routes – constructed from broken stones and huge boulders – were frequently impassable, necessitating the use of a pick-axe to smash a path for the cars. As a result of the appalling Chinese road surfaces, the cars could not run unaided until the Mongolian plateau had been reached.
It was in the Gobi desert that the Contal finally gave up the ghost. Once again Pons had become lost and had fallen way behind the others. Tired of having to carry his supplies and of repeatedly having to go back and search for him, the remaining four decided not to bother this time. The Contal ran out of fuel and was eliminated from the race.
The abysmal lack of preparation by the Contal team was in stark contrast to Borghese’s crew. In advance they had sent camel caravans out into the desert to lay down supplies of fuel, tyres and provisions at strategic points. For the best part of 800 miles (1,287km) across the Gobi the cars doggedly followed telegraph wires until, in the words of Barzini, ‘they seemed to be taking a wrong direction for our purpose’. Then the Itala would veer off into the wilderness ‘for hours and hours, with no guide except our common sense’. The extra power of the Itala gave it a considerable advantage in terms of speed but its weight proved a handicap when crossing Mongolian marshland. Between Urga and Kiakhta the car suddenly sank in a bog. Passing tribesmen took one look at the sinking car and continued on their way but, by a stroke of good fortune, a team of Mongolian horsemen appeared on the scene. They wedged planks under the wheels and got their oxen to pull but this had no effect until someone had the bright idea of starting the engine. Barzini recalled: ‘At the sudden noise, the four terrified beasts pulled desperately, and suddenly the car came out of its furrow with one bound.’ Following this close shave, Borghese and his crew carefully reconnoitred any suspect ground before driving over it. Eventually they reached the River Iro, where they again required the services of local oxen to haul the car through waist-high water. They were a day ahead of the rest of the field by the time they reached the Russian border, ‘our faces literally black with dust, and over our clothes a thick crust of the different kinds of mud with which we had come in intimate contact all along our way’.
The 6,000 mile (9,656km) journey across Siberia and Russia was distinctly uncomfortable for Borghese and his men, travelling in an open car in what was often torrential rain. Borghese’s only protection was the pith helmet which he wore for much of the race. To make matters worse, following the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, much of the Siberian highway system was in a state of chronic disrepair, deteriorating into a series of bumpy tracks and treacherous bogs. At Lake Baikal, the road and bridges were impassable, so Borghese obtained permission to drive on the railway track! When forced to make a hasty detour by road because of an approaching train, the Itala fell foul of a rickety wooden bridge which collapsed under the car’s weight, almost crushing Borghese, Barzini and Ettore. The car was eventually winched to safety from the ravine by a gang of Siberian railway workers and returned to the relative security of the railway track, only to endure another near miss seconds later when surprised by a freight train. Later in the Ural mountains a rear wheel collapsed on the Itala, its wooden spokes weakened by the muddy roads. A local wagon-builder – the only one for hundreds of miles – made an effective replacement. Behind, the other crews hitched their cars to half-wild horses in order to ford Siberian rivers and carried out emergency repairs with rashers of raw bacon. The unscrupulous Godard reportedly resorted to theft so as to stay in the race.
Prince Borghese reached Moscow while the other competitors were still battling through Siberia. With a lead of 18 days, he could even afford to take a lengthy detour up to St Petersburg before heading down triumphantly through Germany, Belgium and northern France. Despite losing additional time on social engagements, the prince increased his lead through Europe, entering the French capital on 10 August flanked by well-wishers as well as three brand new Italas which had been sent out to greet him by the firm’s Paris agent. Covering 10,000 miles in 60 days across some of the world’s most inhospitable terrain was, after all, a pretty good advertisement for the car’s sturdiness and reliability. Pulling up in front of the offices of Le Matin, Borghese explained the secret of his success to reporters: ‘We never thought of the final goal, never admitted that our end was Paris. Every day when we awoke we concentrated on nothing but getting the day’s stage done well.’ He added: ‘Such a journey requires more patience than daring.’
It was a further 20 days before the Spyker and the two De Dions arrived together in Paris. Godard had been arrested in Germany on the orders of Le Matin, who wanted the two French cars to beat him, but had managed to talk his way out of trouble and resume his place behind the wheel.
Following its remarkable victory, the Itala was in great demand and, along with the two De Dions, was shown in London at the 1908 Olympia Motor Show. However, the car met an untimely end when, en route to being shipped to New York for another exhibition, it rolled into the dockside water at Genoa. The car was eventually salvaged but was badly damaged. The Itala thus went down in history as being the only car to survive a 10,000 mile race but not the subsequent exhibition.