Supporting Nick English on the Peking to Paris Motor Challenge

"What needs to be proved today is that as long as a man has a car, he can do anything and go anywhere. Is there anyone who will undertake to travel this summer from Paris to Peking by automobile?"

So read the famous call to arms issued by Parisian newspaper Le Matin on 31st January 1907. Forty entrants answered the call, with only five teams eventually taking part. The original race had no rules, except that the first car to travel from Peking to Paris would win the prize of a magnum of Mumm champagne. There was to be no assistance and much of the journey would be through countryside without roads or roadmaps. Fuel top ups were delivered via camel along the route and until this attempt in 1907, the route between Peking and Lake Baikal in Russian Siberia had only ever been attempted on horseback. In the end, the first Peking to Paris "race" was "won" by Italian Prince Scipione Borghese. It wouldn't be until after the dissolution of the USSR in the early 1990s that the route would open up again for further challenge attempts.

"The journey? Through places you've never heard of — Ordos, Wushen, Yangta. Through towns where it feels like the population's been lifted out and replaced with silent high-rise cities. Surveillance is everywhere. Even on the smallest tracks, the cameras never blink. Plastic sheeting covers the land like surgical gauze, trying to hold back soil erosion. It's haunting. Beautiful. Stark. And the people? Endlessly warm and curious — drawn to the Bentley like moths to an oil-burning flame. The last two nights? Camping in the Gobi. Sandstorms like something from Lawrence of Arabia. Winds so strong we taped the exhaust shut. Sand in our tents, our food, every crevice of the car. And yet — it was magical."

"Currently broken down in gale-force winds. Middle of nowhere. Car sulking. Probably ignition. Probably cursed. Rewind a couple of days — we left Jiayuguan for Yizhou, mostly off-road, mostly madness. Mining trucks, desert dust storms, and roads that felt like driving over a corrugated cheese grater. You taste the dust. You become the dust. Made it to camp. Chassis weld (round one) held. Big win. JT blagged a second tent so we didn't have to spoon again. I fell asleep listening to David Niven… until my air mattress deflated. Cheers, exhaust fire. Sabine (fellow rallier) continues to serve vintage Vuitton and a new outfit daily. JT and I are on day 9 in the same dust-battered gear. It's a look."

"Then came today… We drove like grannies, taking it slow to protect the car. Hit blessed tarmac — cue hallelujah music — but something sounded off. Turns out the headlight was hanging off, the mudguard was kissing the tyre, and the chassis had split clean in two. Again. Block of wood. Ratchet strap. Old-school bodge. She's 96. She needs a little TLC (and maybe a priest). Tonight: welding, dust, and probably more drama."

"We were redirected into a mobile ops bus. There, we were kindly interrogated, fed, and unofficially adopted. Their wives and ours FaceTimed. JT claimed a bunk. I befriended a stray dog. The bus keys were left in the ignition. We almost drove off. We didn't. At midnight, a tow truck took us to a hotel. We arrived at 5:30am. Rally restarted at 7:30. Delightful. By some miracle (and a spare magneto), she fired up. The drive was smooth. No bits fell off. For once, no drama. At camp near Qoqek: camels, snow peaks, shepherds… and another giant crack in the chassis. Midnight welding again. JT and I: first up, last down. We now run entirely on protein bars and optimism. She won't survive Kazakhstan without surgery in Almaty. That's the plan. Hopefully. Today's drive to Khorgos was bliss. Snowy passes, elegant bridges, flawless roads. Let's hope she holds for a few hundred km more."

"We left Almaty braced for a brutal stretch west. Kazakhstan is vast — 9th largest country on Earth — and totally landlocked, bar its salty flirtation with the Caspian "Sea" (bigger than Germany & Holland combined, hiding oceans of oil beneath). This was always going to be the real test: furnace heat, cratered tracks, and Fesh Fesh — not sand, but ultra-fine, lung-clogging dust. It hides potholes like landmines and turns your air filter into a cake of misery. Cars were dropping like flies. We counted only two 911s still standing, with new engines being flown in from far-flung garages. And yet… the old Bentley just kept roaring. We made camp on the dried-up bed of the Aral Sea — once the world's 4th-largest lake, now a haunting salt flat thanks to Soviet irrigation dreams. Stunning, eerie, and apparently toxic from decades of pesticide-laced runoff. Sweet dreams!"

"We're now doing 600–700km a day, over tracks that would make a tank wince. By nightfall, you're broken. And yet… I've never slept better (even on a deflated airbed). Highlights? An impromptu detour to the 2,200-year-old Silk Road citadel of Shym Qala. Only one puncture and a minor battery mishap — which, of course, happened on a level crossing. Nothing like some Kazakh honking and a curious local youth mob while you strip-search a vintage car for tools. Oh, and the wildlife: herds of wild horses galloping across the plains. Camels with two humps strolling the roads like they own the place. Which they sort of do. We finally reached the Caspian Sea — all Soviet-era industry meets oddly placed beach resorts. The Bentley went on a ferry. We grabbed a flight. Next stop: Baku."

"From the deserts of Kazakhstan to the skyline of Baku. This time, no dramatic border saga. We flew across the Caspian while the cars caught the ferry. The next day was a mechanical opera. Most cars looked like they'd done 12 rounds with a sandstorm. Engines were being flown in, mechanics summoned from every continent. But miracle of miracles—our beloved Bentley rolled off the ferry not only intact, but grinning. The event photographer behind the wheel wore the smile of a man reborn. She does that to people. Others weren't so lucky. One car arrived coated in fire extinguisher powder after a battery fire mid-voyage. Another puffed out white smoke like a Victorian chimney and needed a full engine transplant. Baku itself? A jewel. The crowds loved our rolling museum pieces. This city knows how to do spectacle—Eurovision, Formula 1, and now, our dusty parade. Baku is all charm, charisma, and culture. And Georgia? Another gem - winding roads, Tolkien-esque valleys, rope bridges and bubbling mud volcanoes. These roads were made for old Bentleys."

"You realise just how vast China is when it takes two weeks to cross—and then suddenly you're hurtling through countries like Georgia in what feels like an afternoon. We made the most of Georgia: small in size, huge in character. The drive to Tbilisi was stunning—lush hills, winding rivers, snow-capped peaks. The car ran like a dream. Every evening we fettle, tweak and coax her back into shape. She's 96 years old, after all. Loving the mechanical side—though the pins and needles in my right hand suggest she's enjoying it a little less. The vibrations from the gear stick and steering wheel have taken their toll… but it's all part of the charm."

"Then came Turkey. Georgia vanished too soon, but the border crossing was smooth—except for Max, a fellow rally adventurer who had to release his pet cricket (smuggled from China in a tiny cage and fed on carrots and lettuce) because Turkish border guards weren't fans of chirping insects. The cricket now lives somewhere in the Georgian hills, hopefully munching something lovely. En route to Erzurum - mechanical issue. Stuck at traffic lights, the clutch refused to engage. JT and I ended up pushing the car to the hard shoulder where we were quickly surrounded by police, curious locals and—miraculously—cake. Within an hour we'd sourced the right bolt, and even had a call from a Turkish Rally Federation to see if they could help. Amazing. Turkey is proving to be just as welcoming as it is vast. More to come."

"We're almost at the end of our Peking to Paris epic. Just a few thousand kilometres of vineyards, peages and polished roads to go. But the real magic happened earlier—somewhere between the sleepy hills of Turkey and the spirited lanes of Bulgaria and Romania. Istanbul brought traffic of significant proportions. Cue JT, channeling full rally energy, onto the hard shoulder. One Bentley, then two, then a gleeful outlaw convoy all deciding to follow us. Until we met the traffic police. Arms folded. Silent. And then… a smile. A wave. We were on our way again. And that, in many ways, sums up this rally."

"In so many of these countries, there's an unspoken understanding: yes, there are rules—but there's also room for humour, for grace, and for the surreal sight of an old Bentley scudding past on a questionable mission. Had we tried this in France or Germany, we'd be fined, scolded, maybe even subpoenaed. But here? We were met with grins, camera phones, and the enthusiastic waves. These are the places made for motoring adventures. From Sivas to Sofia, Salzburg to the Swiss Alps, the roads smoothed out, the chaos faded… but so did a little of the wild charm. Paris is close. But part of us will miss the potholes, the police leniency, and that beautiful unpredictability."

"And just like that, the dash from Beijing to Paris has drawn to a close. 15,000 km's of dust, deserts, dodgy fuel, and divine scenery—held together by little more than cable ties, caffeine, and beautiful optimism. What a ride. Thanks for following along on this gloriously unhinged adventure. Until the next escapade… (need another soon!)."