by Rosie Thomas
I believed we would be friends in the end. We had quarrelled and made up enough times before, and we wouldn't ever again have to endure the pressure of driving and eating and sleeping and being afraid together. We could meet once in a while for a drink, and reminisce, and go our different ways.
I knew that everyone I cared most about in the world was waiting in Paris for me, but I kept looking at the stream of rally cars all heading for the same point and remembering that they had been family and friends for weeks on end. Theo Voukidis' Chewy was immediately ahead of us, Mick Flick overtaking, the Triumph Vitesse just behind. I was going to feel bereft without them all even though I wanted more than anything to see my husband and children, and to be normal again, and no longer slave to the Terratrip or to Phil's exacting leadership.
The last kilometres flashed past in a blur of trying to remember the views and the impressions and trying to fix them in place with answers to all the questions I knew would be coming.
Why did you do it?
I only knew that I had wanted an adventure, as an antidote to anxiety like a dose of serum for snakebite – or rather Phil had offered me one and I had accepted it, blind. I owed him thanks for that.
What did you learn from it?
I had gained a few more pieces of personal insight, most of them uncomfortable. But I had survived.
And I had had an unforgettable journey, the thin yellow map line blossoming for every kilometre, painful or pleasurable, between the Agricultural Museum car park in Beijing and the Place de la Concorde. I believed that the real pleasures and satisfactions of what we had done would dawn slowly, in retrospect, in the months to come.
And did you and Phil – you know?
There had been times when I thought about it. I was fairly certain there had been times when he was thinking about it too.
But, fortunately enough, it happened that the times didn't coincide.
'Straight over at crossroads with traffic lights, one km.'
'Got you.'
We came to the last intermediate time control, close to the Paris périphérique. It was a chaos of cars and drivers, and no one seemed to know what to do or what order we were supposed to leave in. We set out again, on the very last leg.
'Take left lane, then underpass. Signpost Pantin.'
'Okay.'
There were no cavalrymen but there were Peking to Paris officials on street corners and traffic islands, wearing red caps and bibs, waving as we passed and pointing us onwards.
We came into Paris proper, and we had still barely spoken since leaving Reims. We were driving beside the river under the trees past the tall lamps with branched arms and white globe lanterns. Notre-Dame was on our right and in the distance a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.
'Do you want to drive across the finish line?' Phil asked.
'No, thank you.'
'Why not?'
'Because I haven't driven any of the rest of the way.'
'All the more reason.'
It was generous of him to offer up his moment of glory and maybe I should have accepted in the same spirit, but I didn't. We crossed the Seine in our accustomed places, and the Place de la Concorde lay ahead of us.
There were cheering crowds here, not quite requiring cordons of soldiers to control them but thick enough, and the channel for the cars to pass through grew narrower as people swarmed closer and patted the bonnet and roof of the car and called their congratulations in through the windows at us. I remembered Linhe, and the million Chinese who had come out to watch us go by.
In the amorphous crowd I suddenly saw my sister's face. She was running forwards with a bunch of flowers in her arms and at the sight of her my own face crumpled up.
We had reached home.
Behind Lindsay there were more familiar faces, and wide smiles and hands coming through the window to grab hold of mine. Phil's family was there too, and his girlfriend, and even Tony Barrett wearing a red jumper instead of his customary grey one and a leather hat plonked on his head like a saucepan.
'It's all over. End of story.' Phil said.
In the midst of the cheering and clapping and camera clicking I heard a sound like a sharp snap.
We were surrounded and taken up again by our real families and our proper lives. I looked around and saw the same thing happening to Theo Voukidis and the Rietbergens and the Bentley boys. The rally family broke off there and then and the shear was absolute. It was a bewildering sensation but at the last second I felt a swell of happiness and elation and profound relief. The last flutter of Rally Syndrome.
'Caradoc and Charlie and Flora are waiting ahead on the finish line. They want to see you cross it,' Nick and Jenny Evans told me.
We inched ahead in the slow procession of cars, drawing our supporters with us. Phil leaned across me and clicked off the Terratrip. The digits faded into blankness for the last time. No more beep in my ears or in my dreams.
I saw a tent, and the finish line, and then their three faces. Unable to wait any longer I jumped out of the Amazon, probably slamming the door too hard behind me, and ran to them. Edith was with them too, and my step-niece Angharad on her very first trip abroad. My father had stayed at home because he never liked to travel far from Caerwys.
When Caradoc put his arms around me I asked him stupidly, 'Will everything be all right now?'
'Of course it will,' he answered, knowing exactly what was needed. 'You're home.'
When I held them, my children seemed bigger and taller and more self-assured than when I had last seen them. They had even brought a group of their friends to see us arrive, the biggest tribute.
It was a precious moment.
The book was stamped for the last time. 13.31 p.m., TC 99, Paris party!
We had made every single one of the 99 controls within our maximum permitted time allowance. Gold medal.
John Vipond patted me on the back. 'Well done, Rosie.'
Caradoc had brought two wreaths of laurel leaves and now he put one around Phil's neck and one around mine. We sat on the roof of the car to have our pictures taken, and I felt a slight impostor in my racing driver's winning laurels with a bottle of champagne.
Damon Hill I had turned out not to be. Not that it mattered now.
There was a big, formal dinner in the evening in a Paris hotel, followed by a prizegiving. There were too many people and too much noise and it was disorientating to see the rally faces separated out from their cars and set around with strangers who were their friends and families. It was even more bizarre to see how clean and shiny everyone looked. Melissa was a vision in a tiny John Galliano frock, and Phil had scrubbed up nicely in a dinner jacket. The new evening dress that I had had carefully fitted on me before I left now seemed to have enough folds of spare fabric in it to contain the Bentley as well as me. That didn't matter much either.
The best joke of the evening was David Tremain's. In a last spasm of laddishness he had given away his expensive ticket for the dinner at one of Carolyn's carefully placed tables of smart people, and gone out to get drunk. By some freak chance, the random recipient of the ticket was Tony Barrett.
Carolyn came across the room to me. Her eyes blazed with more furious brilliance than her diamonds.
'Who is that . . . person? He claims to have some connection with you.'
I looked. Still wearing the grubby red jumper, although he had at least taken off the saucepan hat, the Ancient Mariner was locked on to suave Anthony Buckingham from the disintegrated green DB5.
'Erm – our mechanic, actually.'
'Well. Really.'
I would have given quite a lot to have had a bugging device hidden in the floral arrangement on that table.
The podium at the prizegiving after dinner was loaded with silverware, and RO was up there waving his arms to orchestrate lights and music and looking as if he were directing a Nuremberg rally instead of just a car one. But I thought that he deserved the glory, by and large. It had been quite a feat of organisation.
Sixty-six cars finished the course in the main Challenge, with sixteen in the touring category. Phil and I were pleased with our achievement, although we didn't win any of the cups.
'If only Tony hadn't sited that coil on the heater,' he sighed.
'There's no point thinking of it like that.'
The overall winners of the 1997 Peking to Paris Motor Challenge were the characters in the Willys jeep. They had accrued just 17 minutes' time penalty over the 42 days of the competition. One of them made an incomprehensible speech that seemed to refer to the rumours about his vehicle not being quite 100 per cent original.
There were numerous other cups and trophies for the winners of different classes. Even the bad crowd was represented – Adam and Jon won the prize for the highest-placed vintage car, and a second award for being all-round good guys and champion practical jokers. The Leading Lady Driver prize went to Carolyn, who had steered the Land Rover into 14th place. (As I was the named entrant in our crew and therefore technically the driver, it was funny and ironic to see that I was her runner-up, in twentieth.) The all-women's crew prize was won by the toothbrushless pair, and something called the Richard Head award went to dashing David Arrigo.
At the end of it all, a series of film clips were projected on a huge screen. There was the Tuotuoheyan camp, and the Everest plateau, and the road to hell between Tibet and Nepal. I held on to Caradoc's arm, pleased beyond words to be where I was and not back there again. There was one sequence where the majestic Phantom V cruised through a river, with the cascades of a waterfall tumbling in front of it.
Watching it, I suddenly found that I had tears in my eyes.
Yes, I thought, that was what it was like.
I wanted to go home.
Caradoc arranged a wonderful Paris lunch the next day, to celebrate my birthday with all the people who had come to watch us finish the journey. Then we took the train and the tunnel back to London together.
I gave the keys, and the car, to Phil to keep. He drove his girlfriend back to England in it, and had all the damage and destruction put right, and then he sold it to another pair of rally drivers. The Volvo would go on doing what it had been prepared to do.
After the Place de la Concorde I never saw the old car again, and I was happy to let it go.
We had travelled a long way and done the best we could by each other. It had been ridiculous, but also in a way sublime.
To drive all that way, in those cars.
Peking to Paris
Gold Medals
17 Binnie/Thompson Bentley 4.5
21 Hartley/Turner Bentley 4.5-litre VdP
23 Thomas/Zannis Ford Club coupé
24 Jung/Vann Ford Club coupé
26 Dalrymple/Dalrymple Cadillac 62
28 Dichtl/Dichtl Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn
41 Richmond/Newman Citroen 2CV
44 Sackelariou/Snelling/O'Neill Wolseley
47 Thomason/Kunz Triumph Vitesse
48 Tinzl/Tinzl Peugeot 404
50 Catt/Catt Ford Cortina Mk I
51 Dodwell/Obert Hillman Hunter
52 Broderick/Broderick Ford Anglia Estate
53 Selci/Campagnoli Citroen 2CV
69 Orteu/Davies Volvo P122S Amazon
71 De Witt/Haukes Volvo 122 Amazon
74 Flick/Mumenthaler Mercedes 220 SB
77 Hardman/Dean Aston Martin DB5
78 Kayll/Kayll Mercedes Benz 250 SE
80 Noor/Bouvier-Noor Mercedes Benz 250 SEC
82 Thomas/Bowen Volvo 122 Amazon
85 Javid/Heday Peykan Hunter
86 Kazerani/Razzaghi Peykan Hunter
87 Eijadi/Khadem Peykan Hunter
88 Crown/Bryson Holden EH saloon
90 Dangerfield/Dangerfield Holden HR
97 Surtees/Bayliss Ford Willys Jeep MB
98 Ward/Tremain Land Rover Series IIa
Silver Medals
4 Acher/Young Aston Martin Int.
9 Idris Shah/Curtis Ford Model 8 saloon
8 Jessen/Jessen Bentley 4.5-litre VdP
10 Ashby/Ashby Delage D8 dhc
12 Dunkley/Dunkley Bentley 3.5-litre
14 Bv. Schoonheten/Hastedt/Ellison Railton 8
19 Ciriminna/Ingoglia Fiat 1100 Cabriolet
20 Carr/Wyka Ford V-8 convertible
43 Van der Laan/Graal Citroen 2CV
49 Klokgieters-Lankes/Wheildon MGYB
54 Esch/Esch Mercedes Benz 300 B
55 Multon/Laughton Austin A90 Westminster
57 Morris/Morris Austin A90 Westminster
58 Voukidis/Vartholomaio Chevrolet Bel Air
59 Bull/Riley/McGugan Rover 3-litre P5
62 Sternberg/Gillies Volvo 122S Amazon
67 Chiodi/Longo Lancia Flavia coupé
68 Ong/Syn Porsche 356 SC coupé
73 Koppel/Kuhn Triumph TR6
75 Rietbergen/van Overbeehe Volvo PV 544
76 Minassian/Grogan Peugeot 404 sedan
91 Bellm/Taylor Chevrolet Camaro
92 Meyer/Geiser Mercedes Benz 280SE
99 Taylor/Davis/Pierce Willys Jeep
Bronze Medals
27 Arrigo/Caruana Allard M-type dhc
25 Clark/Hughes Buick 8 Special Sedanet
42 Matheson/Eve Rolls-Royce Phantom V
7 Veen/Dean Mercedes 630K sports
16 Prior/El Accad Railton Cobham Sln
83 Wilks/Bedingham Austin 1800 saloon
70 Janssen/Klarholz/Meier Mercedes 220A
89 Aan de Stegge/Aan de Stegge Citroen ID21
39 Brister/Barton Rover 110P4
56 Cordrey/Phillips Rover 100P4
65 Schneider/Jones Packard Straight 8
81 Goldsmith/Laing Aston Martin DB6
79 Buckingham/Mann Aston Martin DB5
64 Radcliffe/Webb Jaguar Mark VII saloon
Individual Touring Category – medals
93 Jonathon Lux Rover 3.5 P5B coupé
36 Bud Risser Chevy Bel-Air
37 Peng Yew Wong Senior MGA sports
35 Arnold Schulze Bentley Donington
40 John Dick Senior Land Rover Ha
46 John O'Neill VW Cabriolet
34 Bill Ainscough Chrysler 77
63 Christiansen/Veys Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud
29 Roby Hellers Sunbeam Talbot 90
38 Tsicrycas Peugeot 403
31 Roy O'Sullivan Rolls-Royce
61 Noble/Noble Bentley Continental
32 Herbert Handlbauer BMW 328
15 Saunders/Coote Packard 903
3 Rothlauf/Walter Bugatti Type 40
45 Dorey/Dorey Morris Minor
1 Pekin to Paris: An Account of Prince Borghese's Journey Across Two Continents in a Motor-Car. Luigi Barzini. E. Grant Richards, London, 1907.