1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 338 The Tin Box's Counterattack

The various events of the sports meet were in full swing, but everyone's hearts were captivated by the upcoming grand finale, the "Athena Mechanical Innovation Award" car rally.

Early morning on race day. The square at the foot of the Acropolis was already packed with people. Dozens of cars of various shapes and sizes lined up in front of the starting line, ready to face the grueling challenge of the nearly 90-kilometer race from Athens to Marathon and back.

The atmosphere in the arena was divided into two completely different worlds by these steel monsters.

On one side were racing cars from major French and German manufacturers. They boasted sleek, painted bodies, brass trim gleaming in the morning light, and leather seats exuding luxury. Their engines, tuned by top engineers, roared like beasts, brimming with power and beauty, captivating the attention of all the reporters and spectators. Schmidt, a representative from Mercedes-Benz, personally drove a brand-new "Victoria" race car, a confident, arrogant smile on his face.

On the other side, in a corner of the field, Henry Ford's simple, unassuming "four-wheeled vehicle" stood out conspicuously. It had no superfluous decorations; the body was simply sheet metal, with clearly visible welding marks. Compared to the ornate "works of art" beside it, it resembled a clumsy, unremarkable metal box. Many European journalists, looking at it, let out undisguised snickers.

Henry Ford sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the cold steering wheel tightly.

His eyes could see his own face, slightly greasy, reflected in the smooth paint of the European race cars around him.

His ears could hear the rhythmic roar of their engines, a hundred times more pleasant than the monotonous "putt-putt" of his "four-wheeled vehicle."

His nose could smell the distinctive odor of expensive, high-octane gasoline mixed with the dust of the Athenian morning.

His skin could feel the gazes from the onlookers, a mixture of curiosity and disdain, like countless tiny needles pricking his back, making him feel a little hot.

But he didn't care. His entire focus was on the road ahead and the familiar vehicle beneath him.

On a machine that is like an extension of the body.

At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, Constantine himself walked to the starting line. He did not make any speech, but simply raised a golden flag symbolizing the royal family high.

The entire room fell silent.

Constantine swung his arm downwards with force!

"boom--!"

A dozen European racing cars roared to life, their engines revving as they shot off like arrows, kicking up clouds of dust. They raced wildly on the smooth paved roads of Athens. Mercedes and Peugeot, these European giants, quickly left Ford's "metal box" far behind.

This stretch of road in Athens turned into a European racing showcase. The cars raced neck and neck, each vying for dominance, demonstrating astonishing speeds to the spectators. Reporters frantically pressed their shutters, capturing these thrilling moments. Schmidt's Mercedes led the pack, and he even had the leisure to wave to the spectators on the roadside, eliciting cheers from the crowd.

Ford's "four-wheeled vehicle," meanwhile, moved at a leisurely pace, almost like taking a stroll, trailing at the very back of the convoy. Its monotonous engine sound was completely drowned out by the massive roar coming from ahead.

"It seems the outcome is already decided!" a French journalist wrote in his notebook. "This is a match without any suspense. The Greeks' prize money is destined to be taken by us French, or the Germans."

However, as the convoy drove out of Athens and onto the rugged mountain road leading to Marathon, things began to change strangely.

The roads here are no longer smooth flagstone paths, but rather bumpy, gravelly country dirt tracks. The racecourse winds its way up the Pentelicus Mountains, filled with sharp turns and steep inclines.

The European race cars that had been speeding through the city suddenly ran into big trouble.

Another once-mighty German racing car, however, began to emit ominous roars from its engine during the continuous climbs. Its overly complex engine was ill-suited to the dusty conditions and coarse fuel. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, and then, after a violent shudder, it repeatedly stalled. The driver, drenched in sweat, restarted it again and again, but the machine only emitted a feeble groan.

The devilish racetrack began to reveal its monstrous face. These "aristocratic race cars," born for the smooth roads of Europe, seemed ill-suited to this pristine land. They were like gentlemen in elegant suits thrown into a muddy battlefield, fragile and vulnerable.

Just then, a figure appeared behind them, moving at a leisurely pace.

Henry Ford's "tin box" has arrived.

Its speed remained slow, but it maintained a steady and resilient rhythm. The monotonous "putt-putt" sound, at this moment, seemed so reliable.

Its simple yet robust chassis effortlessly rolled over potholes that would have broken the suspension of a European racing car. Its single-cylinder engine, with its almost rudimentary structure, remained unfazed by dust and poor-quality fuel, faithfully fulfilling its duties.

Ford maintained a steady pace, showing no sign of anxiety. He focused intently on the road ahead, his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel.

He passed the French race car with its suspension broken. The French driver was standing on the side of the road, kicking the tires in frustration at his beloved car.

He overtook the German race car that kept stalling. The German driver, covered in oil, was lying on the ground, trying to fix his complicated engine.

One after another.

Ford drove his "tin box" unhurriedly, overtaking one after another those "luxury race cars" that had previously left him far behind and were now parked on the side of the road.

Every European driver he overtook stared in disbelief, as if he'd seen a ghost, at the ugly machine steadily passing by.

Finally, at the top of a steep uphill section, Ford spotted a familiar figure.

Schmidt, a representative of Mercedes-Benz.

His "Victoria" race car, which had been leading the pack, was now parked on the side of the road. The hood was raised high, billowing white steam. Clearly, its engine had overheated during the continuous high-speed climbs.

Schmidt took off his pristine white gloves and was awkwardly wiping the sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

Ford drove his "four-wheeler" past Schmidt. He didn't slow down or even glance at him.

Schmidt heard that familiar "putt-putt" sound. He looked up abruptly and saw Ford's calm, expressionless face and the receding figure of the tin box.

Schmidt's arrogance vanished instantly, and his face turned deathly pale.