1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 339 The Marathon Turnaround

At the summit of Mount Pentelicus, the wind howls.

Henry Ford's "four-wheeled vehicle" made a monotonous yet persistent "putt-putt" sound as it climbed the last ramp. He didn't look back, leaving only a trail of dust behind him and the Mercedes "Victoria" lying slumped on the side of the road, billowing white smoke from its hood.

Schmidt's face, contorted with shame and indignation, was quickly left behind and disappeared around the bend in the rugged mountain road.

The road down the mountain was equally difficult to travel.

Gravity increased the car's speed, making braking and steering even more challenging. Ford gripped the steering wheel tightly, the muscles in his arms bulging from the effort. The car bounced violently on the gravel-strewn dirt road, each vibration transmitted solidly to his spine through the makeshift seat.

Dust swirled in his face, a mixture of sweat and grease, leaving streaks of mud on his skin. His mouth was filled with the bitter taste of sand, but his entire focus was on the ever-expanding, unpredictable road ahead.

He assembled this machine himself, piece by piece. He knew the tightness of every screw and the clearance of every connecting rod like the back of his hand. He could discern the engine's condition from every subtle change in sound; he could sense the road conditions from every vibration transmitted through the steering wheel.

This "four-wheeled vehicle" is no longer just cold steel; it is a part of his body and an extension of his will.

After another sharp bend, a French racing car, its front end almost embedded in the mountainside, lay across the roadside, its wheels twisted at an odd angle. The driver sat on a nearby rock, clutching his head, his shoulders twitching slightly.

Ford glanced at it briefly before looking away and continuing to focus on driving.

He wasn't competing; he was simply completing a journey. From Athens to Marathon.

In Marathon town, a place world-renowned for its ancient battles, hundreds of journalists and race staff have gathered. A huge banner spanning the road marks the turnaround point of the race.

Everyone craned their necks, looking towards Athens.

A telephone line connecting them to Athens was their only source of information about the match. Every few minutes, the latest news would come through the line.

"—Report! Report! Peugeot car number 7 has a broken driveshaft and is out of the race!"

"—Report! The German Dorr racing car has caught fire and is stopped halfway up the mountain!"

"—Report! The leading Mercedes 'Victoria' has overheated and is stopped at the mountaintop!"

Every piece of bad news caused a stir among the reporters. They had initially thought it would be a fierce battle between European giants, but instead, this notoriously difficult racetrack from Greece turned into a veritable "graveyard for luxury cars."

"So now—who else is on the road?" a Times reporter couldn't help but ask loudly.

The Greek officer who answered the phone listened intently for a long time, receiver in hand. Then, he put down the receiver and announced to everyone in a strange tone, a mixture of disbelief and excitement: "According to the report from the last observation post ahead, there are currently three vehicles still advancing towards the turnaround point!"

"Three vehicles?" The reporters looked at each other in bewilderment.

Which three vehicles?

The officer cleared his throat and loudly read out the hard-won list: "One of them is a Panhard racing car from France!"

"One of them is a racing car from the German company Rüttner!"

"And there's another one—" He paused, looking at the notes in his hand, finding it somewhat absurd, "—it's that Ford four-wheeler from America!"

The moment the result was announced, the entire audience erupted in chaos.

All the reporters were in an uproar.

"What? That tin box is still running?"

Amidst the murmurs, a small black dot appeared on the distant mountain road.

Then came the second, and the third.

The roar of the engine grew louder as it approached.

The first car to reach the turnaround point was the Panhard race car. Its ornate body was covered in mud, and one of its headlights was missing, making it look quite disheveled.

Closely following behind was the Rüttner race car, its exhaust pipe belching ominous black smoke.

When the third car, that "tin box" making a "putt-putt" sound, slowly appeared in everyone's sight and came to a steady stop in front of the marker line, all the noise stopped.

The reporters looked at the machine, which exuded an aura of "cheapness" and "rudimentary" from beginning to end, with the eyes of someone looking at a monster. Apart from being covered in dust, it looked—completely undamaged.

During the brief rest period, the turnaround point became two completely different worlds.

A group of maintenance personnel in professional work clothes quickly surrounded the Panhard and Rüttner race cars. They were all working frantically and in a flurry of activity.

"Quick! Change the tire! This tire is worn out!"

"Engine temperature too high! Cool it down with cold water! Check the radiator!"

"Damn it! The carburetor's clogged! It's full of dust!"

The clanging of wrenches striking metal, the loud shouts of engineers—it was all a chaotic mess.

On the other side of the field, Henry Ford simply carried a worn-out toolbox off his car.

He had no team or helpers.

He first unscrewed the radiator cap and slowly filled the engine with water using a leather water bag. Then, he picked up the fuel can and filled the fuel tank with the most ordinary fuel he had brought from Athens.

After finishing all this, he didn't rush to rest. He squatted down and carefully checked the tire pressure of each tire with his hand. Then he took out a wrench and tightened several suspension bolts that had become loose during the violent bumps.

His movements were slow, but skillful, focused, and rhythmic. It was as if he weren't repairing a machine, but tending to a beloved steed.

An American journalist carrying a bulky camera walked up to him.

"Mr. Ford, your car—looks to be in good condition?"

Ford looked up, wiped the sweat from his face, and revealed a set of white teeth.

"That's how it's supposed to be." He patted the "four-wheeled vehicle" beneath him, his tone carrying a fatherly pride. "A good machine should make its owner's life easier."

37

After a short break, the return journey for the competition began.

The afternoon temperature was even higher than in the morning. The scorching sun baked the earth, and the dust on the mountain road was heated to a scalding temperature.

This presents an even more severe test for all racing car engines.

After some emergency repairs, Panhard and Rüttner's race cars roared off again. Ford, as always, followed behind them at a leisurely pace.

However, the good times did not last long.

On a long, continuous uphill stretch of road, the engine of the German Rütner race car finally gave out.

With a muffled bang, a plume of scalding white steam, mixed with coolant, shot out from the gap in the hood! The radiator had burst!

The race car shuddered violently and came to a complete stop on the side of the road. The German driver pounded the steering wheel in despair; they were less than twenty kilometers from Athens.

Ford drove past it calmly in his "four-wheeled vehicle".

Now, all that remains in front of him is his last opponent, the French Panhard racing car.

The Frenchman seemed to realize the danger as well, and he dared not drive as recklessly as before. He carefully controlled his speed, trying to maintain his lead to the finish line.

However, the verdict of fate cannot be changed.

Just a few kilometers from the city center of Athens, that stretch of road had been worn down by coachmen over a long period of time.

The worst cobblestone road. The continuous, high-frequency bumps were the last straw that broke the camel's back.

"Crunch!"

A sickening metallic snapping sound rang out.

Panhard's race car suddenly sank downwards, and the driveshaft, the lifeline connecting the engine and the wheels, finally broke in two after a long period of torment.

The race car traced an ugly arc in the middle of the road and came to a stop.

The French driver stared blankly at the outline of Athens not far ahead, his face completely blank with disbelief.

"Rat-a-tat-tat—"

That familiar yet monotonous voice came from behind.

The French driver slowly turned his head.

He saw that lonely, dusty "tin box" steadily and relentlessly drive past him.

Panathinaikos Stadium, Athens.

Tens of thousands of spectators were growing increasingly impatient. The race had been going on for hours, but the finish line remained empty.

The announcer's voice trembled slightly from the loudspeaker, a result of nervousness.

"—Breaking news! The French Panhard race car has suffered a malfunction five kilometers from Athens and has retired from the race!"

This news caused an uproar throughout the room.

"Then—then who is there now?" someone stood up and asked loudly.

The announcer's hand, gripping the microphone, trembled slightly. He looked at the brief, one-sentence message that had just come through the phone line, took a deep breath, and shouted with all his might, "Citizens! Currently, only one race car remains on the track, still heading towards the finish line!"

"It's that four-wheeled vehicle from America—Henry Ford!"

The entire room fell silent at first.

Everyone stared wide-eyed, as if they hadn't understood what he meant.

A few seconds later, a thunderous, incredulous murmur erupted.