This is not a good start. Night has fallen in Kashi and our old Volkswagen taxi has broken down. We stand by the road-side and watch our driver stare at the engine in a fit of desperation. I can't remember the Chinese words for "alternator broken," so we hail another cab as he waits for a tow.
Kashi lies on the western tip of China, about 2000 miles due west of Beijing and less than 200 miles from the border with Afghanistan. Officially, this area is called the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, and it's a world away from my perceived image of China. Islam, not communism, is the dominant belief system here, and you're more likely to be served a mutton kebab than Beijing Duck.
The people don't look or sound Chinese, and few have ever heard the word Ferrari. Even a bicycle is beyond the means of most residents, which makes the presence outside our hotel of two 612 Scagliettis seem even more incongruous. Unlikely though it might sound, these cars will be my friends and guides for the next five days as I drive 1800 miles along the Silk Road, the old trading route between East and West. In other words, I will pilot a $247,850 supercar where Marco Polo once rode.
For me, this is a mighty step into the unknown, but for the cars and their support staff, this is just another leg in an epic journey than began in Beijing on August 29. By the time they reach the finish line in Shanghai on October 29, the cars will have covered more than 15,000 miles. Part P.R. stunt and part durability test, the 15,000 Red Miles is the most ambitious trip ever undertaken by the folks from Maranello.
Today's stage starts at 8:30 a.m., when it's still dark. Despite being geographically closer to Europe than it is to the Chinese capital, Xinjiang still adheres to Beijing time. Its residents therefore live in a bizarre world wherein it doesn't get light until mid-morning and then stays light late into the evening.
We tack southeast, picking a route along the edge of the Tarim Basin and in the shadow of the Kunlun Shan mountains. Dusty desert wastelands are interspersed by tiny oases of paddy and cotton fields. China is home to 1.3 billion people, but few of them live out here.
The view beyond the Ferrari's fluted hood is far removed from the high-rise, first-world extravagance of contemporary Shanghai, but there are still signs of China's rapid economic growth. Mobile- phone towers are dotted across the horizon, and the buzz of my cell-phone provides a link, literally and metaphorically, to the developed world.
The roads are surprisingly good, and we settle to an easy, 80-mph cruise. The 612 is billed as the consummate GT, with enough room in back for a couple of slimline adults and a refined, relaxed gait. In sixth gear, with the big V-12 barely ticking over, the Ferrari is as quiet as an executive sedan, and the suspension revisions (see sidebar) have done little to compromise its comfortable ride. The 612 is a subtle, sophisticated tool--it's happy to leave the porn-star antics to the F430.
Ferrari's 15,000 Red Miles is the brainchild of aftersales director Luigino "Gigi" Barp. "This is the first time any manufacturer has attempted such a feat in China," he says. "By describing the tour as a sporting event, we gained the permission of Chinese authorities, without which it would've been impossible." A government official has joined the team for the duration, doubling as a tour guide.
The logistical challenge shouldn't be underestimated. Just to secure a temporary driving permit for China, I had to submit a copy of my resume and eight photographs to the highest authorities. There could be no flexibility; an Italianate laissez-faire attitude wasn't going to work.
The Ferrari caravan consists of seven full-time support staff, which includes two engineers and a truckful of spares. "We are the red squadron," says Barp, a former member of the Italian air force. "We have clear rules and strict discipline. People must know and trust the boss--me."
A Fiat hatchback performs a reconnaissance role, relaying information about the road ahead. Its importance is demonstrated on day one, when the newly laid highway momentarily ceases to be. We're diverted off-road onto a rough gravel track that would trouble an SUV. The closest most Ferrari drivers come to such conditions is a pebble-driveway.
The quality of the roads isn't nearly as bad as the quality of the driving. The highways aren't so much roads as tarmac strips upon which the locals see fit to travel. Officially, you drive on the right in China, but no one seems to care. It's not unusual to find a horse and cart trundling toward you on the wrong side of the road; motorbikes scurry every which way, and no one stops at an intersection.
At first, it looks like organized chaos, but it's not long before I pass a truck that's rolled off the road. With car sales rising 30 percent in 2005 to 3.2 million, road safety is becoming a major concern for the Chinese government. In the Tarim Basin, there's no emergency room, and no one will hear you scream.
By the end of the second day, we've arrived in the small town of Minfeng, on the edge of the Taklimakan Desert. The town has a main street, which is littered with tiny cafes and stalls. In the center of the street, a local butcher wheels a still-warm carcass of mutton past busy shoppers; there's no refrigeration, so the meat must be sold fresh.
I park the Ferrari, and it immediately draws a crowd. The locals peer through the windows and grab aggressively at the door handles. Through a translator, I snatch a word with a bystander named Uquili. He claims to have seen a Grand Prix on television, but has no knowledge of Ferrari's road cars. "I have no money," he says, "but I am confident that in the future I will afford a car."
His words appease concerns about the ethics of driving such a conspicuous symbol of wealth through such a poor area. Although Ferrari expects to sell around 140 cars in China this year, they'll be sold to Shanghai entrepreneurs, not cotton farmers from Minfeng. Ferrari's P.R. guru, Antonio Ghini, is dismissive of such criticism: "Italy was poor in the postwar period," he says, "but a Ferrari was a stimulating message, an inspiration. I believe it can play the same role in China today."
Next morning, we leave Minfeng and head due north, bisecting the desert. Covering an area of more than 127,000 square miles, the Taklimakan is the second largest desert in the world. The locals call it the "sea of death," and it's easy to see why. While the natural beauty of the dunes is undeniable, it's difficult to think of a more inhospitable environment.
The anonymity of the sand is broken only by the occasional camel train and a sprinkling of homes that derive their subsistence from God knows where. Only after 120 miles are we afforded some relief in the form of the desert's only fuel station. Its name, appropriately, is Midpoint.
This is a strange sort of a day. I'm cruising through a Chinese desert in a Ferrari at near three-figure speeds, with my iPod singing sweet tunes and the air-conditioning maintaining a steady 70 degrees. I've been on fairground rides that felt less surreal.
Our speeds are relatively modest, but there are still times when I can't resist slipping down a couple of cogs and asking the 5.7-liter V-12 to draw breath. On this fuel, the engine is delivering significantly less than the claimed 540 horsepower and 434 pound-feet of torque, but the 612 should still be described as pleasingly rapid. The V-12 is so quiet--too quiet for my liking--and so unerringly smooth that this car gathers speed by stealth.
I've spent time over the past couple of days swapping between the silver car, which boasts a manual trans, and the red car, which has a semi-automatic F1 gearbox. By day three, I've surprised myself by preferring the F1. These systems have improved dramatically in recent years, and on long journeys such as this, it's ultimately the more relaxing and fulfilling companion.
There's much to like about Ferrari's most grownup car, but it's not without fault. The faux-aluminum switchgear, aftermarket stereo, and tacky CD holders, for example, compromise what's otherwise a beautifully finished cabin. To these eyes, at least, the 612's styling also continues to frustrate; the "Scaglietti scallops" look especially contrived.
It's mid-afternoon by the time we reach the northern edge of the desert, where we discover its hidden treasure. A Sinopec installation sucks oil from the desert floor, driving China's economic renaissance. A makeshift village has sprung up to service the workforce, and as we head east toward my final destination of Jiayuguan, we encounter more nomadic communities, serving the railroad or highway construction.
Groups of workers labor around the clock to transform the arid landscape, and the pace of change is extraordinary. This route, which in medieval times witnessed the trade of iron, silk, china, fruit, and gems, will once again buzz with the sound of commerce. In a few months' time, the main highway will be complete, but for now we're forced to drive for more than 120 miles on rutted dirt roads that cause the whole car to shake in anger.
In near zero visibility, we push on, relying on our reflexes and the strength of the 612's suspension. The Prancing Horse on the steering wheel bucks uneasily in my hands as we play chicken with the overloaded trucks that prowl the highway. There's little time for reflection; the clock is ticking and the thought of tackling such terrain in the dark is nothing short of terrifying.
The road finally improves as the city of Jiayuguan looms large on the horizon. We're now in the Gansu province, beyond the Tarim Basin and in a much more affluent area. Historically referred to as the mouth of China, it holds a symbolic location at the end of the Great Wall.
On our final morning, the Ferrari and I pay homage to one of man's greatest feats. The Great Wall is arguably the most potent symbol of ancient China, but with its manicured car parks and garish tourists, it's also an emblem of the new China. It seems as good a place as any to wave goodbye to the red squadron.
The cynics will dismiss Ferrari's 15,000 Red Miles as nothing more than a P.R. stunt from a company that doesn't advertise. But while they're correct about the motive, they underestimate the triumph of the execution. Anyone who dodged the Beijing traffic, scaled the Tibetan peaks, or crossed the Taklimakan Desert will have been left in no doubt that this was an epic journey.
The Rat PatrolThe Ferraris used in the expedition were modified, but only slightly. Spacers in the suspension raised the ride height by 100 mm to allow the car straddle the rocky, desert terrain. A larger fuel tank filled most of the trunk, the underbody had been fitted with protective cladding, and the headlights wore a protective mesh grille. Snow tires were used to provide extra grip in the soft sand.
Ferrari's technicians also were carrying an alternative engine control unit. This contained revised engine mapping software in case we were forced to use poor-quality fuel. In the event, the standard ECU coped admirably with the 93-octane gas found throughout western China.
A support truck carried a huge variety of spare parts, but over the 1800 miles of our leg, the two cars proved all but faultless. An air filter became clogged with dust in the Taklimakan Desert, and a stone destroyed a wheel rim on the silver car, but that was the extent of our troubles. At the risk of sounding like a P.R. stooge, Ferrari's build quality really has improved dramatically in the past decade.