The route is long and the monotony of the road through the heartlands of West and East Europe soon starts to play tricks on the mind. The relentless chug-chug-chugging of the diesel engine and the mono growl of the kilometre-gobbling tyres on the German autobahn (southern England, the English Channel, France, Belgium, Holland and half of Germany are in my rear view mirror), induces a hypnotic effect whenever my iPod runs out of steam.
The ambient mechanical noises kick in and take on personalities as I listen for worrying engine knocks. After 1,100km and with 800 more to go, one of the rhythmic components under the hood - it could be the cam belt - is issuing to my Beijing ears a distinct Chinese shibboleth. 'Jiayou! Jiayou!' The chant literally means 'Add oil!' and it's the terrace mantra of the masses who intermittently tag 'Zhongguo/China!' on the end, so is best translated as 'Go, China, Go!' It is religiously repeated - over and over - at every sporting event and it can drive you nuts if the slogan parks itself inside your head.
Somewhere around Hanover, with the stereo silent and the engine noise casting its spell, my Beijing bugbear piped up. 'Jiayou! Did you top up the brake fluid? Jiayou! You should have checked the oil seals! Jiayou! Did you remember the spare keys? Jiayou! Keep at 100km/h - conserve fuel! Jiayou!' it nags.
'Jiayou! You'll never make it to Donetsk and the England v Ukraine game if you go watch the Ireland v Italy game in Poznan - that's 1,770km! Jiayou! What about the train, you fool?' it mocks.
Ironically, the greasy incantation is apt for this epic trek to all stadiums east of Berlin. Lubrication has been crucial during the prepping of my vehicle, a Land Rover 110 Defender 300 Tdi. It's a trusty steed if a little noisy and drafty, and is kitted out to full African expedition specs. It spends most of its existence in storage in the UK while I dice with death on a battered bicycle in my adopted home, the Chinese capital.
But old as it is (DOB: 1998), my 'Landy' starts first time, every time, whenever I take it out of mothballs and grease it up for an odyssey. It has traversed the Sahara Desert thrice and never missed a combustible beat during a Cairo to Cape Town jaunt, sloshing with ease through Serengeti rains and grinding over the shifting sands of the Sudan.