THIS AUSSIE WAS BONZA
In 1934 there arrived in Britain the Australian ace Hubert Opperman, who in a few months set the fashion for clubmen to "honk" uphill and to have their frames built with steeper angles. These ideas were not so much importations from Australia, as from the continent of Europe, where "Oppy" has raced with great success for many years. This is the story of Opperman's earliest experiences on the Continent, by one who was closely associated with this during that period.
It is told by RENE DE LATOUR
EARLIER in the year I was having a chat with the Editor in Paris, and you will not be surprised to hear that we were talking about cycle racing, nor perhaps that the particular aspect we were discussing was the Tour de France.
"Say, Rene," he said, "You have now ‘come of age’ so far as the Tour is concerned; you've followed 21 of them. Which is the one that has left the deepest impression upon you?”
That question was awkward, and needed thinking over for a bit. Could it be the Tour de France of 1951 when Hugo Koblet made the riders and followers believe he had an atomic motor hidden in his back hub? Or was it in 1947, when Robic snatched victory in the very last stage to thrill the whole of the French fans, who quickly made a demi-god of the little fellow from Brittany? Could it have been in a pre-war Tour—in 1935, for instance, when Romain Maes took the lead on the first day and wore the maillot jaune to the end after an incredible display of will power?
"I don't know, Jock, really," I had to admit at length. "Each Tour has something that the others haven't. Why don't you ask me instead which man, in the Tour, impressed me most? This I could easily answer."
The Editor agreed to re-phrase his question, and then I had a fine time asking him to guess who it was. He offered name after name without hitting on the right one, and at length gave it up.
"All right then, who was it?"
“The Australian rider, Hubert Opperman."
This information startled my friend, as it undoubtedly will startle many readers of his magazine.
“But Rene, Oppy never won the Tour. How could he possibly have impressed you more than some of the riders I have suggested?"
This would have meant a long and patient explanation, but there and then I had only time to give him the brief facts but they were sufficient for the Editor to order another article from his French correspondent.
"I think you'd better write us the full story," he said. "Friend ‘Oppy' is still dear to the hearts of the pre-war generation of cyclists, and I know the young readers of our magazine will be interested to read about him, too."
So here is the story why the Melbourne "ankler," Hubert Opperman, impressed me more than any other rider in the Tours de France I have followed.
In April, 1928, in the Paris “Six” I was at the Velodrome d'Hiver, soigneur to the veteran Australian rider Reggie MacNamara, whose toughness had brought him the nickname of the "Iron Man."
One evening Opperman showed up at the riders' cabin alongside the track. He had just arrived from Melbourne and had come along to cheer his fellow-countryman whom, incidentally, he had not yet met. Of course, he also wanted to see the Paris "Six"!
We were able to have a long chat. He told me how "lost" he felt since arriving in France with hardly anybody able to understand him and none to give advice. I found he was very anxious to learn a lot, and fast. He realised that Europe was the Kingdom of Cycling and that he could not learn all he wanted to know by stopping in Australia. And so I decided to look after him.
The Australian team which had been sent to France with Oppy as their captain was the following Watson, who looked more like a priest than a bike-rider Osborne, a weighty, strong boy always looking for something to eat between meals, and Bainbridge, who looked well in his forties.
A marked difference between Oppy and his team-mates was that they did not all regard the journey to Europe in the same light. While the others looked on it more as a trio in which to collect a few souvenirs to take home, to the eager Oppy it was a wonderful chance to reach the top in international competition.
He rigidly kept to his training schedule and was careful about his diet, the masseur's time was sacred, and he had wide-open eyes for everything that was new to him. There was plenty new, of course.
His arrival in France had been announced with some scepticism: "A beau mentir qui vient de loin" is a French saying. (A good liar comes from a distance.)
His outstanding wins in Australia did not mean anything to the French riders, and even less to the Belgians.
"Whom did he beat over there, anyway?" they would say. "Let's see him on the road, then we'll know. We've yet to see a classy Australian road rider."
Near Paris, in a small village, was the training camp of the Velo Club de Levallois, run by Paul Ruinart, known as le manager olympique. It was agreed that the four Aussies would stay there among a bunch of light-hearted French boys who were the cream of the amateur riders of those days. They took Opperman and his team-mates under their protection, taking them out on the best training circuits and passing on useful tips.
I could soon see that while Oppy's team-mates were very homesick and longing for the time to sail back home, the Melbourne boy's interest in European cycling increased. He was there to ride the Tour de France, and he meant to ride it. His team had been sent to France by a fund organized by the Dunlop Co. of Australia, and Oppy was anxious not to let his sponsors down.
“Maybe those French and Belgian riders are much too big for me and I'll get nowhere", he would say to me, "but I’ll certainly have a try.”
Oppy was much impressed by the neat-looking and perfect position on their bikes of Paul Ruinart's boys. He thought maybe he looked like a novice alongside them. But he soon found out that in training many of them could not stand his pace and dropped off. This, however, did not give him any undue confidence.
"These boys are amateurs, aren't they?" he said philosophically. "Perhaps the professional will do the same to me as I am doing to these boys.”
At length the true time of testing arrived – not in a training session but in an actual race. It was agreed that the team would ride the Paris-Rennes event, which, with enough hills at the end of 200 miles to split up the field, was no easy task.
I was rather worried as to how those Aussies would make out in a big field of riders. I knew that while they were used to handicap road racing with small groups or individuals chasing each other, they were not used to our kind of mass-start. There would be 150 riders in Paris-Rennes. How would Oppy & Co. get along in such an elbow-to-elbow struggle?
Among the 150 entries was Andre Leducq, who had just won Paris-Roubaix. To Oppy, Leducq was one of the Gods of cycling, and on their being introduced the Australian tried out his small supply of French on the popular "Dede", who laughed heartily and good naturedly at his brave effort. They were to become good friends.
There is not space to give a full description of this first contact of the Australians with Continental racing. Nicolas Frantz of Luxembourg (now manager of their national Tour team) won and Oppy finished eighth. I was pleasantly surprised, not only by the athletic merit of the performance itself, but by the way Oppy got along in the middle of a bunch of rough-riding characters. No one pushed him out of the way, and when the race was over I could hear well-known riders saying among themselves;
"Say this Opperman isn't so bad after all! What do you think?"
But Opperman himself was not so pleased.
"I could have done better, Rene, really I could. I lacked confidence when Frantz broke away. Next time I race against him he will not shake me off so easily."
Oppy was to keep his word in his next outing, which was the Paris-Brussels, another 200 miles race, and one of the hardest of the season, with hordes of French and Belgian cracks fighting it out over the final bone-shattering cobbled miles.
I worried again; this time how he would fare over those cobbles, as there is not this type of road in Australia. But he insisted on riding.
“There are cobbles in the Tour de France, too, aren't there?" he argued. “So what? I have to get used to them, and this Paris-Brussels race will teach me something."
It taught him plenty. But it was also a lesson for those who still thought that the Australian was only a second-class rider.
The race was a grueling test. When the field crossed the Belgian border there were still another 100 miles to go—the worst miles … The pace was so furious that men were shaken off one by one.
Thirty miles from the finish all that remained of the 300 spick-and-span and ambitious starters were half a dozen leaders, so dirty with sweat and tar and coal-dust from the cycle-paths bordering the cobbled roads, that they were hardly recognisable.
But I was able to recognise one of them... Oppy was there, a fighting Oppy taking his turn at the front yet not showing any sign of distress.
“But how long can this last?” I mused, for indeed Oppy had already achieved wonders to have stuck that far with the leading men.
Suddenly, on a small hill, the riders' backs bent a little more in extra effort, Georges Ronsse, the outstanding Belgian champion who gained two world road titles, thought that even a bunch of six was too big, and was trying to break it up.
The result was that three riders tailed off—but Oppy was still there. I could hardly believe my eyes! The other two were Ronsse and the previous year's Tour de France winner Nicolas Frantz ... Can you imagine my astonishment?
My car took me closer to Oppy. He was watching the outstanding Ronsse-Frantz "tandem" and was obviously going to die on his bike rather than be dropped by them. In turn Frantz and Ronsse threw back inquisitive glances at him. I knew they were wondering who he was. Oppy's silhouette meant nothing to them.
All they knew was that there was only one rider left with them and the finish getting nearer and nearer, and it was dangerous to take the unknown ankler up to the sprint. Maybe he was fast enough to beat them both. How could they know?
So Frantz and Ronsse started to work hard on him, making faster shifts each time Oppy had quit the lead. But after a few unsuccessful attempts they realized they could not shake off this strong, determined stranger.
Ten kilometres from the finish I called out to Oppy from my car, asking how he felt. He replied with a happy wink. He was happy because even if he had to be content with third place he had achieved something which he could only have dreamed about.
That’s what just happened. In the crowded Bois de la Cambre in Brussels, Ronsse won the sprint quite easily, with Frantz on his wheel. But I doubt if either was happier that Mister Hubert Opperman of Melbourne, Australia. When I picked him off his bike all that he could say, with a grin as big as the moon, was:
“I made it, Rene, I made it … I’m on the list. Isn’t that great?”
I knew what he meant. Oppy with his deep sense of observation, realized that the first three finishers in a classic like Paris-Brussels have their names on the record lists for ever…
The sporting press was full of praise for this unexpected feat. But the Australian was to do so much better later on that Paris-Brussels became just a normal performance.
Two months later the Tour de France started.
A strange Tour indeed. Henri Desgrange, the "father of the Tour", had decided that something had to be done to put new life into the race. This was his plan:
Out of the 22 stages (the shortest 119 kms. and the longest 387 kms.) 15 were to be team time trials, each team being separated by ten minutes at the start. The trade teams were made up of the ten very best riders that could be found. The standard was so high that even the "rejects" were still of a very high-class standard.
But the Australians had not got ten men to put on the starting line of the Tour. They had only Opperman, Watson, Osborne and Bainbridge.
What a raw deal for the poor Aussies! Yet this unfair handicap weighing on his shoulder did not bother Oppy at all.
“I’m not here to win the Tour de France," he said. "All I want is to show them my worth, and I think there will be no better opportunity. I know this race is going to be hard. So what?”
Even if I live to be 150 years old, there is one picture I am sure I shall never forget. It is the sight of the poor lonely Opperman being caught day after day by the various teams of ten super-athletes, swopping their pace beautifully. This is what happened to Oppy in most of the stages;
The four Australians would start together. Bainbridge would do his best to hang on, but even though he may have been a good rider in the past, the passing years had taken most of his speed, and he would generally go off the back after 50 miles or so. When it had been his turn to take the lead, you could hardly expect him to fly, could you? This means that the team really got no benefit from his services at all. With Bainbridge off, that left three Aussies against the trade teams' ten. Then, inevitably, if it was not Osborne it was Watson who would have to quit at the 100 miles mark.
And, almost daily, Oppy would be left alone for the last 50 miles. Alone against the full teams who would hardly lose a man all day long…
When the Australians had started the Tour nobody seemed to realise, even the specialist cycling writers, that this team time trial formula was most unfair to the visitors. They looked at it this way:
"Opperman wants to ride the Tour? O.K. Let him find out what it's like and show us what he's worth in such a long race."
None seemed wise to the fact that it was like putting a fighter in ring with one arm tied behind back. If Oppy had not already put up such a wonderful Paris-Brussels showing I should not have minded so much. I knew how strong he was and that, given a place in a good team, he could finish right among the very best—maybe even in the first five.
My faith in Oppy's capabilities was confirmed by what followed.
Of course he was usually caught somewhere before the finish (meaning that he had lost ten minutes) and those who caught him were often the Alcyon team which had drawn a starting position one behind the Aussies.
That mighty Alcyon team comprised Leducq, Frantz, Rebry, Dewaele (who was to win the Tour the next year), Vervaecke, Mertens, Delannoy, Mauclair, Louesse, Neuhard. You can imagine the amount of stamina and will-power that Oppy must have possessed to stay ahead of such a bunch of aces for as long as he did.
Yet he had such a store of those great qualities that he was there fresh for the start each new day, his body and mind still intact.
Those really close to the sport fully appreciated the value of Oppy's performance.
Ludovic Feuillet (who died last year at the age of 75) had more road-riders under his supervision than any other directeur sportif, and he realized the quality of Oppy's showing and how much energy the former Melbourne post-office boy was expending without a grumble.
"I wish I had a man like him in my team," Monsieur "Ludo" said to me after a few stages. "This Oppy is just unbreakable. Anybody else in his place would have packed long ago."
Feuillet had such a respect for Oppy and for the tremendous amount of work he did each day, that he did something that a directeur sportif can hardly have done before, or since, for the member of an opposing team: he gave him some special tyres he had zealously kept for his riders to use over the bumpy roads in the north of France.
"There you are, Oppy," he said. "Make the best of them. You're a great rider, my boy…”
Did Oppy blush!
I don't know if Hubert Opperman, now Member of Parliament for Geelong, Australia, will ever read this. If so, I must apologise to him now for relating that incident, for I know he would say quietly;
“You shouldn't have said that, Rene…”
Seven stages of the Tour had already been negotiated. Starting from Paris we had already left behind us Caen, Cherbourg, Dinan, Brest, Vannes, Les Sables d'Olonne and Bordeaux. The best placings of the Aussies had been third in Dinan and Vannes, while the top team in the race was obviously Alcyon, who already had a clear lead and could hardly be beaten (in fact they won easily in the end).
One stage remained before the terrible Hendaye-Luchon stretch in which the Aubisque and Tourmalet passes had to be climbed. Ludovic Feuillet was telling me that over that flat stage from Bordeaux to Hendaye he intended to let his team take it easily so as to be fresh for the mountains the following day.
"Tell Oppy and his boys to do their very best," he said. "They may even win at Hendaye; we shall be out of the running this time!"
What a tip this was!
Oppy was unaware, if my memory is correct, of these facts. I knew he would not have liked it. But he was told to work even harder than the previous day and have a real try.
And try he did—so much so that Bainbridge was shaken off in the first 20 miles and Osborne had to let go when there were still another 80 miles to ride.
A check at mid-distance showed that Oppy and Watson were leading the stage! At last Oppy's extraordinary efforts since Paris were to be rewarded.
But, alas, things did not last that way until the finish. That very day the Alcyon director, Monsieur Gentil, who was on holiday at Bordeaux, decided to follow his team and see them win yet another stage.
M. Gentil knew how to use a stop-watch. He used it several times during the day, and he was not happy with what he saw.
"Say, what's wrong with those boys?" he exclaimed at length to Ludovic Feuillet.
"They're going to lose this stage if they don't hustle up a bit. That's no way to treat their boss, is it?"
"I know, Monsieur Gentil," replied Feuillet. "I'm the one who is responsible. I told them to take it easy today. The mountains are coming, you know…”
The boss-man was not impressed by this strategy:
"None of that. They're strong enough to win whenever they want. Tell them to ride as fast as they can. Don't you see that being beaten by those two lonesome Australians would be an insult to us?"
You can imagine the rest, I guess. Just a few words from M. Feuillet were enough:
"Go ahead, boys. The boss says you must win…”
That did it. The ten locomotives put on a bit more pressure over the last 50 miles and Oppy and Watson were beaten by a small margin.
I was really sorry for the Australians, but at the same time I was glad that Oppy knew nothing concerning the "deal." At his hotel after the stage he was singing in the bath.
“Well, Rene, we're not so bad, eh? What do you think?”
I never told Oppy how good I thought he was. He did not like any comment that looked like flattery.
Oppy finished that Tour, virtually on his own, in 18th place, behind the winner Frantz. Later in the year he was to win the famous Bol d'Or, the 24-hour race on the Buffalo concrete track, paced by tandems and triplets. He beat the record for the race.
But that is another story… Maybe I shall have the pleasure of telling you about it one day.
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