Fabio Casartelli

If you don't know already, I live in Australia where cycling is a low popularity sport in comparison to such other sports as Australian Rules Football, Rugby League, Rugby Union and Cricket.  This week the cricket family had a tragedy where Australian international Philip Hughes lost his life playing the sport he loved. This was a freak accident that was felt worldwide where many sporting events have held a minute of silence or applause to celebrate the life of Hughes.

This took me back to nearly 20 years ago where in the Tour de France of 1995, Fabio Casartelli, the 1992 Olympic Champion was killed.  

I have gone through my cycling magazine archive for the reporting for this tragedy and just like the cricket world recently, the cycling world was grieving for one of their own.  Stage 12 of the 2015 Tour de France will commemorate the 20th anniversary of the death of Casartelli as the climb the Col de Portet d'Aspet will be used where he made his final pedal strokes.

Casartelli Killed in Tour Accident (Winning Bicycling Illustrated September 1995)

Motorola rider Fabio Casartelli died July 18 after being injured in a crash in the Pyrenees during stage 15 of the Tour de France, from St. Girons to Cauterets.

The 24-year-old Italian, who fractured his skull and received other injuries, was airlifted by helicopter to a hospital in Tarbes where he was pronounced dead. The cause of death was brain trauma, according to a hospital spokesperson. Casartelli was reportedly not wearing a helmet.

Casartelli, the 1992 Olympic road race gold medallist, was in a group of several riders descending the Col de Portet d'Aspet, the first climb of the day, when the crash occurred. Casartelli fell heavily and apparently struck a concrete block by the side of the road. The resulting head injuries caused him to lose consciousness immediately, doctors said. AKI's Dante Rezze and Polti’s Dirk Baldinger were also hospitalized suffering from fractures. The exact cause of the accident had not been determined as of press time.

Casartelli’s death was the third in Tour de France history and the first since Britain's Tom Simpson collapsed and died in 1967.

Casartelli, who was married and the father of a three-month-old son, was buried July 20 in Albese, Italy. Motorola team manager Jim Ochowicz, Eddy Merckx, and Bernard Hinault were among those attending the funeral.

Tour riders paid tribute to Casartelli during stage 16 when they rode as a procession and allowed his Motorola teammates to cross the finish line together ahead of the field. No stage results were listed. The day's prize money and a matching sum from the Tour Society were donated to Casartelli's family. Motorola also established a trust fund for the rider's widow and son.

Coping with the Unthinkable (Winning Bicycling Illustrated September 1995)

By Jeremy Whittle

We applaud their courage and stamina, envying the extraordinary fitness that allows Tour de France racers to climb 9,000 meters of Pyrenean mountains in a little over six hours. It’s hard to think of these rare athletes as falliable everyday human beings who miss their homes and their wives and children, and who long for the conclusion of this hardest race of all so that their days of suffering can finally end.

After stage 15’s finish in Cauterets, it was all there in Tony Rominger's red and brimming eyes as all around him, the full story of Fabio Casartelli's tragic death unfolded.

Yet it was curious how the lost and bewildered press gravitated towards the Mapei team bus. In the eerie atmosphere of the team vehicles parking area, the only member of the stricken Motorola squad visible was Alvaro Mejia. Nobody but the most insensitive dared intrude on the Colombian's grief as he sat in a departing team car, head bowed, sobbing uncontrollably.

In the Mapei bus, Rominger, with rising anger, was watching ghoulish TV replays of Casartelli's last moments; but then, wisely, his personal soigneur reached across to switch off the horrific images.

Moments later, Rominger felt composed enough to talk to the press. "I didn't know what had happened until the finish, but maybe they should have told us during the stage," he said barely audible. "When I rode over the line, they told me that somebody had died — that was the first I knew of it. I think that in such a case, even if you don't stop the race, you shouldn't carry on with the podium presentation.

"There's always the risk of crashing, but you try not to think about it. I have a family and I have a life outside cycling. Racing's getting more and more dangerous as the races get faster. Perhaps we have to consider more safety precautions."

A long pause followed. "But they should show respect for him and his family. I don't know why they have to show the pictures of the crash on TV over and over again," wondered Rominger, his voice trembling.

"Did you know he had a three-month-old child?" interjected an Austrian journalist. It was too much for the father of three, whose face fell in dismay, his eyes filling once more.

At the front of the bus, a withdrawn Johan Museeuw was telling journalists that he would never come back to the Tour. The Belgian had fallen in the same group as Casartelli and knew immediately that the Italian was critically injured.

"I found out that he'd died when I was on the Tourmalet," Museeuw recalled as he stared blankly at the ground. "When I heard the news, I just wanted to stop. When he'd crashed, I'd fallen, too. I was there at the scene for five minutes, waiting for the doctor...."

The Peloton Remembers Fabio (Cycle Sport September 1995)

FABIO Casartelli's bike is still hanging up in the back of Motorola's truck. None of the mechanics have the courage to touch the bike that carries the number 114. It will go all the way to Paris.

The crowds watching the Tour have applauded the red and blue Motorola jersey on the road to the unforgettable finish of the Tour's most intense stage. The day became one long homage to Fabio's memory because nobody had the desire to ride competitively. The riders decided on this among themselves.

It seemed likely the riders would do this right from the start of the day. There were long faces, red eves, few words were being said and there were still tears. Francesco Frattini's reaction summed up that of many riders as he sobbed before the stage start: 'We thought there had been some kind of mistake when we heard the news of Fabio’s death. I don't know how I am going to ride after what happened.

Tony Rominger, like all the members of the Mapei-GB team, was wearing a small black ribbon as a mark of respect. 'I hardly knew Casartelli,' he recognised, but his death has touched me profoundly, as it has everyone. These are the kind of things that really make you stop and reflect.'

When the Motorola team van arrived there was a moment of silence. The six riders were dressed to ride: Armstrong. Peron, Mejia, Andreu, Bauer and Swart all had a large black rectangle of cloth pinned to their sleeves. Andrea Peron, Casartelli's 24-year-old room-mate faced up to the trials of the day with great dignity. 'Yes, I did sleep last night,' he admitted, 'but in my mind I could still see Fabio's grin, and that will stay with me forever. He wanted to make it all the way to Paris, and now I'm determined to finish the Tour in his memory.

‘I have spoken with his wife Annalisa, on the telephone and she has told me to go on because this is the best way of remembering him. And I am sure that is what he would have wanted.’

Peron has suggested that Motorola’s winnings from the Tour be sent to Casatelli’s family. 'It won't alleviate Annalisa’s grief,’ Peron recognised, ‘but it is the least we can do’.

Before the start the Tour caravan observed a minute’s silence. Then, after a few kilometres out on the road Davide Cassani representing all the Italian riders, spoke with Indurain and Virenque. All were agreed. A few moments later, the Frenchman in the polka-dot jersey told race organiser Jean-Marie Leblanc that no one would race for the primes. A whisper went around the peloton: 'take it easy today, one of the Motorolas is going to win.'

Casartelli's team-mates took all of the intermediate primes and at the end went ahead of the race to the sound of both applause and tears. For the record, Peron crossed the line first, but it mattered little. The real victor was the sensitivity of the riders, and the true winner was the memory of Fabio.

Cycle Sport Editorial September 1995

Death of an Olympic Champion

by Andy Sutcliffe

THE tragic death of Motorola's Fabio Casartelli in this year's Tour de France cast a long shadow over what had been until then one of the best ever Tours.

For all Miguel Indurain's achievement of a fabled fifth consecutive win, it is doubtless true that 1995 will, like 1967, go down in history as a Tour during which a rider died.

Like so many human tragedies the death of Casartelli brought out the best and the worst in people.

The best was clearly the emotional display of rider solidarity that led to the Motorola team crossing the finish line in Pau after a day-long promenade dedicated to the Italian's memory. And the sight of Motorola team captain Lance Armstrong soloing to a personal stage victory that owed as much to the power of raw emotion as it did to the former world champion's physical fitness.

The worst was surely both the failure of various individuals to recognise that in the face of such a tragedy the Tour de France is just a bike race, and the tasteless handling of the story by much of the media.

That the Tour organisers went ahead with the prize presentation — complete with a delighted, laughing Richard Virenque, who was unaware of the day's events until he stepped down from the podium — after such a day was difficult to believe. The Tour hierarchy is dominated by ex-pros who one would expect could be relied upon to understand that, in the light of such an accident, gestures needed to be made. Sponsors may need pleasing, crowds satisfying, but surely no-one would have criticised Jean-Marie Leblanc for cancelling the day's official set pieces.

The reaction of some areas of the press was perhaps more predictable. In the UK, newspapers that can usually be relied upon to be unable to find a spare column inch to report the best of cycling stories suddenly managed to locate acres of space to display some of the more gruesome photographs being touted around. The Daily Mirror's 'Tour of Death' back page — complete with a full page photo of the stricken Italian, albeit electronically sanitised to spare readers the full gore — was fairly typical of the insensitive way many papers treated the tragedy.

Britain's tabloids were not alone in reporting Casartelli's death in a less than sensitive manner. Certain other papers made themselves very few friends in the peloton with their use of crash scene photos. And reports of photographers being despatched to the morgue left many riders barely able to contain their fury.

The reporting in the non-specialist press also, predictably, quickly focussed in on the supposed danger inherent in the Tour and ways in which such tragedies could be averted — namely helmets. As quickly as the Tour's doctors could say that it was highly unlikely a cycle helmet would have had any bearing on Casartelli's ultimate fate, the papers could be relied upon to call for compulsion.

The fact is that the Tour's safety record is extremely good. Rider deaths are very rare — just two from crashes in the 92 years of the race's existence; it was obvious from the riders' reactions that the death was a pro-found shock to them principally because such serious accidents are not part of the day to day life of a professional cyclist.

Editor’s Corner Winning Bicycling Illustrated September 1995

A Death in the Family

By Rich Carlson

I didn't know Fabio Casartelli. Never met him. I wasn't able to make it down to Motorola's winter training camp last December, and he wasn't with the team this spring when they came over for the Tour DuPont and the CoreStates races.

And now, because of a horrible crash on the descent of the Col de Portet d'Aspet in the Tour de France, I'll never have a chance to meet the happy looking young Italian pictured in Motorola's media guide, never get to talk to him about what it was like to win the Olympic road race in 1992, never be able to ask him how he liked riding for Jim Ochowicz and an American based team.

Thats because Fabio Casartelli is dead, his life cruelly stolen away just a couple of weeks before his 25^th birthday. One minute he was racing down than lonely pass at 50 mph, the next minute he was lying crumpled on the ground, his skull fractured, his lifeblood flowing from his terrible wounds.

Everyone did all they could to save him. Other riders in the crash, horrified at what they saw, frantically signalled for an ambulance. A helicopter summoned to airlift poor Fabio to the hospital. When his heart stopped during the trip medics resuscitated it … again ... and again.

But it was hopeless. Fabio Casartelli, husband of Annalisa, father of little three-month-old Marco, died soon after arriving at the hospital.

Things like that aren't supposed to happen in bicycle racing.

And usually, thank God, they don't.

In the entire 92 year history – with all those stages, all those riders, all those countless miles, all those terrible, mountain roads all those dangerous high-speed descents, all those awful pile-ups — Casartelli was only the second racer ever to die in a crash.

Incredible, when you think about it.

Alas, even such reassuring statistics do nothing to ease the pain of such a tragedy. But what happened at the Tour the day after Casartelli’s death did offer some comfort, at least for me. In fact when I saw what the riders in the peloton did, heard about what Casartelli's Motorola sponsors were doing, realized how much his death had affected the entire racing community, I felt privileged to be involved in the sport of cycling.

At first, though, I had my doubts.  On the day of the tragedy, the Tour's organizers blundered badly, failing to inform the riders of Casartelli's death and even being so obdurate as to hold the victory ceremonies afterwards, a gaffe that had an incredulous Eddy Merckx shaking his head in dismay.

But then the riders themselves took over. The next day, in what could have been a decisive stage, it was agreed that as a tribute to their fallen comrade the peloton would ride but not race. All prize money from the stage would be donated to Casartelli's widow and child, a sum to be matched by the Tour Society itself. And, in an incredibly moving tribute, the remaining Motorola riders were allowed to roll ahead of the pack at the finish and cross the line in unison, with Casartelli's Italian roommate Andrea Peron edging forward to "win" the stage.

Motorola came through, too. The team decided to donate all of its winnings to Casartelli's family, and the company itself established a trust fund for his son. An obviously shaken Ochowicz handled the entire sad situation with grace and quiet strength. "It's a tragedy for all of us." he said quietly. "But it's even more so for Fabio’s family. Our deepest sympathies are with them." And, later in the week, as he soloed into Limoges to win stage 18, an inspired Lance Armstrong looked up and blew kisses toward the heavens.

Professional cycling is not without its flaws. But I can think of no other sport that would honor one of its own in such a genuinely sincere and human way. A Super Bowl or World Series game played as a tribute, with no final score? A NASCAR or Formula One race run at half speed, with no one trying to win?

Never happen.

Fabio Casartelli has left us, never to ride a bike or win a race or – and this is the truly sad part – see his wife or infant son again. But in the face of all this heartbreak, the sport he loved, in fact gave his life to, has gathered 'round like family. And that's a comforting thought, indeed.

Below is the footage from Stages 15 and 16 of the 1995 Tour de France.

The Legend of Sir Hubert Opperman

So I was looking through my magazines looking at something else to share for the cycling world and I came up upon this one from the August 1957 edition of Sporting Cyclist.  Sir Hubert Opperman had just one day before been chosen for the Australian Tour de France Team of the Century as team captain, but to me (and to perhaps most), we only know of his name, and not his exploits.  Here is an article that will justify his place in the Team of the Century and his legendary status.

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.

Francesco Moser's Hour Records - 1984

The World Hour Record has been back in the spotlight of recent note after the relaxing of the rules related to the record.  Here is a report from the April 1984 edition of Winning Bicycle Racing Illustrated of Francesco Moser's two new hour records set within four days of each other in early 1984.

TRIUMPH OF TECHNOLOGY

by Kent K. Gordis

photos by Sergio Penazzo

Pierre Chany, of the French sports daily l'Equipe, was the only French journalist who had bothered to come to Mexico City. On this crisp January morning, with temperatures hovering around 48 degrees. Francesco Moser and his entourage had announced a trial run over 20km.

One hour later Moser had covered the unbelievable distance of 50.809 kilometers. Chany, a veteran of nearly fourty years of cycling journalism, dizzily wired back to his paper. “We have just witnessed a truly phenomenal exploit.”

Nearly six months earlier Francesco Moser had announced his intention of breaking this record which had become nearly sacred since Eddy Merckx had set it in 1972. But Moser wasn't fooling around. With the help of a well-endowed and willing sponsor, Enervit, an Italian firm which markets health products for athletes, Moser began an intensive training and technical development program.

Moser set about to topple all the previously held notions of this most sacred of all cycling institutions. Whereas all recent previous attempts has been made soon after the end of the road season to benefit from the fitness of a year’s riding, Moser announced that he would not make a stab at the record before January.

With Enervit's energetic backing, Moser set about to prepare for his hour ride in a singularly scientific way. Moser's revolutionary bicycle was carefully studied, designed and redesigned by Moser's design man, professor Dal Monte. Sergio Pininfarina, the famous automobile designer, rented out his wind-tunnel to Moser's crew, who studied differently shaped tubes and accessories right down to the last millimeter. It soon became clear that the top tube would have to be sloped down as far as possible and that the sudden jut that the seat post represented had to be reduced to a minimum. It was also quickly learned that full wheel-covers represented a tremendous improvement over conventional spoked models; this fact would play a crucial role later on down the line.

Moser set about riding his new-fangled machine, logging in many miles on Milan's indoor track. His fitness was constantly tested and monitored toreach the ultimate level. Doctor Francesco Conconi, who headed the medical team, explained the goals of this method. “To reach our goal we had to establish the exact relationship between Moser's power and his heart beat, between his power and variable climatic conditions and also between the intensive kind of training that he had to undertake and the deoxygenated atmosphere of Mexico City. With these goals in mind, we tried to establish a preparation program, based on natural non-chemical methods, that would allow him to extend the upper-limit of his abilities without entering into oxygen debt.”

To constantly monitor his state of being, Moser rode with a small heart-beat recorder strapped to his wrist and with electrodes attached to his body. After a brief jaunt to Sicily to avoid the wintery climes of northern Italy, Moser boarded a jet in Rome and flew off to Mexico City along with his wife and young daughter.

Moser not taken seriously

Back on the Old Continent, not too many people were taking Moser seriously. He hadn't had a very good road season in 1983, his most notable performance being a sixth place finish in the late season Tour of Lombardy — this was seen as a clear sign that Moser was falling victim to the vicissitudes of age that inevitably ravage all athletes. His unusual bike with sloping top and seat tubes was seen as nothing short of ridiculous. Its 16.5 lbs. seemed prohibitively heavy for an hour record machine, especially in light of the fact that Merckx's bike had weighed a mere 12.9 lbs. Most of this extra weight, it turned out, resided in the wheels. It had always been accepted in the world of cycling that the rolling weight of the wheels had to be kept at a minimum. But Moser was confidently ready to ride with wheels weighing no less than 6.6 lbs., quite a hefty load if you consider that Merckx's wheels had weighed half as much.

But what was even more revolutionary, or questionable, depending on your viewpoint, was the design of these wheels. Moser's wind-tests had clearly shown that full wheel-covers were much more aerodynamic and avoided the 'egg beater' effect that spokes produce. Moser's crew also installed small lead weights below the specially constructed carbon fiber rims, to help create extra momentum. Purists balked and had the feeling Moser was stretching the intent of the law.

But the UCI (Union Cycliste Internationale), the governing body of cycling which oversees hour record attempts, has only the vaguest of rules. One must assume that Moser received an OK from the UCI before testing and using them in his ride—the price for development and production of each wheel reached a monumental $6000!

The man most often questioned before Moser's hour ride was obviously Eddy Merckx. The Belgian clearly felt that Moser's chances were limited. Not only did he feel that Moser's in-depth preparation would not make up for his failing athletic ability (see below: Merckx: If Anything Is Allowed, Anything Is Possible). But he also felt that Moser had picked the wrong time of the year to tackle this record which Eddy remembers as the most difficult ride of his life. Merckx was also critical of Moser's choice of gears.

The Italian had announced his intention of riding a 53x 14 (102.2 inch gear), much larger than Merckx's 52 x 14 (100.2 inch gear). “He'll never last the whole hour with that gear. His legs will tire quickly,” the Belgian emphatically stated.

Once in Mexico City, Moser's men quickly set about covering the Mexican capital's cement track with a 27.5 inch-wide strip of a glossy wax material to reduce surface friction. From December 29th, 1983 until January 19th, 1984, when Moser first broke the record, he alternated track riding with quick road jaunts.

Finally, the time had come to ride the initial 20 km run. It was subsequently leaked that Moser's trainers had secretly agreed with Francesco to keep running for the full hour if his intermediate times looked good. But no one else was told to limit any embarrassment in case of possible failure.

Quickly but evenly

On that chilly January morning, Moser's crew busily assembled the complicated computerized system which had been programmed to follow Moser every step of the way. This computer had been programmed to calculate Moser's average pace comparatively to his ideal pace. It could also approximate how far Moser would go over each minute of the remaining portion of his ride. Moser decided to drop the 53x 14 for a slightly less ambitious gear of 56x 15 (100.7 inches). He also decided to leave aside the heavy and obstructing tear-drop shaped helmet that had been designed; instead he opted for conventional leather head-gear covered with a synthetic material.

At 10:36 A.M. local time, Moser set off, still wearing his full-body one-piece synthetic suit. Moser started quickly but rode evenly; with his 'momentum-filled' wheels, he had to maintain as even a rhythm as possible. After 5 kilometers, he was already seven seconds ahead of Merckx's time with a blazing 5:48:24 a new five kilometer world record! Moser would go on to set new five, ten and twenty kilometer records. At this point, he received a resolute 'thumbs-up' signal from signor Sassi, the man in charge of monitoring Moser's track-side computer read-outs. And ahead he charged.

When it was all over, a stunned crowd had just seen Moser pull off what must be labelled the long-shot upset of the century in cycling. In front of a few hundred disbelieving spectators, Moser had just wiped out Eddy Merckx's untouchable hour record. Where the Belgian great had ridden 49.431 km in the space of sixty minutes, Moser had covered 50.809 km. No rider since the American trackie W.W. Hamilton riding in 1898 had improved the previous record by such a margin. Moser had bettered Merckx's ride by 1,377 meters while Merckx had only ridden 778 meters further than Ole Ritter.

“Was it hard?” Journalists huddled around the new world hour record holder. “Of course it was,” Moser answered calmly, “It always is, but I was expecting it to be much more difficult.” Moser, in fact, looked remarkably fresh. Whereas Jacques Anquetil in his 1956 ride and Merckx had seemed perilously near the edge in their incredible effort, Moser's ride seemed smooth, almost effortless. Journalists of all nations scrambled to reach the velodrome before Moser left. Phones rang desperately all around news bureaus in Europe and South America as anxious editors begged for photos. Most had missed the biggest cycling scoop of the year and the adventurous few were richely rewarded for their temerity.

Carnival atmosphere

Suddenly, Moser announced to a dazzled cycling world; “I will return to the track on Monday and ride 52 kilometers.” The solemn institution that the world hour record had been all at once seemed to deteriorate into a carnival. Italian fans and newspapermen quickly began arriving in droves. All of Italy marvelled in Moser's success. In Moser's home province of Alte Adige, thousands of ecstatic fans celebrated in the streets. The Italian sports daily II Corriere dello Sport carried laudatory headlines; «Moser — a legend in his own time!»

On a more business-like note, Moser's medical crew announced that he had never come close to oxygen-debt or lactification of the muscle tissue – they were confident in predicting the former world champion's success in breaking his own new record.

On Monday January 23, 1984, Moser got back on the slicked- down Mexican oval. But this time the ambience was dramatically different. Whereas earlier he had been an underdog, he was now eagerly cheered on by enthusiastic Italian fans including an 'erstwhile accordion player who played some Italian tunes for Francesco. At 10:44 A.M. Moser accelerated once again. Unlike the first run, the temperature was quite a bit hotter, hovering around 70 degrees, so Moser decided to ride only in shorts. Also unlike his first ride, tie slipped on a 57x 15 (102 .6 inch gear) which his calculations had shown would be to his advantage.

But this second time around everything did not go as planned. Although the weather seemed quite cooperative in the early going, a slight wind soon picked up. Blowing at about 2.5 mph, this breeze impeded Moser's progress slightly. His crew calculated that a wind as low as 1 mph would have negative effects. Moser would manage to set a new five kilometer record but would not better his own ten kilometer mark.

For many observers the whole thing had seemed too easy, too technical up to now — not gutsy enough. But this is where Moser the fighter, the international class cyclist came into evidence. Obviously suffering much more than before, he persevered, eventually covering 51.151 kilometers 343 meters better than this first time around. Moser did not emerge from this second ride unscathed. And that was, many felt, as it should be the hour record must mark a rider to legitimately be the feared event that it is. Moser complained of an old saddle wound that had reopened. He also deplored the noise the boisterous crowd had made which had been a serious impediment to his concentration.

In this euphoric, carnival-like atmosphere, Moser tried to squash rumors that he would attempt the grueling event a third time; ”The world hour record is a provocation one cannot provoke destiny too often!”

Dangerous Precedent

But all was not euphoria. Very quickly, questions arose as to the legality of Moser's equipment. After all, it was pointed out, doesn't the UCI forbid all aerodynamic fairings? And aren't Moser's full wheel-covers nothing but aerodynamic wheel-fairings? How about Robert Dill-Bundi, who had to tear off his long-sleeved synthetic jersey in the 1980 Olympics before the UCI comissaires would let him ride the pursuit finals? And how about the similar technical improvements that were disallowed by UCI comissaires at the recent world track championships in Zurich, Switzerland? It was felt that if the UCI officially accepted the record as valid, and thus the new wheels as well, this would set a dangerous precedent.

And this new equipment, especially the wind-cheating wheels, might create some dangerous high speeds on tracks that weren't designed for such technology. But the UCI has planned to resolve the question no earlier than August.

As for Moser himself, he remained remarkably unmarked by all the screaming and shouting. He clearly declared his feelings soon after his first ride; “For me, it's clear, Eddy Merckx remains the best rider of all time. I would have never attempted anything like this under the old circumstances. But times change and I was lucky to benefit from more advanced physiological and preparation methods.” Moser clearly stated his position on the `modern' technology that he used; “You can't impose the same bike on all the riders. Anquetil's bike was different from Oscar Egg's (1913). The UCI comissaires checked my bike beforehand and assured me it was legal.” Moser also added that a whole new universe had been opened to competitive cyclists; “The sport, on the whole, has remained at a very low technical and physiological level —I hope I have shown that preparation can make a big difference.” Finally, Moser specified that the hour record was a difficult event, but “not as hard as Paris-Roubaix.”

After it was all over, the entire odyssey had cost something nearing $1,200,000. Moser, for his part, received $17,500 for breaking the record and looked towards the future with a bright smile.

MERCKX: IF ANYYTHING IS ALLOWED ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE

A few days after Moser set his second world hour record, Winning's Leon Michaux was on the spot to ask Merckx his views on this history-making event. Although Merckx at first appeared amazed that Moser could ride so far, he quickly changed his mind. Here are his reasons:

L.M. Were Moser's 1983 performances good enough for him to believe that he had a reasonable chance in this world hour record?

E.M. There was nothing which could have indicated his success. Moser's only time trial win in 1983 was in the prologue of the Tour of Trentino, I believe. Moser is an excellent rider in the Classics but he has never really been able to beat the very strong time-trialists. I can remember myself beating him at Le Touquet when I was 30 and he was 24. Today, at nearly 33, he's not as strong as he was then. Actually, I was staggered when a French radio reporter phoned me to say that Moser had just beaten my 20 kilometer record by 38 seconds and was continuing. It surprised me so much because a man cannot perform above his natural capacity — no one can transform themself into an extra-terrestrial otherwise an old donkey could become a race-horse! Of course, at the time, I didn't know the exact nature of the equipment being used.

L.M. Speaking of equipment, it's being said that it's nothing short of a technological revolution. How much difference did this make in Moser's performance?

E.M. First of all, I'd like to say that this was the first time that a rider has been successful in beating the world hour record using less energy than his predecessor. I'm not saying that to diminish Moser's performance but I simply want to emphasize the enormous contribution made by his equipment. More than the athletic effort, it is the equipment that really made the difference, especially the fully-enclosed wheels that replaced the spokes of the wheels. Ergonometer tests have shown that the aerodynamic advantage was of 30 % which means that Moser used much less energy than my 570 watts to set the record. In other words, the fully-enclosed wheels are really nothing more than aerodynamic fairings for the wheels.

L.M. But don't the LIC1's rules forbid anything that might improve penetration through the air?

E.M. Of course. In August of 1983, the Swiss rider Robert Dill-Bundi was stopped from using fully-enclosed wheels in an attempt on the world one kilometer record. Such technological improvements don't come from another planet, they are the end-product of very serious wind-tunnel tests that until now have been prohibited by the UCI. Dill-Bundi was also stopped from riding the pursuit finals in the 1980 Moscow Olympics because he was wearing a long-sleeved jersey — and the rules that govern racing clothing are very strict. I think this a definite case of a double standard. The interpretation of the rules seems to change after the fact with the precedent being set by big investments. Don't forget that each one of Moser's wheels cost $6000!

L.M. Do you think that the UCI will officially accept the record and change the rules?

E.M. For me, it's clear. If the record is officially accepted, then the same kind of equipment has to be authorized in all cycling competitions and notably the Olympic Games in Los Angeles. The UCI won't be examining the question before its congress in the month of August, after the Games are over. I'm really curious to see what the reaction of the race officials is going to be if the participants at the Los Angeles Games will ride with fully-enclosed wheels. It would be absurd to accept Moser's record and stop the riders from using the same kind of wheels. In any case, you can be sure that I'll be preparing some fully-enclosed wheels for the Belgian Olympic team, of which I am the official bicycle supplier. I'm even thinking of making some improvements on the transmission mechanism by bringing the rear wheel as close as possible to the crank-set. We are entering in an era of technical research and it's all going to cost a lot. I'm afraid that many young or poor cycling nations won't be able to follow the movement.

L.M. Do you get the feeling that the wold hour record has been devalued and that it won't have the same meaning as before?

E.M. I'm tempted to say that it's almost impossible to compare Moser's record to mine because the bicycles used were so different. All records are made to be beaten and I knew mine would not be eternal. I imagined that a world class rouleur, with special training and using the track at La Paz or any point higher than Mexico City, would have beaten my record. This would have been a triumph of true athletic talent and would have been limited by normal human capacities. But with Moser we have a different phenomenon. It has been calculated that with a bicycle like the one I used in Mexico City, Moser would have only reached 47.8 kilometers. In reality, the most amazing human exploit was Jacques Anquetil's ride where he used an immense 52x 13 for the entire hour whereas Moser used a 57x15.

L.M. Will the record reach levels unheard of a few years ago?

E.M. Obviously. If this kind of equipment is going to be accepted by the UCI. Riders such as Gisiger, Oosterbosch, Oersted or Hinault, who had always hesitated to take the risk of failing after wind-tunnel tests, are better riders than Moser. The only requirement is to have a large budget and to have the courage and merit to undertake a lengthy scientific preparation program. From now on, anything is possible.