Winning Bicycle Racing Illustrated - September 1990 (Edition No 80)

So I offered to find an article from the victory of Robert Millar in the 1990 Dauphine Libere stage race - I knew I saw it somewhere as my father bought me this edition of Winning back then so I have flicked through it a few times.  I have also decided to pick out a couple of the other articles from this Winning edition from September 1990, one of the late Michel Zanoli in his first professional season with the US Coors Light team, and another of the Japanese track racing sport of keirin, which is now in the Olympic Games.

Millar Comes Through

For the French team Z, victory in the Dauphine Libere was something extra special.

By Kenny Pryde

“Personally, I think that my win in the Tour of Catalonia was perhaps my best, but this is my most important. I'm in a French team and this is an important French race, so the win is good for everyone in Z."

Thus spoke Robert Millar after emerging from a scrum of radio, press and TV journalists. He was a happy man. "Yeah, I'm tres, tres content as they always seem to say after they've won," he joked. Runner-up to Charly Mottet last year, this time it was Millar, in his 11th year of professionalism, who accepted the winner's bouquet in the 42nd Dauphine Libere.

The "importance" he talked about no doubt had something to do with the fact that, since Z's inception, the team had won nothing of any real importance plenty of recognition but no big wins. The sensational signing of Greg LeMond had thus far yielded zip, Ronan Pensec was out of sorts and Eric Boyer's 1989 season had been anonymous to say the least.

Only Millar, a rider who has never coped well with pressure, had produced any results of merit — prime among them his superb Pyrenean stage win in the 1989 Tour and subsequent victory in the Tour of Britain.

In the first half of 1990, the Scot once again came to the rescue of Zannier's Z men. It was no coincidence that Roger Zannier himself was on hand to congratulate the Glaswegian and to bask, not unreasonably, in the glory that a sponsor merits.

This year the route of the eight-stage Dauphine was generally thought to be harder than in previous years, and although Laurent Fignon, Mottet and LeMond weren't there, the field lacked little in the way of attractive names.

Stephen Roche was present, looking to test himself in the high mountains of the Alps for the first time since 1987. Sean Kelly was on the start sheet, too, keen to get in some hard racing after recovering from a broken collarbone suffered at the Tour of Flanders. Andy Hampsten, seeking a less strenuous build-up to this year's Tour de France than the Giro d'Italia offered, brought along a strong 7-Eleven team, which suggested that he was after something more than hard training. And given the mountains which dominated the last two road stages, no one was counting out Luis Herrera or Fabio Parra.

On the home front, Frenchman Thierry Claveyrolat was unabashedly there to win, while Jean-Francois Bernard's ambitions were much less grand. Castorama's Luc Leblanc had come from a fine solo victory in the Grand Prix of Wallonie and was anxious to make up for last year's disastrous season. And, of course, Millar was also on the start line on the first stage at Aix-les-Bains.

The scene was set for a combative and, in view of the upcoming Tour de France, an enlightening race. Stage one revealed little importance save that it would be some time yet before "Jeff" Bernard would once again scale the dizzy heights of true stardom. The stage was a mainly flat one but had a third-category col in the last 20 km.

Claveyrolat was the rider first over the summit, and a small group escaped only to have their progress halted by a railroad crossing. A 20-second lead was wiped out and Rolf Golz (Buckler) won the sprint contested by 39 riders. All the favorites were in that group except Bernard, who finished with Eric Vanderaerden, 1:41 behind. So the pattern of the race was set.

Stages six and seven were casting a long shadow over the first five stages of the race, with Millar, Claveyrolat, Roche, Leblanc, Parra and Herrera content to let the mountains weed out the weaker riders one by one. Riders "found out" by the mountains in these opening stages were Steve Bauer, Brian Walton, Kelly, Bernard and Pensec, although there were no real surprises there.

Stages two and four did, however, provide one or two surprises. The most significant of these is that France seems to have discovered a new sprinter in Castorama's Frederic Moncassin, who won both stages that ended in bunch sprints. At one point Moncassin held both the points jersey and the hot spots jersey, although every time the road tilted skyward he started to come off the back. Few people imagined he would finish the race, so no one was surprised when he packed it in after 30 km of stage six. Nevertheless, Moncassin is a name to remember, an up-and-corner with the potential to deliver more than Bruno Wojtinek did when he, too, was being touted as the "sprinter France has been waiting for since Darrigade."

The other thing of note on the flat stage between Vals-les-bains and Avignon was the split in the field provoked by Francis Moreau and Laurent Biondi of Histor. Kelly explained what happened: "Just before the feed there had been a few attacks, and because there was a bit of a cross-wind everyone was a bit nervous. When the attack started, I was near the front, so I didn't have too much trouble getting into the front group."

To tell the truth, Kelly and Martin Earley also went to the front to ensure that those caught in the back group — including leader Golz — would never get back up again. To some it seemed like a bizarre tactic. Golz was never going to be a threat to the race favorites and, more importantly, all the Colombians were safely installed in the first peloton.

"I think they carried on riding hard because they were embarrassed," mused an American rider. "Attacking through the feed zone is a kind of taboo thing to do and once they had done that they were committed to it. I don't know what it did, though, except give the Histor riders sore legs."

The only significant g.c. rider affected by the move was Claude Criquielion, whose entire team barring one rider was in the back group. Others trapped were Laurent Madouas and Atle Kvalsvoll (Z), both of whom had been riding strongly in the hills and who had both figured in the break that got held up at the railroad crossing on the first stage.

Stage five, a 196-km trek from Avignon to Gap, displayed a new French star onthe same terrain which, four years before, had launched Bernard to stardom. This time it was Leblanc who soloed to victory and thereby donned the leader's jersey.

Leblanc became the third bearer of the gold and blue jersey, and the question on everyone's lips was whether the 23-year-old could seriously be expected to keep it to the finish. The Frenchman was cautious about his chances but clearly delighted, thanking everyone on the team who had given him the support and encouragement he needed to succeed in this bold, though unplanned enterprise.

Stage six, the 209-km leg from Gap to Allevard-les-Bains, included three first-category cols, two third-category cols and innumerable other climbs. This was surely the day that the final selection would be made and the day that everyone, including Leblanc, was fearing. If he could emerge from stage six still wearing the leader's jersey, he would almost certainly carry it to the finish.

As soon as the riders turned off the main street of Gap they were confronted with a sign announcing "summit 10 km." There was no time to promenade today. The sky was overcast and grey and, even before the riders reached the top, heavy splashes of rain were falling. The tops of the mountains were shrouded in mist and the roads were treacherous.

First to launch a serious attack was Tour de Trump runner-up Kvalsvoll, who quickly put time between himself and the thinning peloton. The young-looking Norwegian attacked the climbs with great verve, so much so that a group of four chasers was totally incapable of bridging the gap built by the Z rider.

Back in the peloton the Z team was looking strong, with Jerome Simon, the promising Madouas and Bruno Cornillet all well to the fore and providing Millar with plenty of support.

On a thickly wooded and tricky descent through Sechilienne what was effectively the race winning move went clear. The too-nervous Leblanc, who had no teammates near him, fell victim to the unfamiliar descent and the aggressive riding of Roche, Hampsten and Claveyrolat.

On the steep Col du Luitel, which wound its tortuous way up through mist-laced and dripping wet pine trees, the favorites moved to the front. Millar, Claveyrolat, Roche, Parra, Martin Farfan, Alvaro Mejia and Hampsten all saw that Leblanc was missing and rode strongly to ensure that the young race leader would remain behind.

After the finish Millar revealed what had happened. "He [Leblanc] was nervous today; and when the guys started to jump, he had lost all his self-confidence. He probably could have come with us on the Luitel, but he's still young. It was his first leader's jersey, and he didn't know what to do."

This leading group forged further and further ahead of the fragmented bunch, catching and jettisoning the early attackers (including Kvalsvoll and his four chasers). Then, on the final climb of the day, the Col du Coq, Claveyrolat, Parra, Farfan and Millar broke clear. The rain made the descent more dangerous than usual, and Kelme's Farfan couldn't handle the corners and was dropped. Meanwhile, Parra's front wheel slipped away from him on a particularly tight left-hander and he hit the tarmac. He quickly remounted but, in his haste to catch the Franco-Scottish ex- press, he fell again. Millar and Claveyrolat were now alone in the lead only 39 km from the finish, most of it downhill.

Both riders put their backs into it, and as they passed under the red kite at one km to go, each knew that whoever won the sprint would be wearing the leader's jersey that night. Mejia was 3:46 down, Parra at 3:54 and Roche was at 6:35. Leblanc, alas, was to finish that terrible stage in 21st place, 11:29 in arrears.

Claveyrolat was an easy winner, leading out from 200 meters, with Millar unable to get past him. From day one Claveyrolat had been in the mountain's jersey points. Now he had the most important one of all.

Claveyrolat may have been happy, but he was not at ease. He had stated on the eve of the race that he needed a lead of at least 1:30 over the other favorites in view of the time trial on the last day, and now his lead over Millar amounted to five seconds. On stage seven, which featured another three first-category climbs, he would have to increase his slender advantage to have any hope of winning the overall.

Over the Cols des Saises and the Aravis the field thinned out until, at the foot of the final col of this Dauphine, there were only 36 riders left in the front group. For Claveyrolat it was now or never. "I rode up and flat out, as though the finish line was at the summit, and at one point I thought I had dropped Millar. But then I saw he was still with us, and my heart sank. What could I do...?" Claveyrolat recalled. He knew that his tenure in the jersey was almost over, although his third place on the stage, behind Luc Roosen and a momentarily rejuvenated Bernard, gave him another four seconds over the Scot.

Nevertheless, nine seconds was nowhere near the 90 he himself had decreed necessary for the final flat time trial around the picturesque shores of Lake Annecy. Claveyrolat had been frank, and Millar was equally as forthright.

"If I ride good, I'll put two minutes into him," the Scot declared. "If I'm not riding so good, then a minute." There was no ambiguity in Millar's voice, although with the arrival of Z patron Zannier there was a hint, just a hint, of tension. Millar was, after all, only 10 seconds from one of the best wins of his career.

For all the talk from both camps, any doubts were quickly dispelled as the final time trial unfolded. After 10 km Claveyrolat was already lost and Toni Rominger, third at 3:05 on general classification, was only a handful of seconds ahead of the Scot, who rode the wet course prudently.

When it was all over, Claveyrolat had dropped 1:44 to Millar and with it the race. It was a hard blow, but "Clavette" took it well. "I started the stage with the intention of giving my all," he explained.

"I tried as hard as I could throughout the stage — what more could I do? But Millar rode well and he is a good winner, a better all-rounder." The crowd roared its approval of this gracious admission of defeat — getting beaten on the last day will always be hard to deal with.

Just such a situation had befallen Millar before, on the final stages of the Vuelta in 1985. "I know how he feels — it's happened to me before and you have a lot of regrets, but there's other races and a long life ahead of you," the happy winner said.

There were no such regrets this time for Millar, boss Zannier or the rest of the hard-working team. Putting the win in context, Millar observed: "This is probably my most important win because it's a big race in France and it's very important for all the guys in Z. But I knew I would win after yesterday when the team and the RMO guys controlled the race a little bit. It was important that we distanced Rominger yesterday. Today I was never really worried after I got a check that Claveyrolat was 1:40 down at halfway. I just had to make sure that I didn't fall apart and lose three minutes to Rominger."

Criterium du Dauphine Libere, France

May 28 - June 4, 1990

Stages won by: Rolf Golz (WG), Buckler (stage 1); Frederic Moncassin (Fr), Castorama (stages 2 and 4); Toni Rominger (Switz), Château d'Ax (stage 3); Luc Leblanc (Fr), Castorama (stage 5); Thierry Claveyrolat  (Fr), RMO (stage 6); Luc Roosen (Belg), Histor (stage 7); Alvaro Mejia (Col), Postobon (stage 8).

Final General Classification

1. Robert Millar (GB), Z in 33:42:04

2. Thierry Claveyrolat (Fr), RMO at 1:35

3. Alvaro Mejia (Col), Postobon at 1:56

4. Toni Rominger (Switz), Château d'Ax at 2:35

5. Fabio Parra (Col), Kelme at 5:06

6. Bruno Cornillet (Fr), Z at 6:05

7. Stephen Roche (Ire), Histor at 6:48

8. Andy Hampsten (USA), 7-Eleven at 6:53

9. Denis Roux (Fr), Toshiba at 9:39

10. Oliveiro Rincon (Col), amateur at 10:42

Making a Big Impression

Coors Light’s Michel Zanoli is one of the world’s fastest sprinters, but that’s not all he can do.

By Matthew E. Mantell

Item: Michel ("Please, don't call me Michael") Zanoli of Team Coors Light, stands 6-feet-6-inches and weighs 200 pounds, which makes him the largest racer on the U.S. professional cycling circuit.

Item: Michel Zanoli's 62-cm bike (a Clark-Kent built of True Temper RC steel tubing by Frank "Pat" Clark and Dean Kent of Denver Spoke in Colorado) tips the scales at around 22 pounds.

Does the sum of these humongous dimensions mean that the big Dutch native must be typecast in the role of a bicycle racing "heavy" — a top-tube hugging, elbow-throwing, leg-churning sprinter? Not necessarily.

To wit, after the first stage of this year's Tour of Texas, Zanoli shocked the sport's cognoscenti by riding off with the King of the Mountain's jersey. But the next day Zanoli read an article in a local newspaper which said, in essence, that the climbing must not have been too severe since he had earned the KOM's vestment.

"Hey, these weren't mountains like those in the Tour de France," retorts Zanoli with some annoyance in his voice, "but a lot of guys were getting dropped. I could have won the climber's jersey, but Len [Pettyjohn, the director of Coors Light] wanted me to protect my teammate, Chris Huber, who won the race."

Pettyjohn concurs: "Michael [he means Michel] could have won the KOM which were really hills — if he wanted to. However, my goal was to win at Texas, and I had him chase down groups in order to defend Huber." Zanoli followed his director's instructions and still finished third in the climbing contest, as well as second on g.c.

Yet, by his own admission, Zanoli was primarily a sprinter as an amateur. In 1986, he utilized his thunder thighs to cop the Junior World Road Race Championship held in Morocco. Two years later, at the Olympic Games hosted by Koreans in Seoul, he placed 15th in the road event and was also a member of Holland's 100-km time trial team that finished 11th."While some people might be satisfied with these [Olympic] results," he says, "I felt very disappointed because I could have performed better."

After the Games were over, the Amsterdam-born Zanoli felt the time was right to turn professional. OK. But why come to America, when cycling's fabled jousts are conducted in the Old World? "When you compete in Europe, there's more pressure from the outset — the money, bigger races," he reports. "I didn't feel I wanted that at the beginning of my career. Also, as a rookie pro you have to work for a team leader, and I wasn't willing to do that."

Zanoli, whose volition is as strong as his legs, however, was quite willing to work for Pettyjohn. "I had spoken to Len at the 1988 Coors Classic before the Olympics, and I liked him very much since he was very straightforward," he recalls. "When he formed Coors Light [in 1989], I decided to join."

Adds Pettyjohn: "Zanoli is an individualist who resists authority figures. He decided to ride in the United States because he felt the European team system was too rigidly structured. With Coors, he has been able to develop at his own pace."

That pace has included significant results in both editions of the Tour de Trump. In 1989, Zanoli took second twice in closely contested sprint finishes. This year, he upped his game a notch and sprinted to a pair of stage victories.

Zanoli sealed victory number one by powering past 7-Eleven's Ron Kiefel during the last meters of stage 10 — a 124-mile road race that began in Stroudsburg, Pa., and concluded at the State University of New York, in New Paltz. It should be noted that the decisive move which set up his win occurred when he surged over the palpably real Mohonk Mountain. After a wicked descent in the rain and fog, the blond Dutchman provided a textbook lesson in two-up sprint tactics.

"My strategy began with three km left in the race," he explains. "I knew Kiefel had to go for it more than I did because he was riding for g.c. With one km to go, I just sat on his wheel and wouldn't ride around him. After he towed me close to the finish line, I passed him. Kiefel isn't a real strong sprinter, so that made it easy."

But, victory number two, which came on the Trump Tour's final day — a 114- mile road race from Northampton, Mass., to Boston — was, according to Zanoli, a little more challenging. "This was a field sprint," he says, "and I had to keep my eye on Olaf Ludwig, who is very dangerous." (Ludwig, an Easy German neo-pro riding for Panasonic, scored three stage-winning sprints during the 11-day- event.)

Zanoli's analysis of this two-wheel melee illustrates classical field-sprint strategy and also offers insight into the sprinter's psyche. "As the bunch approached the last mile, I had [New Zealand teammate, Stephen] Swart sheltering me from the wind," he explains. "When Swart faded in the last kilometer, I closed my eyes and sat on Ludwig's wheel. It was very hard to stay in this position because some Panasonics were slamming into me.

"I was very nervous since Ludwig was sitting 15 men back," continues Zanoli, his voice a faint whisper, his eyes vacant the tell-tale signs of a man reliving an all-consuming experience. "I said to myself, 'Come on man! Get more to the front! This is too far away.' I knew the game Ludwig was playing: he wanted me to pass him and then he could take my wheel hoping that I would bring him to the front of the field.

"But at 400 meters, he started sprinting. There was a head-wind and I was still sitting on his wheel saying to myself ‘Perrfecct! I'll wait. I'll wait. Let him die I'll wait...hmm.' At about 100 meters, I started saying, 'I guess it's about time now — I better get going.' And, then I passed him with no problem."

While Zanoli's Tour de Trump triumphs may have been relatively easy, he has engaged in countless bunch-sprinting duels beset with difficulties. Frequently, the jockeying for key positions that allows him and the other sprinters to do their jobs is initiated by teammates five or six miles before the finish line. At this juncture, the rival domestiques provide two functions: they attempt to shelter their designated prize winner from the wind as well as prevent a lone wolf from grabbing his wheel. All of these intricate manoeuvres are executed while the pack is travelling at speeds close to 60 kmh.

During the final few kilometers, should luck be with him, Zanoli might get a leadout from one of his support riders. More often than not, he is on his own and this is when the fun begins. To the strains of whirring spokes and chains clicking over sprockets, the sprinters commonly slam, hook and elbow one another.

Sometimes this mayhem escalates into punches being thrown, or else produces devastating crashes that send riders and bicycles thumping to the pavement.

When it comes to spills, Zanoli has been pretty fortunate... so far. His only serious collision took place in 1987 while riding for the Dutch national team. After hooking handlebars with another racer, he went down so hard it left him unconscious for 24 hours.

"Most of the guys sprint fair and don't intentionally try to cause accidents," he relates. "But there are plenty of riders who play the game mean and will do anything to win. [Giovanni] Fidanza, who rides for Chateau d'Ax, is particularly bad; and Lotto's Wim Arras will crash you even if it forces him to go down." According to Zanoli, the Belgian, Arras, espouses the motto, "I'd rather crash than finish second."

Given sprinting's danger as well as its physical demands, what, then, is the quintessential element required to practice this craft? "A strong head," responds Zanoli with a laugh. "I'm not kidding. Without the capacity to really concentrate during a flat-out sprint, you'll probably get blown away just by all the intimidation. I've learned not to be afraid of anything or anyone."

Fear aside, the Coors rider still recognizes that a premier sprinter must possess the gift of "natural speed." And like the ones he rates the best — Fidanza, Ludwig and Panasonic's Jean-Paul VanPoppel — the big Dutchman is blessed with those special, fast-twitch muscles that enable him to accelerate twice upon approaching the finish line banner.

"To develop this ability," volunteers Zanoli, "I have discovered that spinning and riding on the track is very helpful." As for improving sprinting in general, he recommends two workouts per week of up-hill intervals. "Select the biggest gear you can handle and then go as fast as you can for 400 or 500 meters."

The benefits of this type of power training have begun to payoff for Zanoli in another cycling discipline — the prologue time trial. In this solo drill at California's Redlands Classic, he earned the leader's jersey with a rocket-like performance that was only four seconds shy of the course record. (In this stage race, which had some bona fide climbs, Zanoli finished in fifth place.)

With both the ability and confidence that matches his size, what can the cycling world expect the 22-year-old rider to achieve?

Says 7-Eleven's Davis Phinney: "Michel Zanoli is an example of the new breed of cyclist who, despite his large build, can do everything quite well. As he matures, he will get even better in all of these areas."

Says Coors Light teammate and 1984 Olympic road race gold medalist Alexi Grewal: "Zanoli has the most potential of any bike racer I've ever seen. If he isn't the best sprinter in the world today, he's only a hairbreadth away. Ultimately, I think he will be a great one-day classics' rider and, without a doubt, a Tour de France stage winner."

Zanoli agrees with the appraisals offered by his peloton peers. "Pretty soon," he says, "I'll be considered one of the sport's best sprinters. I want to win Milan-San Remo because it's filled with tradition, and Paris-Roubaix because it's a high prestige race. Also, next year, I hope to race in the Tour de France, either with Coors Light or on a European team. It would be great to get some stage victories and the green points jersey."

But, say, Michel, what about the Tour's red and white polka dot King of the Mountains tunic? "I'll leave that for [Pedro] Delgado, [Luis] Herrera or [Robert] Millar," he replies with a smile.

High-Stakes Surprise

In the tough, no-nonsense world of Japanese keirin, a colourful band of international riders upset tradition.

By Chris Yeager

It was a Monday, but that didn't stop about 18,000 Maebashi, Japan, keirin fans from calling in sick, spending unused vacation time or otherwise contriving to witness a sneak preview of the 1990 World Pro Track Championships, due to be held in their town at the end of August.

What they saw was an exhibition of smart, tactical riding, tough and experienced blocking, and topflight sprinting. But not from the expected quarter, namely, the Japanese. This year, the five "foreign" riders taking part in the second annual International Keirin Grand Prix at the Maebashi velodrome put Australian strongman Stephen Pate and veteran Belgian sprinter Michael Vaarten across the line for a one-two sweep. Italian newcomer Ceci Vincenzo led Pate out, while American old-hand Gilbert "Libby" Hatton and France's Patrick De Rocha hung back to disrupt the Japanese riders' line.

These five were the top points winners in the 1990 International Sprinter's Tour of Japan, which  encompasses 16 professional keirin races over eight weeks starting in mid-March. The other five "team" members — West Germans Hans Hindelang and Dieter Giebken, Dutchman Theo Smit, Australian Gary Sutton and American Nelson Vails — raced with four Japanese in a "B" race before the main event, with Vails scoring his first win of his first year on the tour.

Japanese national hero Koichi Nakano, a 10-time world sprint champion, and an all-star team of Tsutomu Sakamoto, Uichiro Kamiyama and Nobuyuki Tawara were the unhappy victims of the stunning upset at the top of the card. Yes, 5,000,000 yen, or $35,000 went to the winner, but  there was also, and perhaps more importantly, pride at stake. Last year at this event the Japanese dominated the first four places by simply overpowering the foreigners in the last turn. This year, they were beaten at their own game, on their own turf.

A quick scan of the racing form might have given the favored Japanese riders an inkling of what was to come, as Pate had won all 15 of his races during the team's eight-week campaign. The 26-year-old 1988 world sprint champion looked almost apologetic at the post race press conference, diplomatically observing that "the Japanese riders are very strong, but they only have two arms and two legs."

Downstairs in the massive pit area overlooking the track, as the losers stripped off their helmets and padding, the normally unflappable Nakano could be seen reading the riot act to his fellow Japanese. After he cooled off a bit, he agreed to be interviewed through a translator. "What were you saying to your team down there?" he was asked. "It's not a team!" he replied with some frustration. "Keirin is a race of individuals. There isn't supposed to be any teamwork involved." But then he added, "I told them 'we should have ridden more like they did."

Riding as individuals may be the ideal, but it is far from the reality in Japanese keirin. With its long 400-meter tracks, extended and multiple sprints, and two paceline formation, keirin lends itself to a certain amount of sacrificial cooperation.

"You're just not going to win without help, and we really rode as a team this year," reflected Hatton at a reception in the track's dining area. "We're always talking, planning, on the bike and off. We live together and race together for two months. We don't always agree, but we know each other's strong points and weak points. It would be difficult not to work together."

A more eclectic "foreign legion" could hardly be imagined. The "old hands" of the 10-man group, in terms of age and Japanese keirin experience, were Smit, the rail-thin ex-road sprinter with the sad and worldly eyes, and Hindelang, every bit the clean-cut Munich businessman, who listens to Beethoven on his Walkman. Both are 38, with six keirin seasons behind them. Vaarten, slightly younger at 33, had the most accumulated experience, having come over every year since the invitations began in 1982. Hatton, 33, was in his seventh year, while Giebken, 30, had been campaigning for the past five years. De Rocha, 29, a lean Parisian, was in his third year of competition, thanks to his success in European sprinting. Then, there was the Australian duo of newly resuscitated Sutton, back for his first tour since 1984, and Pate, who came on last year. Rounding out the roster were first timers Vincenzo, the baby at 24, and the irrepressible New Yorker Vails, 28. All showed themselves to be serious, level-headed and articulate. And they all had something else in common. On a bicycle, each of them could produce a white-hot explosion of speed.

Keirin racing is a popular form of legalized gambling in Japan. Enormous amounts of money flow through the parimutuel windows. Compensation to the competitors is proportionally generous. For example, with the help of a calculator and the table of winnings from rider profiles handed out to spectators at the gate, one can estimate that Vaarten has averaged, very roughly, about $50,000 (U.S.) per two-month tour since 1982. In his best year, 1987, he brought home over $70,000, earned over 21 races. That's over $3,000 per three-minute race.

"It's not as much as a tennis player or golfer," says De Rocha, "But still, for cycling..." A knowing shrug finishes the thought. A few top road stars may sign contracts for hundreds of thousands of dollars, but with their eight-month season full of classics and stage races, the efforts they make to earn their pay are legendary. A keirin rider, on the other hand, rides only one three-minute race a day, a few times a week. When the amount of effort is compared to the financial return, Japanese keirin is the most lucrative event in cycling.

To compete in Japan as a foreigner, however, you must be invited. "This is the end of a three-year effort to get discovered by them," relates first-timer Vails, the 1984 Olympic sprint silver medalist, referring to the necessity of impressing the scouts who stalk the national and world championship track events, looking for talent. Because it is an "international" program, they pick one or two top sprinters from each cycling country. "You have to go to all the events, you have to do well, and you have to be seen," Vails continues. "If they like you, they'll tap you."

To follow the team into the Maebashi keirin-jo, or racetrack, is to glimpse another culture and another world. Simply looking at the track reveals a lot about the popularity of the sport in Japan. Along the homestretch there are covered bleachers for 40,000-50,000 people. Along the backstretch are two official buildings, both three stories high and both with picture-window views of the action. The first contains the administrative offices, press and guest areas. The second is exclusively for the riders.

The riders pass the guards and enter the first floor pit area. It's an enormous, spotless room, lit by the windows. Floor, walls and ceiling are poured concrete, the national building material of Japan. Riders assemble their own bikes here, out of their own bags with their own tools. Then the bikes are inspected by track officials.

"I check my bike like you wouldn't believe," says Vails. "If something's loose or misaligned, they really let you know, and it's really, really embarrassing." It doesn't matter who you are or how much you've won, at the end of the day you're down on the floor with the other guys, packing it away again.

Bikes assembled, the riders ascend one floor to the locker area. In the stairwell is a large poster with one image: a hardshell helmet that looks like a patch on the front of it has been touched with a belt sander. You don't need to understand Japanese to get the message. Then it's up to the dressing area to wait for the race. But there are no wooden benches or rows of lockers — this is Japan. The room is the size of a hotel ballroom, and it's floored with tatami, the woven straw mats that serve as living, dining and sleeping areas in every Japanese house. On this huge floor, under criss-crossed lines of washed and drying uniforms and underwear, riders sit, lie, loll, snooze, joke and pass the time.

The foreigners camp out in a corner near the uniform pickup counter. When there's a race, they gather at the window to watch. When there's a crash, it stirs the undercurrent of tension permeating the room. The waiting is as difficult as the racing. "There's a tremendous amount of psychological pressure," says Sutton. "It's just one race a day, but everything rides on it. You have to build to it."

Finally it's race time. The B team dons pads, helmets and numbered jerseys and joins its Japanese counterparts one flight down in the ready room. As the riders lumber down the stairs in their padded gear, they make a lasting impression: this is a rough game, a big man's game.

The ready area feels like a war room. All the riders assemble here for about 10 minutes. Like fighter pilots doing a slow motion scramble, they put their helmets back on, adjust their suits, tie and re-tie their shoes. No one is joking, no one says much. In a minute, they'll get their bikes, scream a concrete-cracking YOSH! (let's go) in unison, and head down to the track and the crowd. But now, before the call, the Japanese have momentarily retreated within themselves. Hindelang and Giebken are staring at the floor, and in the corner by the window, Vails has his hands folded in front of his face.

The race results couldn't be better. After winning, Vails comes up the ramp walking on air. Everyone wants to shake his hand. Still out of breath, he grabs Hindelang. "This guy protected my wheel!" he exclaims. "Did you see it? He came from a hundred meters back!" Vails doesn't have the spotlight long, though, because out on the track, the jet-black-clad Pate is turning everything upside down in the main event.

Later that evening the team has a half hour to kill while waiting for the bullet train back to Tokyo. Vaarten and Giebken go over the race in German, and then again in English. "Libby was magnifique," says Vaarten. "He took us down the back-straight, then he stayed behind and did the cleaning job."

Pate is reflective. "Last year I was really off. I was just cruising on 1988, that's all. But this year, I'm trying to do it differently."

Hindelang, sporty in a blue blazer and pressed slacks, regards De Rocha, slouched against his bike bag in old jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt and two days growth of beard. "Hey, Patrick," he says, "you look like a street-man." "Oh, yeah?" retorts the Frenchman, patting the beltbag that contains his Grand Prix winnings. "How many streetmen do you know that have this?"

A few feet away, Vails is trying to order 10 beers from a bewildered refreshment counter girl. He holds up 10 fingers and shouts, "Ten! Right! For them, there. Ten of them, see?"

"Maybe she doesn't understand," offers Smit.

"No, no," says Vails, with his trademark Cheshire grin. "She understands. Hey, I'm Mr. Tokyo."

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.