The antagonism between the promoters, however, did not stop them making private inducements to the riders to break their contracts. Eager to bring about one of the biggest match-ups in cycle racing, Lynam commenced clandestine negotiations with Corry. When Campbell got wind of Corry’s disloyalty he went to his lawyers. Corry went to ground.
In the lead-up to the February match, Corry trained in secret on the Exhibition Oval, knowing that its dangerous idiosyncrasies would be critical to his success. Over the years, it had developed a notorious reputation. For a start, the track was not circular, but pear-shaped, with a narrow end nearest the Melbourne Aquarium. Riders could not maintain a consistent speed and had to make subtle adjustments depending on their location around the track. Without sufficient banking, riders had to slow down when rounding the narrow end (known as Aquarium bend) and speed up at the other. This change in momentum created havoc (and crashes) among those expecting the constant speeds made possible on more conventionally shaped arenas. Then, there was the surface. ‘It was old and weather-beaten,’ Opperman recalled. ‘No cosmetic treatment from bitumen and whitewash could erase the warts and furrows of time.’ It was a circuit ‘full of treachery’ that could only be mastered with hours of study during training or racing.4 Miscalculations were common and many riders found themselves overshooting bends and flying headfirst into the stands. Many more lost layers of skin after crashing on its broken, rasping surface. Such were the hazards of track racing. And what was diabolical for the riders, made for a thrilling night’s entertainment for the spectators.
After the fiasco at the Exhibition Oval in February, Corry departed for the American track season and Opperman focused on other motor-paced matches and the next calendar of road races. By year’s end, Opperman was Australasian champion and raced with an ever growing confidence.
Towards the end of the year, the Sporting Globe brokered a deal between the promoters. By now Campbell was more inclined to compromise because he needed a big event to draw people into Melbourne’s newly opened stadium, the Motordrome. The ‘Drome’, as it was better known, was a circular concrete track with steep sloped banks for motorcycles and motor-paced racing. Under electric floodlights, the arena provided a spectacular forum for the sporting duel.5 The contest comprised five races. The Exhibition Oval and the Motordrome would host two races each, over three miles and five miles. A decider, if required, would be a ten-mile event at a venue to be decided by a coin toss. At more than four times the average annual salary, the winner-take-all prize of £1000 was a staggering sum. The paper could claim without exaggeration to have facilitated one of the ‘greatest and richest cycling matches ever arranged in any part of the world’.6
Winning was not the only way to make money in such a high-profile match. Motor-paced racing, as with other sports, suffered from match fixing. Riders could legally bet on themselves, but it was a slippery slope to start betting on one’s opponent and ‘throwing’ the race. Of course, riders could do this in secret, or make more elaborate deals with their opponents. Opperman made it clear he wanted no part of this. Adding to his already abstemious reputation as a non-smoker and teetotaller, Opperman also did not gamble. ‘I have never bet in my life, and I don’t intend to start now,’ he said, ‘Corry is a wonderfully good rider … I am prepared to stake my reputation against [him]. That is all I have to say on the matter.’7
The match was billed as ‘youth against generalship and experience’ and the men spoke respectfully of each other in the lead-up to the series. ‘For his age I suppose he is the greatest cyclist in the world,’ said Corry of his opponent, ‘Oppy knows the exhibition track so well that I cannot afford to take any risks with him.’ Opperman said it had been his ambition to defeat Corry since he met in the ill-fated race earlier in the year. He then apologised for his boastfulness.8
On Wednesday evening 17 December 1924, a crowd of over 25,000 descended on the Exhibition track to witness the first match. With all tickets sold, a fight broke out at the box office among the disappointed. Others who missed out climbed nearby buildings and structures so that they might catch a view. Inside the ground, anticipation mounted: ‘stern businessmen, for the time being, eagerly conversed with mere strangers in the stand; reticent folk broke through their barrier of silence and entered into the spirit of the night.’ Corry was on an unfamiliar track and in front of a partisan crowd. ‘Our own Oppy is ready!’ yelled the commentator over the public address system and a ‘great wave of enthusiasm and excitement … broke loose when Opperman appeared on the track’.9
Opperman had selected the ever-reliable Bob Finlay as his pacer. Corry had returned from the US with experienced motor-pacer Mario Antenucci, a fast-talking, cigar chomping, smart-arse Italian-American – the perfect match for the swaggering Corry. As the two camps milled around the start line, Corry looked quizzically at Finlay’s roller and demanded that it be measured. He claimed that it was too close to the pacer and that it would give Oppy greater shelter. A ‘wordy argument’ also broke out about the size difference between Finlay and the larger-framed Antenucci and what advantage this gave Corry. To preserve his composure, Bruce Small sent Opperman to the locker room, while he negotiated with the blustering Corry and Antenucci. Small baited Corry, suggesting that he was already making excuses for his likely loss. It did not put Corry off. Instead, it made him angry.10
Corry and Antenucci attacked from the starter’s pistol. The big American positioned his motorcycle just ahead of Opperman, knowing that a bow-wave of unstable air would rush down the side of his machine directly into his path. At nearly seventy-five kilometres per hour the effect was frightening and it forced Opperman to drop back. He followed as closely as he could for a few laps, until Finlay moved him high on the track to avoid the ‘blow’ from Antenucci’s machine. With all his might Opperman stuck to Finlay’s wheel and edged smoothly past an astonished Corry, who was unaccustomed to seeing his rivals recover with such energy. Finlay’s intimate knowledge of the track now came into play. He guided Opperman over the smoothest parts of the jolting, uneven surface. Lacking that knowledge Corry and Antenucci hit the worst sections, losing valuable speed. Unable to recover, Corry dropped away and Opperman won the first race by around 100 metres. Now alive to Antenucci’s aggressive opening moves, Opperman and Finlay won the second race even more decisively.11
Opperman rode a victory lap carrying a bouquet of flowers to a ‘tornado of applause … [and] … the whole exhibition building seemed to shake.’12 He then went to Corry’s dressing room to shake hands. ‘I was lucky to win’, he told him, ‘we had a great race.’ Corry was reported to have told Opperman that he was wonderful: ‘You stand among the world’s best. I tried my hardest to beat you tonight and I failed. I have no excuses to make.’13 Corry, despite his gracious concession, would not be so easily deterred and plotted his revenge.
The following Saturday evening around 30,000 spectators filed into the Motordrome. This time, Corry turned the tables. He rode with power and grace, glued to Antenucci’s back wheel. He never once left his roller, appearing ‘part and parcel of the motor cycle.’14 Opperman lost Finlay’s roller with over a kilometre to go. It was a disaster. As he struggled to regain the shelter, Corry simply roared away with Antenucci to win by over 150 metres.
‘Don’t get your tail down, Oppy,’ shouted one spectator as they returned to the arena for the five-mile event, ‘you can win!’ Corry looked nervous, but drew confidence from Antenucci’s ‘nerves of steel’. Once again, Opperman struggled to hold Finlay’s roller at the higher speeds made possible by the smooth concrete surface. Opperman’s loss of the roller gave Corry a valuable lead. But with his trademark determination, Opperman fought back to his roller and inched away at the gap. Corry ‘slammed on the pace’. He covered the final lap at seventy-seven kilometres per hour to win by eight lengths. Without the home advantage, Opperman simply lacked Corry’s top end speed. In his victory speech, Corry reminded the spectators that Opperman was a great champion but still a relative novice in the pacing game.15
Corry had exacted his revenge in a crushing display of finesse and speed. All that remained was the ten-mile decider. This time, the toss of the coin went against Opperman. He would have to face Corry once more at the Motordrome on 3 January.
Timed to appeal to the holiday crowds, another full house greeted the riders. Opperman was now rated as the underdog and the applause and cheering ‘swelled like a mighty storm’