four sweaters and two overcoats in order to increase his size to that of the imposing Antenucci in an effort to provide Opperman with a similarly sized slipstream to ride in. But by now, Corry and Antenucci had pegged Opperman’s weakness and were not unduly concerned about a few extra layers of clothing. In another unrelenting display of strength, Antenucci towed Corry like a magnet into an early lead. ‘Both pedalled with fluid perfection,’ but it was Opperman who was forced into an energy-sapping chase. He attacked to almost draw level and after five miles had inched forward to within a length. After six miles Finlay turned up the pace, but this time Opperman could not sustain the effort and drifted back by fifty metres. He surged twice more, unwilling to concede victory. But Corry was never threatened. A soft front tyre forced him to ease slightly, but he crossed well ahead of Opperman. ‘A tornado of cheering’ ricocheted around the stands ‘followed by a storm of applause that was almost deafening.’16 The intensity of the effort, despite Corry’s soft tyre, established a new Australian record for the distance.
‘It was Corry’s hour of triumph,’ reported the Sporting Globe, ‘but defeat did not lessen Opperman in the eyes of the public. He was still their idol and would always continue to be.’17 He took the loss well. ‘I am honoured at being defeated by a famous motor-paced follower as Corry … I learned a whole lot. My imperfections were soon manifest, and I realised how much more I had to learn.’18 Before Antenucci left for home he gave Opperman some typically direct advice, telling him to ‘junk his straight forked bike, for swept back forks’ (which would lower the front of his bicycle and make him more aerodynamic) and for Finlay to stand bolt upright, which would produce a bigger slipstream. Opperman took the advice and employed it to great effect over the coming years.19
Although fit and healthy, the intensity of Opperman’s racing and training placed an impossible demand on his immune system. In September 1925, as part of the plan to extend his racing victories to every state, Opperman travelled to Perth. After experiencing cramps during the four-day rail journey, he decided to ride the local track at Kalgoorlie during a three-hour wait, hoping some exercise might loosen his muscles. A massage afterwards revealed red spots across his back and legs. He had measles and remained in Perth to recuperate.
He arrived back in Melbourne a few weeks later, in good health, but too late to defend his cherished Australasian championship title in the Warrnambool to Melbourne.20 Disappointed, he found consolation and support with Mavys and her family. Since they started courting, the Craig family had welcomed Opperman as one of their own. Perhaps reacting to the more reserved and fractured nature of his own family, Opperman was drawn to the warmth, generosity and cooperative spirit that seemed to pervade the tight-knit Craig clan. In Mavys, he had found a companion blessed with good sense, practicality and stoicism. She was the perfect foil to his restlessness and had already shown a willingness to devote herself to fostering his sporting ambitions. Like many women of her generation, Mavys quietly accepted her role as an enabler of a man’s public success. On her eighteenth birthday, Opperman proposed. Happy and in love, they left planning the wedding for another time.21
The gentle conventionality of Opperman’s home life was in stark contrast to the brutal physical tests he pursued on the bike. In the Christmas of 1925, he travelled to the Sydney Sports Ground to compete in a kind of racing that was once nearly banned as a form of torture: the six-day track race.
Early versions of the ‘sixes’ (as they were known) in the late nineteenth century were closer to human experiments than sporting contests. In America and the United Kingdom solo contestants endeavoured to ride continuously for at least twenty hours each day. Riders suffered delusions, hallucinations, strokes and ‘dropped unconscious from their machines’. The extreme nature of the events drew international condemnation as a form of brutality.22 Spared the worst excesses of the early six-day races, Australia embraced a more civilised version of the sport where two-man teams rode in relay, with one rider able to leave the track during quiet periods to rest and eat. Barring short periods when all riders were cleared from the track to repair their bodies and machines, the riders still pedalled continuously, routinely covering over 3000 kilometres during the six days. Riding a ‘six’ was perhaps the most arduous contest in cycling. For the winners, the money was sensational.
Taking drugs (what today would be called doping) to get through a ‘six’ was common, but never openly discussed. To endure the seemingly impossible task before them, riders could access everything from benign sounding ‘health tonics’ containing various stimulants, to alcohol, strychnine, heroin and cocaine. By the 1930s, some six-day riders experimented with pure oxygen as well as more widely available amphetamines and painkillers. Not everyone partook, however, and there is no evidence that Opperman used drugs during his sporadic six-day career.
In Sydney, Opperman was teamed with the talented Victorian sprinter, Eric Gibaud, and together they ‘looked likely’.23 During the race they used Gibaud’s turn of speed to good effect and later, when trying to regain a lost lap due to a penalty, they resorted to some cheeky tactics. After rain fell during a short neutralisation period, most riders returned to the track wearing rain capes and coats. Gibaud and Opperman saw their chance. They decided to risk getting wet and started back without the heat trapping layers. Opperman ‘appeared at full speed in the straight and the spectacle that ensued with the riders in full pursuit with long trailing skirts and coats flying out in the wind was appreciated by the crowd, if not by the victims.’24 As the others struggled with their clothing, Gibaud took over and almost lapped the field. As he prepared to bring Opperman into the race he put out his hand. Gibaud was moving too quickly, Opperman not quickly enough. As they grasped each other’s hand the sudden change in velocity caused them to crash. Opperman fell under his partner, sliding heavily over the ‘skin ripping asphalt’. A six-day race stopped for no-one. Gibaud was forced to continue as the first aid men rushed to tend to the fallen rider. They bandaged his flayed legs from hip to foot in surgical dressing. The thin bandaging provided protection while still allowing him to pedal. Furious at Opperman and Gibaud’s trickery, the other teams raced aggressively for the next thirty hours. They refused any entreaties to slow the pace, which stopped everyone from getting sleep as they tried to take advantage of Opperman’s injuries and restricted movement.
At the next neutralisation break, an inspection of Opperman’s dressings revealed that the surgical lint had fused with his flesh. As the material was bathed and separated from the wounds he passed out. Crashes in the Sydney ‘six’ were so common and ‘bandages and sticking plaster were prominent’. Opperman’s injuries barely rated a mention.25
Despite his youth, Opperman already knew a thing or two about pain and fatigue. But riding a bicycle around a track for six days and nights had been beyond his experience or comprehension. In the end, Gibaud and Opperman took a creditable third against the winning team of six-day veterans Ken Ross and George Dempsey. Though six-day-racing did not, ultimately, suit Opperman’s particular athletic capacities, the mental and physical lessons he learned were among the most valuable of his young career. He came to understand that finding the will to keep riding through desperate fatigue was a routine part of a cyclist’s life. Suffering, he wrote, was ‘part of an apprenticeship [to] moulding one’s mind into a philosophical acceptance of the vagaries of fate and resistance to pain’.26
He also believed that part of his emerging ability to keep riding beyond the point of exhaustion stemmed from his time in the postal service. Whether setting out with a bundle of telegrams on a cold, rainy night, or responding to the trainer’s urges to keep racing, he felt he had developed a ‘habit of obedience’. In these moments he became a cycling automaton, a dehumanised machine that could transcend discomfort and fatigue and move into action at the slightest motivation or suggestion.27
By the time he turned twenty-two, Opperman was among the most recognised and respected sportsmen in the country. Even if he still wasn’t quite a household name, his willingness to talk to the media and his association with the rapidly expanding Malvern Star helped promote awareness of his personality and his gritty performances. It also gave him extraordinary control over his own public image. The nature of road racing made it difficult for spectators to observe competitors for any length of time. Those who lined the roads only glimpsed their heroes for a few seconds as they flashed past. Even for officials and reporters following in cars, keeping track of what was happening could be difficult.