deserved. Rather, it is to be aware that the language and mystique growing up around him had its origins very close to the source. Sports reporters willingly joined in, grooming the lovable Oppy into a charismatic and inspiring champion. The sports press lavished him with praise, emphasising his most positive and endearing qualities. Opperman was described as clean-living, honest, disciplined, considerate, modest, patient and scrupulously fair. But this was just one version of the man. Only a few close competitors ever witnessed the other – his wholesale transformation into a ‘raging ball of fury with anyone or anything that endeavour[ed] to hinder him in his progress towards his goal.’28
More often than not Opperman’s indiscretions were not witnessed by the public or reported in the press. Yet, on occasion, as a young rider, his fierce desire to win got him into trouble. Having missed his opportunity to defend his Australasian Road Championship title due to illness in 1925, he was desperate to win the next edition of the Warrnambool to Melbourne.
After hours of hard riding on heavy, muddy roads, the men in the scratch bunch had all consumed the contents of their drink bottles (called bidons). Opperman overheard his opponents confess their desperate need for water. Knowing this, he launched an attack in the feed zone. Forced to respond to Opperman’s acceleration, his chasers were unable to take a drink from the volunteers who lined the side of the road. Opperman slowed enough to quickly snatch the last metal cup of water on offer. He then sat up and drank the precious liquid. It was enough to give him the edge over his dehydrated rivals and he broke away to regain the championship sash.29 While not against any written regulations, depriving one’s competitors of food and water in this way was (and is) regarded as a serious breach of cycling etiquette. It was a rare example of unsportsmanlike behaviour and showed just how ruthless he could be. The incident went unnoticed by the sporting press, who were content to rave about Opperman giving ‘the scratch men the slip’ in another ‘classy’ win.30
Some were watching for Opperman to slip up. At first glance, the 1926 Sale to Melbourne looked to have all the ingredients people expected from the champion rider. He overcame mechanical trouble and pushed through the pain of a swollen ankle to take first place as well as fastest time. Despite looking a ‘sorry picture’ for much of the race, he had ‘pedalled like fury’ to win by over four minutes on the other scratch men. On this occasion, Opperman’s mother, Bertha, had travelled to the finish at the Aspendale Racecourse, thirty kilometres southeast of the city centre. Her presence charged his win with emotion, a fact the Sporting Globe reported with typical gusto:
Her pent-up feelings … bettered her, and, with tears of joy, she muttered: ‘Oh my boy – I hope he wins!’ Then: ‘He was foolish to ride with his injured ankle. I advised him not to start, but I know he is riding for my sake.’ … ‘Oppy’ was tired and weary, but game as a lion. His mother’s face was a picture – that of over-brimming joy … The meeting of mother and son was inspiring, and served as an incentive to the tired champion to put in one final, supreme effort.31
And, in what was becoming another typical feature of Opperman’s race wins, he sent the crowd into a state of wild abandon:
A wonderful demonstration followed. Motorists who were looking on at the finish threw their helmets in the air. Women shrieked with excitement and jumped about frantically. Men responded with a roar of applause the like of which has never been heard before at Aspendale.32
Only this time, the story did not follow the script. A week later came the news that rocked the cycling world: Opperman had been disqualified for receiving outside assistance.
An inquiry by the League of Victorian Wheelmen (LVW) alleged that as Opperman rode through the Haunted Hills between Morwell and Moe his chain dropped from the cogs. As he dismounted to replace the chain, Bruce Small, who had been following as a road steward, got out of his car and tightened the rear wheel nuts. In his own defence, ‘Opperman claimed that no time was gained, as he could just as easily have attended to the machine himself.’ That Small was driving in a car emblazoned with a Malvern Star logo did not help matters. He also reminded investigators that he won by over four minutes, so any time gain would have been of no consequence to the outcome of the race. The LVW was an organisation renowned for its inflexibility. The officials admitted the penalty was harsh, but claimed the rules left them no alternative. Opperman immediately lodged an appeal and sought legal advice, telling a reporter:
It came as a surprise to me to find that I was called before the League officials, and a bitter disappointment to hear that I had the Sale race taken from me, on account of something which is an everyday occurrence. The Sale to Melbourne race was one of the hardest races of my life, and I was the proudest man in Victoria when I arrived at Aspendale minutes before my opponents. The action of the League officials is staggering.33
Predictably, the LVW dismissed Opperman’s appeal.34 At a time when most riders did not have the advantage of a team car, some members of the governing body had misgivings about the increasingly brazen nature of Opperman’s relationship with Malvern Star. Of course, professional riders rode to promote their sponsors. But for some cycling administrators (who also had commercial interests in competition with Malvern Star) the degree of support available to Opperman crossed the line as to what they thought was equitable and fair. Whether this led to prejudicial or biased treatment from racing officials, as Opperman claimed, is difficult to prove.35
His close association with Malvern Star – a relationship that had brought him to the very top of Australian cycling – now had the potential to tarnish his squeaky clean image. From now on, he raced knowing that he would be subject to the most stringent interpretation of the regulations that governed professional cycling.
Opperman’s antipathy towards the LVW had been simmering for some time. Since the opening of the Melbourne Motordrome, which operated outside the governing body’s control, the Exhibition Oval had struggled to retain its popularity. Indifferent management by the LVW compounded the problem of falling attendance figures and reduced rewards for the riders. Contracted riders looked on with envy at the Motordrome, which surged on a wave of aggressive promotion, an exciting race program and the novelty of the stunning new stadium.
When he could stand it no longer, Opperman (with Small’s backing) staged a coup, defecting to the Motordrome to form a rival cycling body called the National Cyclists’ Union. Twenty-five other prominent riders joined him. For men who earned a living from racing at LVW sanctioned events it was a risky move. Enraged by their disloyalty, the LVW imposed life bans on all members of the NCU, including Opperman. A ‘thunderclap’ was heard across the cycling world and the stage was set for a ‘titanic’ battle of wills. Opperman and the NCU did not really want the burden of duplicating the existing cycling administration. But they wanted better returns for their riders and the ability for LVW members to race at the Motordrome. True to its word, the NCU ran its own winter program of races, attracting good sponsorship and crowds.36
At the same time, the Dunlop Rubber Company looked on aghast. While spectators cared little about a civil war between cycling administrators, the companies that relied on a thriving cycling industry did.37 Dunlop, otherwise unconcerned with cycling regulations and administration, worried that the fractious climate might damage the appeal of cycling more broadly and consequently reduce the number of bicycle tyres being sold. Rubber bike tyres were seriously big business before mass car ownership and were especially important during the 1930s economic depression when bikes were an essential form of transport.
Dunlop also faced a more immediate problem. In August 1927, Advertising Manager Harry James, announced the company’s decision to sponsor the most ambitious race ever to be staged in Australia, only to have the nation’s greatest cyclist barred from participating. The four-stage Dunlop Grand Prix (DGP) was to be the biggest road race ever held in the British Empire and the second longest in the world. They could proceed without Opperman and others who had defected to the NCU, but it would inevitably compromise the outcome and reduce public interest.
Newspaper proprietors and advertisers also saw the benefits of a united realm. The Sporting Globe along with Dunlop management facilitated a summit meeting between the NCU and the LVW. The issue that hung over the talks, although it was never expressed so baldly, was that spectators and advertisers wanted to see Oppy. He was perhaps the most potent political and commercial