Cycling and singing a cappella at L'Eroica

Sing and it will pass. Because singing eases the pain. Or simply because it passes anyway, without needing to heed Petrarch, because when you sing, you stop thinking about it. Even when you are out of breath, your heart is a snare drum, and your legs feel as if they are on fire. Sing, and it will pass. After all, you chose this; no one forced you to cycle—you wanted it, you sought out that climb that slows you down and offers no apparent redemption for your wheels. So sing. Sing and it will pass, because it does pass; you just need to reach the top, catch your breath for a moment, and enjoy the joy of effortless speed: the descent.

Cycling is a free, a cappella song. The music is a backdrop of the rustling of chains; of creaks, because something is always creaking; there are few who cycle in the WorldTour – most cycle simply for the sake of cycling; of metallic clinks – sombre when cycling on carbon, silvery if one prefers the dear old, timeless steel. This is especially true when the wheels leave the tarmac for the dirt tracks that an increasing number of riders are choosing in order to avoid worrying about staying alive, so they can focus on everything else: the landscape, the tranquillity of cycling, the pleasure of feeling in control of one’s own movement.

The Eroica, which starts and finishes in Gaiole in Chianti today (the long routes, the 132.5- and 210-kilometre ones) and on Sunday (all the others, from 45 to 106 kilometres), was a forerunner of all this. Giancarlo Brocci founded it when everything was still tarmac – mountain bikes, of course, being the exception – and the dirt tracks were disappearing one after the other in the name of some elusive ‘progress’. Progress that was certainly faster, certainly less dusty, but was it worth it? The years that have passed since 1997 – the year of the first edition – have shown that no, it was not worth it. The dirt tracks are in better shape than ever and attract tens of thousands of cycle tourists every year. Not to mention all the others who treat themselves to a ride through the Chianti hills and the Crete Senesi.

These places, not just during the Eroica, are also places of song. It’s a question of rhythm. Music is movement; it drives us to move. And the reverse is true: movement brings us closer to music. David Byrne, frontman of the Talking Heads, explained this in an interview with Rolling Stone: “If I couldn’t get the hang of a song, I’d get on my bike and go for a ride, or if I couldn’t, I’d go for a jog or a walk. It helped me clear my head. Then I realised it was daft to only cycle when I needed to compose, so I got into the habit of just cycling. And whilst cycling, notes and words would come to me.”

Anandamide. When the body is tired, it releases anandamide, a neurotransmitter with a chemical structure similar to that of THC; in short, it makes you feel good. Singing also increases anandamide levels. In short, when you cycle, your brain reacts as if you were singing, and you feel like singing.

Sing until it goes away, because it’s better if it doesn’t: neural lust.

Giancarlo Brocci summed up L’Eroica in two sentences: “The beauty of exertion, the thrill of the challenge”. An excellent summary, which can be summarised further: the beauty of cycling. Because you cycle amongst countless bicycles and very few cars; you cycle through magnificent landscapes. You cycle whilst singing. In much the same way as one does far from Chianti and the Crete Senesi, but such is life. What holds true elsewhere holds true there too. And never mind if the songs are often mangled, sung out of tune or transformed. Or if one cannot compose them as David Byrne does. We enjoy the anandamide all the same.

A world with more cyclists, with more people riding bikes, would probably be a calmer and happier place, full of people on a neurotransmitter high. There’s no evidence to the contrary, of course, but evidence to the contrary isn’t always necessary.

And if it’s too hard to cycle whilst singing, it’s better to slow down, avoid going flat out, and save that little bit of breath so you can sing, thereby easing the pain. When you’re on a bike, everything else fades into the background; when you’re going uphill, especially when it’s tough, everything else becomes more manageable. It’s a matter of perspective. Or of neuro-modulators.