For the soft curves of the hills, for the pointed cypresses, for the fierce gravel roads that kill your wrists. For the bicycles that have a history, for the wind in your hair, for the volunteers at the food stops, for the moth-eaten jerseys that grate your skin. For the eyes that shine, for the sweat that drips, for the happy faces, for the one who tears away. For the merry stands at the market, for the scream of the breaks on the descent, for the rattle of the gears, for the mud that makes the wheels slip, for the wind that blows over the meadows, for the dust that deposits itself in layers. For the lights like fireflies that shine out of the dark, for the first star of the morning. For the climbs – cursed climbs! – that never end. For the bread drizzled with oil, for the coffee at Brolio. For those who can’t sleep the night before, for those who have to push uphill, for those who climb en danseuse, for those who get two punctures, for those who are out of breath, for those who call for their “mamma”. For those who ask “where are you from”, for those who take the wrong road, for those who find a friend, for those who can’t take any more, for those who give their smiles freely. For those who have their grandad’s bike, for those who whistle their way downhill, for those who do it in a little skirt, for a bear hug, for the banner at the finish line, for a glass of wine. For those who have been waiting a year, for Luciano up there, for those who have good legs but especially for those who have a good heart. Have a great Eroica!