The other day, as I was cycling back home in heavy traffic, it dawned on me just how noisy riding can be. I realized this only when I turned off onto a side road and stopped. Suddenly I could hear birds singing in the woods. Had they just that minute begun their songs? Or had I simply been unable to hear them when I was moving along? And I knew the answer almost before I posed the question.

Most of us think that cycling is the quintessential “silent sport.” And in one sense it is. While I certainly don’t go out of my way to startle roadside joggers—and indeed I do what I can to avoid it—I’ve made quite a few jump in alarm when my silent approach took them completely by surprise. If they hear anything at all as I close the distance between us, it’s the metallic click of a shifter or the muted clink of my chain dropping onto a new gear. Or maybe the subtle thrum of my tires on asphalt.

But if I’m riding with a companion and we’re talking to each other as we travel along, the story is entirely different. Even on a quiet rural byway we’ll probably be shouting to each other, and any joggers on the road will hear us long before we draw even with them. And why will we be shouting? Because cycling is only quiet from the outside. Even when there are no cars or trucks on the road, the cyclist’s world is surprisingly noisy. Her breath will likely be coming in gasps, for one thing, and if she’s traveling at any speed faster than a jogging pace, there’ll be wind noise to contend with. At speeds of 20 mph and more, the roar of the wind can be ear-splitting, a point which prompted ornithologist Louis Halle to observe that “on long downslopes … the air rushing past your ears reminds you that the birds must be partially deafened by their own speed.”

As are we. So we shout to each other as we ride along. Add the rumble of automotive traffic to the mix—and throw in a couple of Harley hawgs, for good measure, gunning up a hill with a maximum of ostentation—and our shouts soon rise to screams. Or we give up trying to talk altogether.

Then there’s the snap of wind-blown flags—some rural towns have seasonal banners hanging from every lightpost—the ceaseless drone of riding mowers, the inevitable barking dog (or three), the fire-station’s noonday siren… You get the picture. While an air-conditioned car enwombs its occupants in a soundproofed box, a cyclist’s ears are open to every passing assault. And there are plenty of assaults, even if you live, and ride, in Mayberry. Not much birdsong makes its way through the din.

So the “silent sport” of cycling isn’t silent at all, at least for its devotees. Still, the noise we impose on others is slight. Not for us the Hey, Mom, look at MEEE! clamour of the Harley. And whenever we want to hear what we’ve been missing, we need only stop peddling—and gasping, clicking, clinking, and thrumming—and… Listen. That’s all it takes. Simply listen. Then we can hear the breeze ruffle the tops of the tall pines, the red squirrels chatter, the frogs trumpet, and the birds sing.

Wouldn’t it be terrible if no birds sang? Of course, if we never got out of our cars, we’d never know, would we?

 
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