Stefano Fumagalli

Twenty years ago, my life was a constant commute between Lecco, Milan, and Como. In Lecco was my home, at the University of Milan I studied Musical Informatics, while at the Como Conservatory I immersed myself in Electronic Music. My world was made of notes, codes, sounds, and infinite creative possibilities. Or at least, that's how it seemed to me then.

My days? A genuine logistical Tetris. University lectures, then racing (ironically) to the station to catch the train to Como. Hours spent on public transport, my backpack full of books and laptop always within reach. And when I finally arrived home? Well, there was always some project to finish, some algorithm to perfect, some sound to manipulate.

L’attività fisica era un lusso che mi concedevo raramente. Certo, ogni tanto uscivo a correre. Era il mio modo per staccare la spina, per liberare la mente dal groviglio di formule e spartiti che la occupavano costantemente. Una corsa veloce lungo le sponde del lago, e tornavo ai miei amati (e odiati) schermi con la mente un po’ più leggera. Nei fine settimana senza concerti o progetti da consegnare, una sgambata in montagna non me la levava nessuno.

One day, between conservatory lessons, someone told me: "If you like mountains, you need to talk to that guy from Morbegno in the first year". That "guy from Morbegno" was Saverio Monti, and he introduced me to the world of mountain running. I met him by chance during a break between classes, and for the first time, I heard about sky and trail running.

I still remember his enthusiastic expression as he told me about the Transvulcania, a race he was preparing for at the time, which takes place in the Canary Islands. "We start in the dark, while it's still night," he explained, "otherwise it gets too hot to run up and down mountains and volcanoes". I looked at him with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Running on volcanoes? Did he really say that? Wasn't it more fun (and simple) to program a synthesizer to simulate the sound of an eruption?

In the following years, while we spent days immersed in codes, sounds, and exams, Saverio was winning races across the Alps and accomplishing endurance feats definitely off the beaten path. Occasionally we would bump into each other, collaborating on various artistic projects, and I'd see him training at dawn or going for a run after long nights working in the theater. Part of me admired him, another part thought he was a bit crazy.

Over time, other friends became captivated by mountain running. I observed them with curiosity, but without much envy. After all, I had my musical commitments. Running remained an occasional outlet, a way to clear my mind between one task and another. "How can they run all those kilometers?" I would wonder. "Don't they have projects to finish, theses to write, compositions to create?"

I never imagined that fifteen years later, I would be the one getting up at dawn to run on trails. But that's another story, which begins with a herniated disc and... well, actually, it hasn't ended yet.

The turning point came in 2020, ironically masked as a crisis: a herniated disc (thanks a lot, sedentary life between computers and guitar!) forced me into a summer of pain and immobility. "Goodbye running," I thought. But I wasn't okay with that. In autumn, I decided to get "fixed" at a sports medicine center in my city. During a session, the guy assisting me pointed to another team member: "If you like running, you should talk to him". It was Lorenzo Beltrami. "He's a champion, a true champion," he added. And Lorenzo, a few sessions later, told me: "You'll see, I'll get you running again".

And so it happened. Step by step, exercise by exercise, I started running again. 2021 marked the beginning of a new chapter: I completely entrusted myself to Lorenzo. His gentle insistence - "Come on, try, do a race" - clashed with my resistance: "I don't care, I play music on weekends, I don't have time". But in the end, perhaps thanks to a Christmas aperitif that was a bit too "cheerful", I found myself signed up for a race.

In winter.

On snow.

It was an enlightening experience, even though in the following days I moved like a rusty robot. On that occasion, I discovered something extraordinary: the indescribable joy of reaching a goal that seemed impossible just moments before. In the next two years, I continued to prepare and ran several races in breathtaking scenarios, completing routes that pushed me beyond what I thought were my limits. And in those moments, in the last kilometers of each challenge, I experienced pure, primitive happiness. The body invaded by endorphins, a smile spreading despite the fatigue, perhaps even a tear barely held back.

Pure happiness.

"Sometimes it takes years to play like yourself"

Miles Davis

While running up and down seemingly endless trails, with burning lungs and legs protesting with every step, I began to notice a surprising parallel between my passion for running and my love for music. Think about it. Whether you're preparing for a marathon or learning a new piano piece, the principle is the same: repetition, repetition, repetition. And then more repetition. There are no shortcuts, neither in running nor in studying an instrument.

Marathon runner Eliud Kipchoge affirms: "Only discipline will take you where you want to go. Motivation gets you started, but discipline keeps you going." Composer Philip Glass used to say, "Practice and you'll improve. It's very simple."

Consistency is the key in both worlds. As a runner, I learned that there are no results without regular and persistent training. Similarly, as a musician, I know that only through daily practice can one achieve mastery. "If I don't practice one day, I notice. If I don't practice two days, my wife notices. If I don't practice three days, the audience notices" is a well-known adage in the musical world.

There have been many times when, after hours of training, I finally completed a route that previously seemed impossible. The feeling? Exactly the same as when, after weeks of rehearsals, I managed to play a particularly challenging passage without a single mistake. An explosive mixture of joy, pride, and disbelief. And speaking of training, have you ever wondered why musicians call those tedious scales they repeat endlessly "exercises"? Because that's exactly what they are: the musical equivalent of running kilometer after kilometer. It's not glamorous, it's not fun, but it's necessary. Sometimes I wonder how many kilometers I've done with my fingers up and down the guitar neck.

Of course, there's a fundamental difference: when I run, I sweat. When I play... well, I sweat too, but at least I'm indoors and no one notices (hopefully).

But the greatest similarity? Failure. Oh yes, because in both running and music, you fail. A lot. You fall, scrape your knees (metaphorically in music, all too literally in running), miss a note, lose the rhythm. But you continue. Why? Are we a bit masochistic? Maybe. But mostly because we know that just around the corner is that perfect performance, that run where everything flows smoothly, that concert where every note is in the right place. And in the end, whether it's crossing a finish line or receiving the audience's thunderous applause, the feeling is the same: I did it. Despite everything, I did it.

Looking back, I realize how fortunate I've been. I've had the opportunity to discover two passions that, although different, taught me the same precious lessons: perseverance, dedication, and the joy of overcoming one's limits. But the truth is, I would never have made it alone. There were people who pushed me (sometimes literally) up challenging paths, who encouraged me when I wanted to give up, who taught me the secrets of the trade, both in running and in music.

To Saverio, who showed me a world of possibilities I didn't know existed. To Lorenzo, who got me back on my feet when I thought I could no longer run. To my runner friends, who dragged me into adventures I never would have imagined undertaking.

And then there are my musical mentors and idols, the fellow musicians who guided me through the complexities of the art of sound. Each of them contributed to making me the musician and producer I am today.

La corsa mi ha regalato momenti di pura gioia e spensieratezza, ma anche la forza di affrontare periodi difficili. La musica mi ha dato un linguaggio per esprimere ciò che con le parole spesso non riesco a dire. Entrambe mi hanno insegnato che i limiti esistono solo nella nostra mente.

So, whether running on a mountain trail or sitting in front of a mixer in the studio, I always remember that every step, every note, is a tribute to all those who believed in me. And I always hope that through my work, I can in turn inspire someone else to find their sound and their artistic dimension.

Because in the end, whether running or making music, the important thing is to keep moving, creating, living. And maybe, just sometimes, not forgetting to stop for a moment, breathe deeply, and enjoy the view.

Recommended Reading:

"What I Talk About When I Talk About Running", Haruki Murakami

"Limits", Kilian Jornet