The racetrack, made from densely packed layers of special sand called rena, is uneven and infamously dubious. “They have these padded crash barriers that line the inside of the track,” Polly had once explained to me, her hand swooping circles in front of her. “And you think they are for the audience, but really, they are for the jockeys.” The track’s tight turns trip horses and can send jockeys soaring through the air, leaving the horse to win the race cavallo scosso (without his jockey); famous photos show-off horses and jockeys running at an almost 45-degree angle to the track; accidents are common and injuries or fatalities — for both animals and humans — often occur. In fact, the only real changes the Palio has seen throughout history regard horse safety, and have been made to appease the concerns of modern-day animal rights activists. I look through a sea of human legs, and notice a line of pathetic crash barriers less than three feet away looking as though they can stop nothing. I hope they do not need to.

The color of our T-shirts has attracted Contrade Leocorno (Unicorn) supporters whose colors are orange, green and white; as the Piazza del Campo fills, they surround us. This creates a precarious position for me as I have already decided to pledge allegiance to the red-and-white colored Contrade Giraffa (Giraffe). The growing throng of possible rivals provokes anxiety. On the sly, I pull out my contrada information leaflet and locate my concern. Leocorno: allies with Caterpillar, Panther and Turtle; enemy of Owl. Owl is an ally of Giraffa. Are Leocorno and Giraffa enemies by default? This question is safest left unasked, so I fold the paper into quarters, slip it into the back right pocket of my jean shorts, and keep the choice of my allegiance to myself. A tall and skinny Contrade Leocorne devotee glances at me. Nervous, I respond by raising my fist and shouting my most convincing “Leocorne!” toward them before trying to dissolve into the orange crowd.

• • •

“Did you hear that?” I ask Polly. My ears having had picked up faint trumpeting and then, a distant explosion of cheering. Corteo Storico had finally made its way from the city streets to inside Piazza del Campo. “Let’s get closer!” I suggest,  rising to my feet and weaving a path to the barricades.

Seven hundred costumed participants march on to the track. The two-hour spectacle of team pride has begun its journey around the piazza. Each contrade waves decorative flags and sounds medieval instruments while bellowing their traditional anthem. They march in suits of full metal armor or don heavy velvet cloaks, thick tights, wigs and hats (how can they stand the heat?). They proudly display their contending horses (absent of jockey), the soundtrack of crowd support merges into a singular sound, almost deafening, but definitely exhilarating. Held high in the air, my camera’s shutter fires over and over, attempting to catch something, everything. The coveted, handpainted il palio (banner and prize of the event) makes its way around the track for all to see — reminding everyone what is at stake. Lost in the moment, I forget to take a picture.

Soon, a man wearing red tights and a medieval dress, resembling a Queen of Heart’s playing card from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, trumpets into view. Behind him, Contrade Giraffa’s small army of wig wearing, red-and-white cloak donning drummers beat their instruments by the stands. More brave men in full metal armor clomp past. Bald heads obstruct my view leaving only tips of waving flags visible as they rise and fall to the song of Contrade Giraffa. Inconspicuously, I capture a few shots of my team as the last players stride to the right, out of view, and a new contrade appears on my left.

I am overwhelmed and confused, in the best way possible, as horns blare, drums pound, and the infiltrating cacophony of a half-dozen or more contrada anthems sung in bravado swirls around me. Thousands of people, full of a passionate spirit I have never witnessed, sing in a language I do not understand. No capito, but I feel like I get the message — loud, if not clear.

It has been 20 minutes since Corteo Storico waved its last flag, and I have been again at Sol’s mercy. The square is full, with no room to sit down, and I anxiously kill time shifting off one foot to the other. The crowd rides the energy left by the parade, appetite whet for action. People chatter all around me until the loud boom of a canon vibrates through the piazza. The next phase of Il Palio has begun. In a process known as the mossa, contending horses will now move into their positions at the starting line. Positions are determined through lottery and placement is a crucial element to the race — nine horses take their positions on the track, while the 10th waits outside. The race officially begins after the 10th horse, the rincorsa, enters the track, triggering the front rope to drop. As we wait to learn the positioning, no one makes a sound and tension is high; I swear I can hear a horse blinking across the piazza. Soon, a loudspeaker crackles all around us. The crowd is frozen. Polly’s arm shoots up into the air, ready to film. One-hundred sixty-thousand ears strain to hear the announcements first. Forgetting I cannot understand Italian, I lean forward, engrossed in the excitement of Il Palio di Siena.

My ears wade through endless words in Italian, and my mind starts to wonder what is going on behind-the-scenes. Jockeys are negotiating last-minute bribes based off their positioning, the rincorsa being the prime target. The rincorsa has the power to manipulate the start of the race by controlling when the front rope drops, and he may be enticed to accommodate the strategies of the highest bidder. The mossa is when previous confederacy turns cold. This is when contrada interests are bought and sold. ‘This is when it gets fun,’ I think. But the mossa can take hours — false starts (another action one may be bribed to commit) trigger a complete realignment. After three false starts, my arm is tired of holding up my camera and Polly’s irritation from starting and stopping her FlipCam is obvious. I start to wonder if it is worth the wait. I cannot believe a 90-second race could be worth three hours of tedious lollygagging and sunburns.

Suddenly — without warning — the race starts. Franticly, my eyes search the track. I can barely see anything. I move to the highest point I can find and look toward the clamor of hooves. A blur of horses and jockeys smear my vision. A charge of electricity lingers in the air and goose bumps run across the whole of my body. Three hours worth of complaints in the heat evaporate. I no longer question if this was worth the wait. I am a believer.

Struggling to keep up with the speed of the race, my eyes impatiently circle the square until I find the action. A jockey has fallen off his horse: Cavallo scosso. Stunned, his abandoned horse turns and runs the opposite way. It takes only seconds before the horse corrects its path and rejoins the race — heading straight for the perilous turn of the San Martino section, full-speed toward a line of unsteady barricades. Another horse tight on its tail tries to avoid a collision. The jockey attempts the impossible, endeavoring to clear a hurdle of both the barricades and the jockey-less horse. The effort is unsuccessful, the crash inescapable. All three players, jockey and two horses, roll over one another, tumbling across the track and creating a hazardous obstacle for the remaining opposition.

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