Shoulder to shoulder, hour after hour, you stand amongst thousands, waiting. Weeklong celebrations are at their medieval historic peak.
The horses approach the starting line: a deafening roar from the crowd. The honor belongs to ten riders representing one of the seventeen Contrade, or city wards. Riding bareback, the first to complete three laps around a sanded-down, shell-shaped Piazza will ride in exalting glory.
The turns are sharp and the frenzied crowd is all but spilling onto the track. A brief silence, then BOOM! The mass erupts.
The first turn claims one rider; several trample him and in the collision, two more fall. The horses continue; one rider lies motionless. The paramedics scurry to his aid seconds before the remaining riders approach the bend once more.
In less than three minutes, only a handful will cross the line. No drinking, no gambling, no purse money; nothing but tradition and first place matter. It is fantastic.
Shoulder to shoulder, hour after hour, you stand amongst thousands, waiting. Weeklong celebrations are at their medieval historic peak.
The horses approach the starting line: a deafening roar from the crowd. The honor belongs to ten riders representing one of the seventeen Contrade, or city wards. Riding bareback, the first to complete three laps around a sanded-down, shell-shaped Piazza will ride in exalting glory.
The turns are sharp and the frenzied crowd is all but spilling onto the track. A brief silence, then BOOM! The mass erupts.
The first turn claims one rider; several trample him and in the collision, two more fall. The horses continue; one rider lies motionless. The paramedics scurry to his aid seconds before the remaining riders approach the bend once more.
In less than three minutes, only a handful will cross the line. No drinking, no gambling, no purse money; nothing but tradition and first place matter. It is fantastic.
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