I want to be reborn as a horse to win the Palio di Siena
C.over time I realized that the Palio is an ancestral tradition, as is the culture of horse racing, of which so very little: Bucephalus, Varenne, Bojack Horseman and little else. Given when you are reborn as a horse you have the duty of no longer communicating with humans, I thought I’d go ahead and put everything in writing right now: win the Palio, if you are born a horse, is the best thing that can happen to you. Better to bring to the Instagram stars that they take pictures with one hand and pull their hair with the other. Also because with the horsehair you make the bow of the violin, which is tuned just like the instrument: not too much, not too little. Horsehair serves poetry, not burini with the phone in hand.
As a horse I prefer to run the Palio instead of hearing the chatter of your rich, spoiled daughters and princesses caressing me once a week at the stables. It’s still, better to flounder in the Sienese land rather than hauling a carriage loaded with overweight tourists around the historic center shitting on the ground with blinders. Instead of taking the signal of the moss instead of sunbathing during a historical re-vocation with a carabiniere on his back. The Palio is better than other races: be it those at the racecourse, high society or world championships. Because the Palio is all there, in a moment, and it is sacred. In the end, the Palio is better than the Polo, even if – what an irony – those who criticize him do so with Polo Ralph Lauren clothes.
Instead, if you are a horse of the Palio, the jockey rides bareback, without saddle, because the act requires respect. You come before him, a thread above the social ladder, which is why a shaken horse – that is, with the rider on the ground – can win the race. A pact, of course, that he still has on his head there plucking tray to define the colors of his Contrada.
The Palio of Siena it runs on three laps, about a kilometer in total: centometrist stuff, everything at once, every meter is decisive. Behind the canape the steed has all his muscles in tension, he is nervous, then they are produced in a sprint and sets off for the race. The heart pumps oxygen while the body works at a frantic pace. Dark fog in the brain, speed as a life mission, primordial like nothing else. If you win it is another rebirth. The jockey strategizes and spends money, organizes himself with others, perhaps betrays him. The horse, on the other hand, has to run and think about the rhythm and its fellow creatures. One thought: maybe I’ll kill myself but today I’ll get to the front.
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