T he roar of the crowd was unforgettable. Many of the thousands standing with us in the square wore scarves and hats with their contrada colors. Now and then a group of spectators would burst into a song you could tell was their neighborhood anthem. T here followed three hours of medieval pageantry. I 'm sorry to tell you this, but it's a waste of words to describe what happens once the steeds and jockeys arrive on the scene.
Utter pandemonium breaks loose.
Fans scream, banners wave, whistles blare and cannons are fired as time after time the officials try to line the horses up in the correct order. You keep thinking the mossiere is about to raise his arm to signal the start, but then he nods imperceptibly, the air fills with tens of thousands of groans, and the horses all file out to begin again. You get so used to this rhythm that when the rope finally does fall, you are taken by surprise and have to refocus on the magnificent animals hurtling by at breakneck speed. You must look carefully, because they'll only be back this way once again. A las, Sheila and I did not bring il Bruco the miracle it had been hoping for.