Bareback we sit on our frenzied horses, trembling and skittering, backing and bullying, neighbours and enemies, barely holding our caparisoned steeds before la Mossa - the rope stretched across the beaten sand of our life's course, three times round the marbled, monumental, towered way, to the finish. The narrow road between the glories of the city, the tight curves, dangerous abutments, the absolute judgement of the Mossiere that the start was fair, governed first by lot as to our mount and starting place, then by his acceptance of the off as the rope twitches downwards and the horse held furthest back soars through, is all we want. That and the roars of will to victory from our contradaioli, massed in the centre of the Campo as they are in life, whose colours and honour we bear.
No more level playing fields, no more equal chances imposed long after the dash through life began. No more denial of our contrada or its visceral importance as our sbandieratori fling our flags, looping intricately high in the air, and our culture is passed through the generations to the beat of our drummers and the certainty that hands will catch and hold the plummeting, tightly furled message bearers that unfurled, bedizen our thoughts as well as our churches.
No-one wants imposed and drab equality when we have so much to win and such joy in winning it.
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