For sporting thrills, nothing beats the Palio horse race

	The Palio is a breakneck, bareback dash three times around Siena's main square. AP
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By Richard O'Brien

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It actually wasn't a game, it was a race, and I can't even tell you who won, but I can tell you that the whole clattering, sweeping, breathtaking spectacle of speed and careering headlong desire that unfolded -- hell, exploded -- around me in less than 90 seconds, remains to this day, 20 years later, the yardstick by which I measure any sporting thrill.

Super Bowl? Very impressive. Final Four? Such emotion. Heavyweight title fight? Riveting. None of them is the Palio.

In the summer of 1987 I was living in Italy, and a friend who was staying in a villa outside Siena invited me to visit. "I have tickets to the Palio," he said. I wasn't exactly sure what that was, but if it was in Italy I figured it probably involved some really good food.

Put simply, the Palio is a horse race. Of course that's a little like saying a Ferrari is a transportation device or that the Mona Lisa is a picture of a lady. Both statements are true, but they don't get at the essence.

What the Palio is, really, is the heart and soul of Siena. Held twice every summer, on July 2 and Aug. 16, the event pits horses -- each representing one of the city's historic neighborhoods, or contrade -- in a three-lap sprint around the city's beautiful bowl-shaped central piazza.

The paving stones of the piazza are covered with dirt and turf, and the improvised race course, a D-shaped loop with ridiculously tight corners and steep uphill and downhill sections, is about 340 meters around, making the whole race just over a kilometer. Thousands of spectators ring the track, hanging from the roofs and windows of the Renaissance palazzos that surround the piazza, and thousands more jam the infield.

Given that they've been running the Palio since 1644, there's clearly a lot of tradition involved, too. People dress in the historic colors of their contrade (each of which is represented by a symbol: the Eagle, the Tortoise, the Tower, the Shell, etc.), and a tremendous amount of pride is at stake. Residents of the winning neighborhood immediately adorn themselves with bibs and pacifiers, symbolizing their "rebirth." The losers weep on each others shoulders in the streets.

I'd read up on all of this before I arrived and, indeed, as we waited for hours, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the piazza, and watched the pre-race festivities, I was thrilled by the passion and color of it all. This was really cool. And then they ran the race.

I've been ringside for the opening bell of a Mike Tyson fight, back when he was destroying opponents in 90 seconds. I've stood on pit road at the Indianapolis 500 as the 33-car field swept into the first turn of the first lap at 220 mph. I've been trackside for the Olympic 100-meter final. All of them in retrospect seem leisurely affairs compared to the sheer kinetic extravagance of the Palio.

Ten horses circle and stamp and crowd the starting line, held back by a rope, and then are suddenly turned loose as an enormous roar goes up, echoing off the stone walls all around. With their bareback jockeys clinging on, the horses charge and churn around what is suddenly revealed to be an appallingly tight and treacherous course. There are mattresses strapped to the outer walls. Horses bounce off them, bounce off each other, tumble to the turf, tossing their riders. Three horses break away, straining shoulder-to-shoulder for the finish. The noise of the crowd is sustained on one breath through the entire race. And then it's over.

For me, though, that race has continued to run in my mind and my heart ever since. Oh, and I just looked it up: The winner of that August Palio in 1987 was Pantera, the Panther. They won again last year.