Bucket List Travels...

continued from page 8 stands alone, surveying the scene. He can enter when its jockey so decides. In this way he’s the puppet master, because the race begins only when the Rincorsa crosses the starting line.

The dance between the Rincorsa and the other horses is called the Mossa. There’s lots of banging and bumping and fidgeting. Jockeys are tense. Horses twitch and snort. The crowd, 40,000 strong, crescendos into a fevered roar – shouting, gesturing, imploring, cursing (and that’s the women).

Then, a moment of calm, a second of quiet. All eyes turn to the Rincorsa.

Suddenly a horse rears, squealing and kicking. The other mounts scatter. Race organizers scramble to get the horses calmed and realigned. This happens several more times. Mossa can take two minutes or over an hour. Seven centuries of grudges and paybacks play out in the scrum activities.

Secret Backroom Deals

Heads of the contrade make secret backroom deals, so if their horse is the Rincorsa, they might be rewarded if they enter when their horse is in a good position, or their enemy is in a bad position. The jockeys also make deals, so you don’t know if they are trying to win or just block another rider. Perhaps this explains why the Sienese name for jockeys is assassini (assassins).

Without warning the Rincorsa bolts across the starting line and a cannon fires to signal the race is on. Our Aquila jockey hasn’t recovered from last night and is late off the line.

The racetrack is not a perfect oval. Walls jut out at crazy, dangerous angles, especially in Turn 2 where we’re sitting. The walls are padded to protect the horses, but that doesn’t prevent collisions.

Jockeys are sometimes separated from their mounts (remember, they’re riding bareback). A riderless horse is not disqualified. The first horse to cross the finish line – with or without a jockey – wins.

The lead changes constantly – and suddenly. Which fuels the excitement. And the delirium of the crowd. One minute your horse is at the back of the pack. Two breaths later, he’s charging to the lead.

Going into the final lap, it looks to be a two-horse race between Nicchio (Seashell) and Oca (Goose). Meanwhile the Eagle has landed, crashing in Turn 2 and never finishing the race.

The crowd is on its feet. It’s a photo finish. The winner is . . . Goose! The Oca neighborhood faithful rush onto the racetrack, flags waving, tears of joy overflowing. They hug and kiss the jockey and hoist him onto their shoulders, singing songs of joy. The winning horse is marched into church and down the aisle for a blessing.

NAME: Mike Lateiner, DMD, MS

NAME: Ami Dhaduk, DMD

NAME: Denise Kitay, DDS, MMSc

By Richard Mabey Jr.

Author’s Note: I do my absolute, honest best to write stories that are true and endearing to the human heart. This story is very precious to me, in that it is the story of the love that brought my paternal grandparents together.

From September of 1965 till the late Summer of 1966, my feet never touched the ground as I battled a most serious case of Rheumatic Fever. Like clockwork, my grandparents, Watson and Bertha Mabey would come to visit me in my bedroom every Tuesday and Thursday. It is during these endearing visits with my grandparents that Grandpa told me many, many stories of his youth and of his remembrances of life along the old Morris Canal. This very story was one of those true-life tales that Grandpa told me, all those years ago.

My grandfather was a very shy man. However, the good Lord graced him with the gift of story telling. Grandpa had this uncanny talent to use his voice flexion, to animate his hands, and to use his facial expressions to hold me spellbound as he spun his yarns of a time, long since past.

One of Grandpa’s favorite stories to tell was about the Valentine’s Day of 1915. Grandpa was 21 years old and Grandma was 18. It is a story unto itself, but Grandma’s parents, David and Catherine Storms, moved to Beavertown, just across the street from the old Mabey Homestead, in 1914. Grandpa was friendly with the Storms family. And, on the Valentine’s Day of 1915, Grandpa finally got the nerve to