Life has returned to Capannelle. The reopening of the Roman racecourse

Beneath a cloud of white hair tinged with a blue-grey hue, beneath two thick, bristly moustaches—bleached by cigarettes that break up the dishevelled web of wrinkles as deep as memories—move two amber lips, chapped at the corners. “There are people, there are plenty. Of course, there was a time...”. Those days were when the hearts of a great many Italians beat to the rhythm of horses’ hooves on the turf. ‘…it used to be like that all the time; now it’s never like that, only today because of the event. It used to be like that and even more so; there was life here, even too much life. But at least life has returned; this place was in danger of becoming a graveyard.” Alessandro Rufi is nearly eighty years old; he looks around and recalls the Capannelle racecourse as it once was. He ended up here simply because of its proximity: “I was born in Statuario,” the neighbourhood north of Capannelle, along the Appian Way towards the centre of Rome. “I spent years here. A bit working, but mostly betting. I didn’t win much, but luckily I didn’t go bankrupt.”

In Rome, horses used to race between Capannelle and Tor di Valle, with gallop races at the former racecourse and trotting races at the latter. Then Tor di Valle was abandoned, leaving only Capannelle. Even the racecourse along the Appian Way was in danger of becoming nothing more than a memory. On 5 January, Hippogroup, which had been managing the facility for years, handed it back to the local council: the operation had been running at a loss, partly due to the diversion of prize money from certain races to other venues, and partly because of the decline in interest in horse racing. For a long time, Rome was in danger of saying goodbye to horse racing. It returned in September. On 20 September, a major event allowed enthusiasts to relive bygone moments, one hundred years on from the major refurbishment of one of Italy’s most beautiful racecourses.

Capannelle has reopened; people have returned to take their seats in the stands, bringing life to the square overlooking the oval where the horses warm up and the large platform onto which the jockeys mount their horses. All around, there’s a sense of cheerful decay: a toppled telephone box, rust and peeling paint on the posts of the upper walkway, weeds on the stands’ canopies, and flaking walls in the betting hall. Yet the place is alive – noisy, chaotic, filled with shouts of ‘aho’ and ‘daje’, of ‘imbeccate bbone’ and ‘vale manco du spicci’. Horse names are bandied about as if they were footballers’ names. Bizarre and pretentious names, both quintessentially Italian and international. “They’ve always fancied themselves,” comments a gentleman in his sixties, glancing at a well-known Roman horse owner and reading the name of the gelding due to race shortly afterwards on the race programme. Francesco Rutelli is there too – not exactly the latest in politics.

Capannelle has been revitalised by that motley mix of humanity that has always found refuge amongst the betting shops and the stands at the racecourses. Giovanni Arpino recalled the jumble of “the smells of cigarettes, beer too lukewarm to drink, the odour of underarms and tension”. Now the prevailing smells are the fumes from smokeless cigarettes and the sickly-sweet scent of energy drinks. Only the body odour remains the same. Hygiene, however, has improved. Or perhaps the tension surrounding the betting has eased.

There remain the gentlemen dressed as horsemen from across the Channel; the ladies in beautiful, flowing floral dresses as ethereal as their overpoweringly fragrant perfumes; the nervous fingers of those clutching the slip of paper that might bring joy to their wallets; and the old relics of the good old days, when racecourses were the centre of the world, even if only their own.

The venue was also crowded with social climbers who had come for the major event, because in Rome such occasions are simply not to be missed. Two former youths in tight-fitting jeans, their vests clearly visible beneath a floral shirt, are chatting and laughing, a beer in one hand and an e-cigarette in the other. A gentleman dressed for a fox hunt looks at them, shakes his head, and heads towards the clubhouse. Outside the clubhouse, another gentleman is getting worked up, shouting and making threats. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m the one who’ll gouge your eyes out! I’ll gouge your eyes out! Don’t you get it? I’m the one. This is my stuff; I’ve been here forever. With my horses.” He introduces himself as C. from the C. family, who owned the horses and who, as well as running the horses, were involved in other business dealings in Rome. Many other businesses, not all of them legal. An old man with long white hair leads him away, talks to him, calms him down. They go off together to watch the race. “Oh, this horse is really, really good! Guaranteed.” So good, in fact, that he won’t win the race.

Capannelle has reopened; Capannelle hasn’t changed.