Sign up for the Slatest to get the most insightful analysis, criticism, and advice out there, delivered to your inbox daily.

Freedom isn’t free, and neither are tickets to UFC Freedom 250 Fan Fest. Technically you won’t pay money, it’s true, but getting in requires one of two things: cardio or endurance.

Picture this: You arrive two hours before the gates open, like the responsible citizen you are. You are standing in line alongside everyone else, daydreaming about whatever, when, out of the corner of your eye, you see a few men sprinting down the street in the opposite direction. Then, a few more. Then, right behind them, a stampede of men in UFC T-shirts: the Running of the Bros. So you are running too now, dodging and weaving past all the rubes who haven’t yet figured out the score. You, on the other hand, have realized that somewhere far ahead of you, some official has once again decided to move the beginning of the line to a different location with no warning or communication, which means you can either sprint to the front of the line or walk with dignity to the back of it to wait for hours.

Perhaps, because you ran quickly and showed no regard for your fellow man, you end up being among the first thousand or so in what becomes the final line. You only have to wait 90 minutes in the crushing D.C. heat to make it past the Secret Service checkpoint and into the Fan Fest proper. Strains of “Sweet Home Alabama” greet you—first the original, then, immediately afterward, the Kid Rock version—as you emerge onto a White House lawn transformed for the occasion. Vendor tents, meet-and-greet stages, and sponsored activities form a ragged circle, but most of the middle remains clear so that thousands of screaming fans can have a clear view of the stage, flanked by two enormous monitors, at the north end of the Ellipse. These screens will show the fight to all us plebs come Sunday night. Beyond the stage, and framed perfectly by those two screens, sit the glowing, cheesy arches where the actual fights will take place. People are calling it the Claw, which is apt: The thing looks ready to snap together any moment, then rise and carry the White House clumsily toward the prize chute for some demented child to collect. A birthday present for our commander in chief, perhaps.

You continue to wander, and hear a cheerful female voice emanating from the enormous onstage speakers to inform everyone that water is available for purchase at any of the bar tents for just $4. (A Bud Light is $12 and a double-shot cocktail is $28.)

If you would rather not pay $4 for a can of water with NO DAYS OFF emblazoned on the side poured into a commemorative Made In The USA plastic cup, there are free water stations (as with the airport, the Secret Service forbids outside food and drink). The Freedom 250 Fan Fest app claims there are four water stations; I only ever saw two. As with the tickets themselves, this free water comes at a cost: infinite, slow-moving lines that only grow and never shrink. At a line’s end, attendants hand you a small paper cup’s worth of fluid—two if they’re feeling generous. The event’s official app will eventually start sending notifications reminding fans to stay hydrated and to seek medical attention if needed, but the water remains $4 and the free cups remain petite.

Wonders abound within the confines of these fences. A giant inflatable UFC Freedom 250 boxing glove that looks vaguely like the Black Lives Matter fist. A giant fake UFC championship belt. A giant fake WWE belt with a WWE ring behind it, which is confusing until you remember that UFC’s parent company recently acquired a bunch........

© Slate