July 2001
The morning of July 9, 2001, dawned wet and chilly as several friends and I struggled out of our bed - basically a sheet we had spread on the ground underneath a building overhang - to prepare for the morning's encierro, or Running with the Bulls.
We were hung over from large amounts of Sangria wine, tired from dancing until four in the morning and cold after getting soaked from the night's rainstorm. But our minor discomforts disappeared when the realization hit us that soon a pack of fully-grown bulls would chase us through narrow cobblestone streets to the cheers of thousands of spectators. Honestly, who cares about being drunk or tired when you might get gored or trampled?
Such is the fun and prestige of San Fermin, more popularly known as the Running with the Bulls, a festival held every July 6-14 in Pamplona, Spain. San Fermin is fun because it's a week of non-stop drinking, dancing, parades, fireworks and bullfights. It's prestigious because, once someone has taken part in the scary-yet-thrilling encierro (the morning run with the bulls), they have a story that will trump most of the lame, "Guess what we did this summer?" stories of their friends.
July 9 was going to be my 5th encierro (I ran once in 1999, three times in 2000), and since I hadn't gotten a scratch my previous times I was brewing with excitement and confidence. I spent all morning giving tips to my friends - all Americans I met a few days earlier in Barcelona - and allaying their fears. My advice seemed simple enough: run fast, watch for other runners and keep tabs on the bulls at all time.
At 8 a.m. we heard the explosion of a rocket, signaling that the pack of seven bulls (and six female heifers) were out of their pens and heading our way. The tension in the air was electric. People gave each other quick, nervous glances. Some people immediately began running; others jumped up and down, trying to keep their muscles loose or trying to keep their adrenaline rush under some sort of control.
My starting point for this day was Estafeta Street, just past the Mercaderes corner. I've always preferred to start here because the street is long and straight, and because I can spot the bulls coming from some distance away.
As the seconds ticked by the flow of men moving past went from a jog to a run to a full-out sprint. The crowd in the balconies overhead began cheering louder, and soon I could feel and hear the thunder of approaching hooves. I merged in with the other runners and was soon at a full-out sprint.
My travel companions were lost in the ensuing melee. I'm a fast runner, but the bulls are much faster (they've been clocked at 35 mph), and soon the main pack passed to my left. I could smell their musky odor and feel the rumbling as they charged past. This feeling, combined with the roar of the crowd and the beating of my own heart, made for an exhilarating moment, and I found myself shouting and cheering as I ran onward.
As I headed into the bullring at the end of Estafeta Street I spotted a pile-up of 10 runners ahead. Pile-ups are dangerous because they block the way and prevent runners from avoiding the bulls and oncoming runners. Leaping over two or three fallen runners is easy, but a pile-up is different, and I had no choice but to dodge to the left. Just as I cleared the pile-up I glanced behind me and was shocked at the sight: an enormous black bull was bearing down on me, only a few feet away. There was no time to jump out of its way and the bull plowed into my left side. Imagine being hit by a NFL linebacker at full speed, at 35 mph and while wearing no padding. It felt like someone hit me with a baseball bat. The thud of impact took my breath away and I lost consciousness for a few seconds. When I came to I was lying against the tunnel just inside the bullring. I was disorientated but knew enough to stay flat on the ground and let other runners and bulls stream past. NOTE: The last San Fermin death occurred in 1996 when a runner fell and then tried to get back up: an oncoming bull lowered its head and gored him through the stomach.
After waiting a few seconds I felt a pair of hands lift me to my feet. The final bull had just run past and people were already starting to slow down. I was lucky because the bull's horns hadn't connected, only its massive, but not-as-dangerous, head. I had a bloody nose, my shirt was smeared with blood and mud, and the left side of my body ached horribly.
I could stand but my legs were too wobbly to walk so I was carried over to several Spanish medics. They put tissue in my nose, cleaned the blood from my face, and checked my eyes for responsiveness. I hurt but it wasn't anything life threatening, so I was led over to a bench where I sat down and took a moment to rest my aching body.
Thousands of runners had made it inside the bullring and it was impossible to spot my friends, so I made my way outside and picked a grassy knoll to lie down on. We met up later on to exchange Running with the Bulls 'war-stories' (a favorite San Fermin pastime) and my bloody shirt and animated gestures made for a good tale. A husband who spotted the blood on my shirt even asked if he could take a picture of his wife and me. My body ached all over, but my friends supplied me with a steady infusion of Sangria, cigarettes and marijuana, and that kept me going. By nightfall I felt well enough to dance at one of Pamplona's small nightclubs, and I still participated in the July 10 and July 11 runnings - though I gave the bulls plenty of space as they charged past.
Looking back, I realized how lucky I was not to have been gored. Had the bull hit me a few inches in either direction, I would have gotten 18 inches of horn; instead I got a good wallop from its massive head. Others weren't so fortunate: three people were gored that same day, and a dozen were gored during the entire 2001 festival.
Still, coming face-to-face with a bull only deepened my respect and affection for the encierro. I used to view the morning's run as an adventurous game. Not any more. Now I see what the encierro really is - a test of one's stamina, courage and smarts. Take the running seriously, regardless of whether it's your first, fifth or fiftieth time. And, once that final bull has passed and the all clear is given, prepare yourself for what many consider an even greater challenge - keeping up with the city's outrageous partying.
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