Run, Tourist, Run!

I was thrilled to discover my arrival in Barcelona coincided with the week-long festival of San Fermin – a lively, boozy, historic celebration just two hours northwest in the quaint city of Pamplona. Sanfermines has gained a global reputation for its main and most exciting event - el encierro, or, to the rest of the world: the running of the bulls. On 7 consecutive mornings, a dozen bulls escape from the starting pen to stampede through the narrow, cobblestone streets alongside, over, and sometimes through a thousand daring runners.

Naturally, I had to participate.

I told my friends, family, and colleagues as much, and their responses included amusement, encouragement, bewilderment, and, understandably, concern. I guess the appeal wasn’t obvious to all.

Why, Jared?

Briefly, to rest comfortably in my elder years, knowing I left little room for regret. Of which there would be much if I opted out. When else would I be in the northwest of Spain during the second week of July? With no injuries? With enough remaining acuity to evade oncoming livestock? With no wife or kids to disappoint by getting mauled by a fighting bull? Not soon, probably.

And so, despite crippling fear and the concern of many loved ones, I board the scenic train to Pamplona.

---

Even with the overinflated price, my accommodations are modest – a sweaty 16-bunk dorm with a dozen other reckless young men, mostly here for the same reason. Immediately, I drop my stuff and make way for town, where the festivities will rage on late into the night (and through the morning, as I would soon see).

The streets are packed – the whole city in uniform. White shirt, white pants, red bandana. Red wine flows. Bands march. Spaniards sing. As I wander, I’m captivated by the spirit, the camaraderie, the tradition. The locals glow with pride.  

While I desperately want to enjoy the all-night affair, I must try to rest before my 8AM run.

---

T-2.5 hours Off goes my 530AM alarm, which turned out to be unnecessary. Because thanks to the 80-degree hostel dorm, a snoring brigade, and the fear of death or dismemberment, I’m wide awake.

T-2 hours. I don the mandatory white shirt and red bandana.  With two bunkmates (one of whom I’ve convinced to run), I make way for the 6AM bus, which, thanks to striking drivers, doesn’t arrive until 6:30. We must be to the start line by 7AM, which mandates a warmup run. Along the way, wine-drunk friends stumble home arm in arm, reeling from the celebrations that stretched through sunrise.

T-1 hour. We congregate at the start, packed in like sardines by the serious local police. Some runners are over the invisible start line, which seems to have been selected arbitrarily. They’re forcibly removed.

We’re flanked by several tiers of tourists looking on from old apartment patios. They paid a premium for the front row seat to the madness – didn’t they know it’s free down here? Tightly packed and anxious, we break out in traditional Spanish song. And by we, I mean the Spaniards – I don’t know the lyrics, but I get the gist. Battle cries and all.

T-15 minutes. We’re released from the start to pick our places along the track. Since the bulls are much faster, we can’t hope to run alongside them for too long.- they’ll leave you in the dust. My new friends and I head towards the end of the run, so we can run through the tunnel into the stadium with the bulls.

T-5 minutes. Now, we wait.

Breathe.

Listen.

T-0 minutes. A rocket sounds to signify the first bull released. Moments later, a second rocket for the last bull out. A thousand heads turn anxiously downcourse. Like prairie dogs we jump, hoping for a view of the impending doom.

Gradually, heads start to drop, turn, and run.

Fear crescendos as a wave of chaos approaches. We start to jog forward, hoping not to be caught standing still. A glance ahead to find a path forward. And one behind to manage the danger.

Suddenly, the runners alongside you look a bit different. And that’s because it’s a 12-strong stampede of angry, 2-ton, fight-bred bulls.

Run for your life.

Bodies clash, fall, and scream in panic and excitement. Self-preservation and pure instinct take over - my vision sharpens, heart quickens, skin tingles. Head on a swivel I run, dodge, smile, sweat, and breathe.

In what feels like a flash, they’re past, and I follow through the tunnel onto the blood stained sand of the colosseum, welcomed by a sea of red and white  - 5000 Spaniards cheer us on. This is the moment I’ll remember for a lifetime.

The bulls carry through into the holding pen as those of us who made it through celebrate. But the fun (danger) isn’t finished. Because one by one, the bravos, fighting bulls specifically bred for their aggressive, fearless nature, will be released amongst us runners to exact their revenge.  

The drums roll and the crowd cheers. The gate opens, and a dramatic few moments of anticipation pass.

Out comes fury.  

He charges, chases, and disperses crowds like a shark through a school of fish. Despite the jovial music (each bull with a song of their own) the mood is primal and chaotic. Evasions draw cheers, collisions draw gasps.  We oscillate between excitement and terror.

We provoke, dodge, and distract. Some are too unathletic, unaware, or just plain unlucky. They get the horns.

Sadly, the scared eyes of the bull also draw sympathy.  As sacred as this tradition is, at the end of each day these beautiful creatures must pay the ultimate price. At least they have the chance to crush a few bones in an act of final revenge. 

At the end of each bull’s one-song dance, its guide bull comes out to retrieve it.

6 in total are released, each one braver and angrier than the last.

Ironically, the final and bravest bull rages to “I Will Survive.” Despite the immediate danger to my health and corresponding fear, I can’t help but laugh at the irony. My giddiness only lasts until he takes a pass at me.  

¡Olé!

He’s messily escorted back to the holding pen - even his guide bull is unsuccessful at corralling him, which now leaves us with two bulls to evade. Finally, only runners remain, and we gather at the center to celebrate our survival. The camaraderie of just having cheated death draws out our most cheerful and brotherly instincts. We scream, smile, and sing to Spanish songs of victory.

I begin to settle from the excess adrenaline, relaxing into tremendous relief for having escaped this ridiculous endeavor with limbs intact and the same number of holes. And relief on behalf of those who were rightfully worried for me. On the other side of this experience, I can sort of see where they were coming from. Sadly, the 6 who were hospitalized today were not as lucky. But despite the danger, or perhaps thanks to it, I feel more alive than ever.

Tomorrow, some will do it all over again. Once in a lifetime is enough for me.