Spain: Pamplona and the Running of the Bulls
The first Running of the Bulls at the 2019 San Fermin
Festival is scheduled for eight o’clock on the morning of Sunday, July the 7th. We leave our village at approximately six in the morning, which gives us
ample time to reach the town, park and locate the arena... and go over our eventual escape route out of
Pamplona and the maddening crowd.
It is light when we cruise through the gorgeous Basque
hills, there is hardly any traffic, which is a welcome contrast to the adrenalin screaming inside me. We make it to Pamplona with time to spare.
We park our car in the same place it was yesterday. Plus, the
parking ticket, good for 24 hours, is still valid! Ha! The city of Pamplona
has to give sanctuary to our car for two
days. We love it. We find the path along the Ramparts in the park, all is relatively
calm. We go through the checkpoints where we are supposed to meet once the running is over. We find the statue, check. Then the circle and the park entrance. The first checkpoint is the arena. We already decided that we would meet at any of these checkpoints after the running. Liebi’s
job is to keep the kids together and not get them lost in the throng of
partiers. We quickly realize that the town has become the world’s biggest urinal overnight, judging by the smell. These are scenes from a Bosch painting, where dozens of people lie on the ground in the park, limbs twisted and entwined everywhere, the stench of hangover so palpable. Liebi and I nod. Not booking a hotel in Pamplona was one of the best decisions we ever made.
Once I know Liebi and the boys are safe, I bid my farewell and follow the
route from the arena uptown. In the middle of it, not
far from the dogleg (and main bottleneck) of the running route, I see a large herd of people milling
around, many of them in running gear. One of the lads has a Union Jack shirt
on, is a Citizens, or Manchester City fan, judging from his cap. Not your regular San Fermin outfit, admittedly. “This is where we run?” I ask him. “That’s it,” the guy replies nervously. We bump fists and soldier on.
From the moment I walk into the pen (or holding area, as some people call it), I wonder just what
I have done. Here I am, Worldchump, with a wife and two children, plus the
most exciting life I could have ever expected to live, and I decide to run…with bulls. Looking around me, I notice this isn’t like the start of a marathon. For one, there is no space whatsoever. We, the runners (or are we the bulls?), are standing on each other’s feet, all crammed in a small area between the wooden boards of the running route. That means the next question begs to be
asked: how are we going to move, let alone run? I watch as more and more of
the runners (overwhelmingly male) cross themselves and nervously nod at
each other. What on God’s green Basque earth have I done here? Is this really want I want? Answer: YOU KNOW IT.
The police rule with an iron fist. You either follow their
directions, or you’ll find a stick pressed against your throat pushing you back. I have no time to argue
with these people. We are frisked minutes before the run. Contrary to popular
belief, cell phones or cameras are not allowed among the runners, which is something the
police rigidly enforce. I would never dream of filming this, simply because I
want to have as little weight on me as possible. I’m not trying to make the
papers or get on TV. My goal is to live and celebrate the event in Bilbao with my family later
that night.
Even with all the drama I’m describing, the percentages are
with me. I read that since official records were kept in 1910 that only ten people have been
killed at the event. Ten deaths in what? 110 years of record-keeping? I like my
chances, I admit. Of course, there are the scores and scores of walking wounded,
those who were trampled and gored. These are stats I ignore, since, like I
said, the goal is to live, first and foremost. I feel good. The chances are
greater I’ll get run over by a scooter in Pamplona than a bull. C’mon, Worldchump, I’m
thinking. You’ve got this.
As reassuring as that is, it doesn’t change the fact that within
just a few minutes I will be running with six eager bulls, plus six oxen that
will guide them toward the arena. That’s a load of beef, so I make up other
unfounded rationalizations. As a vegetarian, the bulls will know who I am and
avoid me, right? As if. The bulls will trample anything into the ground that is
in their way, plain and simple. Carnivores, herbivores, fungivores, you name it.
The plan: run, then get out of their way. Find somebody slower than me, and see what happens. Reminder: I don’t want to make the papers, I just want to
live to tell about it and then go home with my family. Then there's more adrenalin as the first rockets go off. That’s the sign that the bulls, only a
quarter mile up the road, have been released. I look at the running crowd ahead of me.
It is beginning to move. Before you know it, there is actually room to run. I run a hundred feet at
a jog, constantly doing a slalom around slower runners, then speed up into a dash. Ahead of me, near the dogleg, people start to pile up, the first people trip. Slow down, I’m thinking.
Keep the pace.
There’s a
loud roar from the people in the old city, people watching the running from the comfort of the balconies of their hotels, those 400 dollar-or-so a night hotels I refused to
enrich. Even more telling are the warning shouts coming from the runners. I wait a few more seconds before I duck into a doorway. Only a moment later, the oxen and
bulls rush by me, their hooves pounding the cobblestone roads. Think
cobblestone slows down bulls? They don’t. A little Spaniard comes flying into
me, smashing me against the wall. The dude is absolutely horrified.
Soon, I see why. The group of bulls and oxen that just
passed us isn’t complete. We hear the hooves again before another ox, trailed
by a lone bull, races past us. Before they do, I foolishly reach out and slap the ox on his
side. The ox (and even more fortunately, the bull) pay no attention to me. It
will be the arena or bust for them. Not long after that, the rockets go off
again, a sign that the bulls are now in the arena. The bulls get to the arena before I can.
I see the officials closing the arena, just when
a team of paramedics carts off one of the runners on a stretcher. This guy is big,
very big limbed, but is now sucking from an oxygen mask. What just happened? A
French runner tells me the guy was among the last to go for the arena, just when the bulls did. In his lunge, he
got run over by two bulls. The runners are horrified. This is where we imagined
ourselves on a few occasions, to be frank.
There's nothing left to do. I climb through the wooden fencing that separates the running route from the general
public. Two Brits slip through with me. We really hope the dude who was carted
off is okay. Later, I hear four people are hurt during the first Running of the Bulls. That doesn't change my feelings of pure joy and exaltation. I did it. I ran and survived. Now I need to find my family.
I scan the checkpoints, first the entrance to the park. I am still running while I am looking for them, there is no slowing down the adrenalin. But there is no sign. Then the circle. No sign. Again, I’m still running, but can’t find Liebi
and the kids. The statue. Nobody. Where are they? I circle back, still running. I find them near the park, ironically enough, near the arena, the first checkpoint. We hug like in a Disney movie. Liebi
chokes back a few tears, she knows how much I wanted to do this.
Another quick fact. From the moment the first rockets went
up into the air to the moment they were launched again for marking the arrival
of the bulls into the arena, exactly two and a half minutes passed.
Short and sweet. I had warned Liebi to be standing by, that I would be looking
for them once the second rockets went off. I'm not sure she was aware the whole affair would be done quicker than even she could imagine. Once we are done with the hugs and
kisses, we start our next mission: split town. NOW.
Liebi says she was with the boys near the boards of the
route’s enclosure. I didn’t see her any more than she saw me, although she
claims to have seen the bulls. Not hard to believe, being that almost everybody in Pamplona is wearing the same white outfit. That matters little. We are all safe, I am all
smiles. I have survived the bulls and ecstatically honk the horn on the Opel when we reach the car. On to Bilbao!
0 comments