| | | Last Friday in Pamplona, Spain, the Fiestas de San Fermin exploded into life. The nine-day celebration is part-religious holiday, part-bullfight, part-nonstop party. But for most of the 2 million people who besiege this ancient city, the main attraction is a centuries-old tradition known as the running of the bulls.
Patrick Ryan, who has run with the bulls more than 20 times, offers tips on what to do while jogging within horns-length of tons of raging beef on the hoof, and explains the spiritual benefits of participating in the ritual.
|  | | A runner tries to avoid the horns of a bull on the second day of San Fermin Running of the Bulls festival Sunday. |
It has been nearly two minutes since the rocket sounded signalling the release of the bulls from their corral into the street, and you know the time is at hand. Looking back down the street, you see men beginning to run in earnest, some with panic etched in their faces. Now you begin to jog, slowly building speed, looking back over a shoulder.
Then you see them. Through the churning arms and legs of frantic runners, you spot the jet black of the bulls and their curving white horns. It's show time!
You round the corner at the Telefonos building and begin your sprint down the runway formed by the double rows of high three-rail fences, a canyon that will funnel into the narrow chute of the bullring at the end of the run. The pack makes the left-hand turn, too, just off your shoulder. The first bull is past you before you can blink, but you know the others are right where you want them.
As other runners peel off to the sides, they create an opening in the middle of the runway, and with a burst of speed you summon from the pit of your stomach, you veer directly into its center. A glance over your shoulder tells you instantly: You're on the horns!
Sprinting with a velocity you never dreamed was within your power, you fly over the paving stones, a huge black bull roaring at your heels.
|  | | If you fall, stay down. |
Suddenly, the world is transformed. It's almost as if you're outside yourself, watching this unbelievable scene happening in slow motion. There is no sound. Before you, you see the churning flanks and undulating shoulder muscles of the lead bull, other runners flanking it like fighter planes esccorting a majestic bomber. Your legs glide effortlessly with a mind of their own, and you look back at the huge head and graceful horns of the bull that's just an arm's distance behind.
Today, there are no pileups in the tunnel under the stands, and as you enter it, everything is totally surreal, a cool dark netherworld where all is a harmony of movement. As the far opening grows larger, a window of too-vivid light and color, you wish you would never reach it, wish this ballet of man and beast would stretch into eternity. But you know it will not.
In a blinding flash, you burst into the arena, harsh reality and the roar of the crowd shattering your reverie. Knowing instinctively that you must act now or be trampled, you cut hard to the right and curl toward the wall. As you slow to a jog and then a walk, the bulls thunder straight ahead, across the red-brown sand and toward the opposite chute at the far side of the ring.
You are surrounded by men, most of whom never got within 20 yards of the bulls, all of them with wild excitement in their eyes. None of them know
exactly what you have just done, and it doesn't matter. It's not just the world that's been transformed. It's you.
You've probably seen those sickening cutesy-pie pieces on the running of the bulls in Pamplona. You know the kind. Some oh-so-clever writer tells you how
very silly the whole thing is and how very scary the whole thing is, and after he breathlessly tells you how he survived actually trying it
once, he wraps it up by saying the best thing about having done it is that he never has to do it again.
|  | | Once you've experienced the joy of running with the bulls, you might just get hooked. |
Well, forget that garbage. Here's the real deal.
If you can cope with the hordes of idiots who make things difficult for serious runners, if you can conquer your own fear, and if luck is with you, running the bulls noble y bravo can be a life-altering experience.
And the best thing about it is that you can get to do it eight times a year, every year for the rest of your life.
Because there are so many misconceptions and so much misinformation surrounding this unique event, let's clear up a few things right off the bat:
Yes, the Fiesta de San Fermin is the greatest party in the world. By comparison, Mardi Gras is a church social.
No, you shouldn't run with the bulls if you're drunk. There are 21 hours a day when you can party your ... well, let's just say to the limit. If you
want to run, give it a break from 5 a.m. until 8, when the rocket goes up and the beasts are turned loose. By 8:15, you can be hoisting a cognac while you
compare notes with other runners.
|  | | You definitely don't want to be drunk when you see the bulls coming. |
And yes, there is a Cardinal Rule: If you fall or get tripped during the run (and with the crush of panicking amateurs, it's a real possibility) and you think the bulls might be anywhere within 100 yards of you, stay down! Covering your head should come naturally. Once all the bulls are past (and I stress all because the pack often gets broken up and you might be unaware of the stragglers), someone will tap you and give you the all-clear sign.
The last fatality in an encierro, as the bullrun is known, occurred in 1995 when a young American went down and tried to regain his feet as the bulls approached. He was halfway up, on his hands and knees, when a bull hit him in full stride; a horn pierced his right side, went clear through his torso and hit his heart. Enough said?
Now for some details:
The city
On a hilltop in northern Spain, Pamplona commands a view of the Pyrenees. Mountains stretching northeastward into France, and the Arga River snakes around its feet. Naturally, every powerhouse army since the time of Christ has taken a shot at controlling the place. The Romans ruled for a few centuries, and the Vandals, Visigoths and Moors knocked each other off before Charlemagne staked his claim.
After Castillian kings solidified power, Pamplona, because of its remote location, became a kind of local kingdom of its own. These days, it is the capital of the province of Navarra, a city of about 200,000. Although parts of Pamplona are completely modern, the "old city" is a wonderful time warp, its cobblestone streets and ancient buildings
dating back centuries.
The fiesta
|  | | If you are awake, it is time to party; and if you are asleep, it is time to wake up. |
In my experience, two basic principles govern the Sanfermines, as the festivities collectively are known: If you are awake, it is time to party; and if you are asleep, it is time to wake up.
Clearly, the Sanfermines are not for the faint of heart.
The encierro
There are fiestas and bullfights all over Spain, and most foreigners cannot name any of them. Ask just about anyone if they've heard of Pamplona, though,
and most people will ask, "Isn't that where they run with the bulls?"
In fact, there are encierros at other fiestas, but then again, there are lots of Mardi Gras celebrations, but there's only one New Orleans. When it comes to serious bull-running, Pamplona is it.
For that, it can thank a macho drunkard with a flair for writing. Ernest Hemingway is the man responsible for transforming this otherwise obscure city into the
home of the world's most dangerous party, and Pamplona is quick to recognize as much. Just outside the bullring, a bust of Papa sits atop a granite pedestal.
But he's dead, so he doesn't have to worry about surviving the running of the bulls. You do.
So, here are the guidelines:
Rule No. 1: Know your limitations.
If the bulls have to show them to you, you could be one of the folks whose photos from a hospital bed run in the daily newspaper.
|  | | There's nothing quite like the rush of "being on the horns." |
Rule No. 2: Be prepared.
On the morning of your run, arrive early. For a lot of runners, it's traditional to buy a newspaper to roll up and use as a prop. These are not for hitting
the bulls. If necessary, they can be used as a sort of micro-matador-cape, waved at a bull to attract his attention, possibly to save another runner from a
goring.
First-timers always start with their questions. They should have done their serious research long before they ever climbed through the fence rails, but
it is even more foolish to never ask for information and advice. Be forewarned, however: A lot of advice gets passed by runners who pretend to be
experts. Real experts will tell you one thing:
Rule No. 3: If by about 7:30 a.m. you haven't fought through the crowd that's four-deep along the fence, you can probably forget about squeezing through
the fence into the enclosure.
Because at about 7:30 a.m., things begin to heat up in a hurry. First, one line of police officers forms midway along Calle Mercaderes and another forms
midway up Calle Estafeta. Slowly, they march toward the bullring, shooing everyone in their path off the course. If you're one of them, forget about
getting back in.
At the start of the course, the bottom of Calle Santo Domingo, another police line forms, this 100 yards or so from the holding pen where six fighting
bulls and perhaps six domesticated steers await. This police line is designed to ensure the bulls get a running start before encountering any runners.
|  | | It's a good idea to know your limitations before hopping over the fence and joining the bulls. |
The steers, which are taller and leaner than the bulls, wear cowbells and are there to try to keep the bulls in a pack. The steers' horns are somewhat
shorter and more blunt than the bulls' horns, and the steers will not try to gore you, but they are as fast as the bulls and will run you down if you're
in the way. They pack a wallop.
Meanwhile, all the runners who have been contained in the first third of the course are now allowed to string out into the space left open by the police
sweep. Novices, believing that the run has started, race madly toward the bullring, looking over their shoulders with fear in their eyes. They run into
the arena and are roundly jeered by those in the packed stadium who know the bulls have not even been released.
Back in Santo Domingo, at the stroke of 8, a rocket signalling the release of the bulls goes ... Boom! Along the entire course, a nervous exclamation
emanates, a kind of "Ho!" that translates roughly into "Here we go!"
The gate to the pen is swung open, and the pack erupts into the street.
The run is on.
As the beasts roar up the street, the police struggle to hold their line, keeping the runners in check. When the bulls are perhaps 40 yards away, the
police somehow miraculously disappear behind the fences.
|  | | Hundreds of thousands of people will attend the weeklong extravaganza of the San Fermin fiesta in Pamplona, Spain. |
If things go smoothly and the pack stays tight, the bulls rip through the throng and into the arena in about two minutes; up Santo Domingo, angle left
onto Mercaderes, right-angle turn onto Estafeta for the longest stretch of the course, left at Telefonica and down the callejon (canyon) into the
arena. As the bulls burst into the bullring, the crowd roars and handlers lure the bulls through a gate on the far side and into a holding pen under
the stands.
Still, the fun is not over. When the ring is full of several hundred runners, some of them gather before another gate, where they sit and begin cheering.
Suddenly, the gate flies open and a cow with its horns capped to avoid gorings blasts into and over these fools, then races around the ring,
throwing runners into the air as the crowd yells "Ole!" After a few minutes of this, a team of sweepers emerges to round up the cow and lead it back through the gate.
In the encierro, things rarely go smoothly, and injuries abound. The two local newspapers each run a full-page graphic every day, detailing the violence.
When the run starts, if the pavement is still wet, as it often is, the bulls' cloven hooves struggle for grip on the cobblestones, and they can slip and
fall, especially on the 90-degree turn onto Estafeta. Usually, they regain their feet so nimbly it's amazing, and their forward progress is barely impeded. If not, though, they
can become separated from the pack -- and that's trouble.
A disoriented bull is a dangerous bull. It will lash out at anything that moves. Fortunately for the runners, bulls have poor eyesight (and they are
colorblind, so red has nothing to do with their aggression).
In the crush of bodies, though, they sometimes have a sea of moving targets, and multiple gorings do happen. Two years ago, one bull that lost the pack, suelto, as they say, gored seven runners; many old-timers called that a record.
Rule No. 4: You've been warned. Send this story to a friend | Most sent stories
|
|
|
