Running With the Bulls

I was trudging along about four miles into my race:  I can do this.  I feel great.  Less than nine miles to go.  I did nine the other day.  I’ve done ten a few times.  Oh my God… I’ve never gone more than ten.  The first time I did that, a couple of my toenails fell off.  What will happen after 13?  What the F#*% was I thinking?  How did I ever let her talk me into this?

It was a hauntingly familiar sense of panic.  Many years earlier, I had caved to similar pressure to do a run that left me equally breathless and terrified.

A group of friends had travelled to Pamplona, Spain for the San Fermin festival.  I had already been twice and considered myself a pro.  I knew how to watch the spectacle of opening festivities without getting too drenched with sangria. I knew how to navigate through the cobblestone maze of streets to Caballio Blanco, my favorite bar, located at the highest point of the ancient walled city with spectacular views, good food and an indoor bathroom (key in a city filled with drunks and poorly maintained port-a-potties).  I knew where to get awesome paella and cold sangria.  I had mastered the festival and was pleased to serve as tour guide to our novice friends.

 

My husband was determined to run again.  He had done it twice before and survived, and thus was eager to earn his bull-running trifecta.  I knew better than to run.  As if huge bulls charging down the streets were not dangerous enough, the cobblestones were ice-slick from street sweepers that washed away the wreckage from all-night parties.  The runners were all still half drunk or hung-over or jacked up on testosterone.  The idiotic herd of mostly young men from Australia and America taunted and harassed women who dared encroach on the fraternal ritual made famous by the ultimate man’s-man, Ernest Hemingway.   The Spaniards who ran (most of whom were Basque separatists) detested foreign women who desecrated their centuries-old tradition.  The few women who did run were generally from New Zealand, and they too were half drunk or hung-over or jacked up on testosterone.

While I hate chauvinism, I am not an idiot.  I viewed this event as one of the many things in this world that proves women are the superior gender.  Choosing to remain spectators was evidence of our higher intellect.

I took being a spectator seriously.  I knew precisely how late I could sleep in and still scurry down to find a fence post on which to perch and watch the runners make their final turn into the bullring, barely escaping deadly horns of the bovine monsters.  There are two rows of fences, and rookies sit on the front row, thinking they have prime seats.  They do not realize that front row seats are not only stupid, but also illegal.  There is actually a team of law enforcement dedicated to clearing that row of fences right before the running starts.  Those wanna-be spectators are forced off too late to find another seat.  I knew better and had advised the other chick on this trip about my master plan.  We’d get an extra half-hour to enjoy our coffee after the men left, stake out primo seats, and share in the thrill of the event with little risk of bodily harm.   I would later find that she had another plan.

When we met for breakfast, she announced she was running.  Her boyfriend protested and explained that he was not going to be responsible for her safety.  That only stoked her fire.  She reminded him that she was the athlete, not him, and that he’d be the one holding her back.  She was right, but I agreed that she didn’t quite understand the dynamics of the running.  I tried to explain that every other man out there would gladly toss her tiny body in front of a charging bull if it helped clear a path for their run.   She was not moved.  She said she was going forward and dared me to join her.

That was my chance to do the right thing, claim superior intellect and let little Blondie’s chips (and bones) fall where they may.  But I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  How could I let that former pom-pom girl one-up me?  It was pretty clear that her relationship with my husband’s best friend was long-term, so I knew I might forever have to live with their stories of glory that I would merely have captured on video from the safety of the sidelines.  I could not let that happen.  I accepted her dare.

The minutes that followed were tense to say the least.  We hurried off to the main square where thousands of bodies dressed in all white with red sashes crammed together to wait in quiet panic.  The authorities herded the masses into what amounted to our holding pen, forcing out the stragglers and latecomers who would otherwise overcrowd the already packed route to the bullring.  They also held captive those of us already in the square, forbidding escape for any last-minute bailouts.

So, there we were, smashed shoulder-to-shoulder and front-to-back like teenagers in a moshpit for a sold-out show.  But the frenzy in this pit was fueled by fear not fun.  Fear brings out the ugly side of humanity and my female friend and I experienced the complete opposite of chivalry.   We were pushed and shoved and groped and growled at.  This event showcased the worst traits of the already lesser gender.  We did not belong there.

I took deep breaths and swallowed hard to try and halt the ringing in my ears.  I strategized that I would keep moving, slow and steady, so I would not slip, twist an ankle or fall.  Being trampled by the crowd was a far more likely fate than actually being gored by a bull, so if I could just stay upright, chances were I’d be ok.

I looked over at Blondie.  She seemed equally frightened.  Her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes seemed to apologize for whatever might happen next.

Without warning, the crowd started to move forward.  When the starting-gun fired signaling that the bulls had been released, our slow jog turned into a steady run and then a mad sprint.  I don’t remember much other than a blur of white and red until I reached the final turn where I would normally be safely seated, taking photos.  As I rounded that bend, I regretted sacrificing my superior intellect (and safety) for ignorant pride.

Knowing that was one of the most dangerous spots of the run, I jolted ahead through the massive doors into the ring.  Once inside, I literally ran into one of our friends.  He was white as a ghost from what I later learned was a very close encounter with the bulls.  We stood there for a moment dumb-founded and then dashed toward the stadium seats.  We helped each other climb over the wall to safety and caught our breath.  He was clearly stunned by his near-death experience and I was equally stunned by our collective stupidity.  I scoured the crowd for my husband and our other friends.

When we finally met up, we were all alive, but just barely.  Blondie’s boyfriend had been pushed to the ground mid-way through.  She stayed with him, so they never made it to the ring.  They managed to stand clear while the bulls rushed by.  My husband had made it safely into the ring where he was tossed around a bit by a baby bull that they let run amok to amuse the crowds.  Fortunately, he was amused by it as well and only slightly bruised.  Our still-ghost-white friend had come way too close to the bulls and admitted pushing another man into their path to save himself.  That entire scene was captured in a series of photographs posted for sale at one of the bars, so we have eternal proof of his gallantry.  I never actually came close to a bull, but nonetheless felt I had only narrowly escaped death or massive injury.  Blondie again apologized.

She and I have since become great friends, vacationing together and sharing the trials and tribulations of motherhood, ailing parents and aging bodies.   We don’t talk much about our run with the bulls, but it is one of several terrifying moments in life that we have shared and survived.  My brave and stupid friend was very much on my mind as I attempted a half marathon that I entered on a dare from an equally well-meaning and naive friend who had no idea what she was getting us into either.

As I trotted along the twisting road with a completely different pack of lunatics, thoughts of that run in Pamplona brought a smile to my face.  I took a deep breath, swallowed hard and again vowed to keep moving, slow and steady.  I knew that if I could just stay upright, chances were I’d be ok and survive this crazy run as well.   I did.

I am not a runner.  I have never been a runner.  What I am, is a sucker for dares.  I am that, and just plain stupid.

Night of the Radish Theme:  What the ___ was I thinking?