hungover and stumbled into the bathroom and vomited. Knew I couldn’t run like this and was morbid over not being on the street. I watched television and the cameraman on the balcony waved to us, and sure enough, his camera went live. A shot of the street below spread across the television. I felt somewhat better as the excitement flooded all over the street from balcony to balcony. People asked me if I was a runner and I nodded, but I was even more regretful at missing the morning’s run. The police released the runners from Town Hall and I watched them round the corner and dash up empty Estafeta Street. Just as the rocket went off, the fog in my mind cleared. I can still run! I can run down these stairs and out onto the street and run. I rambled down the stairs and out the door onto the street. A few seconds later, bam, the herd hit the wall at the curve, and I ran up Estafeta and didn’t get close at all but was so grateful to have run! I barfed on the cobblestones afterward and went back upstairs and slept for a few hours. Later I explained to Gary and Galloway that I’d run and they rolled their eyes and thought I was telling lies again. I finally screamed at them. “If you don’t believe me come over with me. I just opened the door and walked out onto Estafeta!” They looked at each other and it finally clicked; of course it was possible. I was right.
The next morning they were there with me, sitting on the sofa, and we slipped out onto the street together without incident. That night Graeme dubbed the apartment “The Alamo” and that name remained for several years. Graeme and Gary wanted me to run Santo Domingo. I agreed, and we didn’t use the Alamo that morning and ended up singing the “San Fermín Pedimos,” a prayer for protection to the idol of San Fermín, the patron saint of fiesta. They placed the idol in the tall stone wall near the beginning of the course. Hundreds of runners crowded around. It’s one of the iconic images of fiesta. They even have a board with the song lyrics written in Spanish and Basque.
I ran Santo Domingo for the first time. It’s extremely fast. The rocket bursts and the bulls are already closing in on the police line. I ran the center of the road and was trying to run fast but it was crowded. As I looked back over my shoulder an older man was in my path, moving slowly. I slammed into his back. He fell and I toppled over him and smashed my knee into the asphalt. The herd crackled past. The collision with the ground tore my jeans and scraped my kneecap. I was too pissed off and proud to take care of it. It wasn’t until the next morning that the waitresses at the breakfast place sprayed it with peroxide and gave me a bandage. My run made TV for the first time that I knew of. I was there for a few strides even though I’d fallen. It was the first time I’d ever fallen in the run. It wouldn’t be the last.
I ran the curve the next day and didn’t get very close. There’s a scent that remains after a street fight. It’s a lime smoldering of adrenaline. There’d been a tussle at the curve that morning; two runners sprinting with the pack got into it, and there was a photo of them punching each other just feet from the horns. As I walked around the curve at about noon that day I caught wind of it. That scent always sparks bright memories in my mind. I started to strategize how to master the curve when the California boys walked up. They worked for the Posse. One was this tall kid with long blond hair and the other was a short squat guy. The tall one had this arrogant pompous attitude that rubbed me the wrong fucking way. They’d been dismissive of my running so I’d invited them out the night before to run with me. They didn’t show.
The tall one gave me a snarky smile.
“Where were you guys this morning?” I asked.
“Ah, we decided not to run,” he replied.
“So pussied out, huh?”
He laughed in my face and said, “Yeah, whatever.”
“I ran the curve this morning. I started right here.” I replied nodding to the doorway.
He laughed. “You never ran the curve in your life.”
I thought about it and said, “You know what . . . ” and popped him in the chin. He flopped on his ass and lay down flat. His boy rushed up and I flinched at him hard and he lunged away so wildly he almost fell down. Then I leaned over the tall blond and grabbed a handful of his hair and smacked him alongside the head. I told him just exactly what kind of a pretty boy California pussy he was. Then his midget short friend came barreling into my back and I fell on top of the tall one. The midget landed on top of me and that drove my bad knee into the stones so hard I thought I might have fractured my kneecap. We all held each other in a strange body lock. The families of Pamplona slowly eased past smiling and talking merrily. Some even laughed at us.
I said, “If we all let go and break clean, it’s over.”
“You sure?” the midget said.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
We got up and broke clean. I told the pretty boy he was a coward ass pussy, but I said I respected the midget for having his boy’s back. Walked back to The Harp and about ten minutes later Galloway came up and scolded all three of us and made us shake hands. We did. I sat down and drank beer with some of the Posse and they asked me about my knee, and I said it was fucked but the beer was helping. They laughed and about fifteen minutes later there was a ruckus in The Harp. I stood up and saw Owan, the owner of The Harp and the restaurant above, push two short Moroccan guys out and try to close the garage-style sliding door of the packed bar. The Moroccans pushed back in and jammed the garage door. I got up and stood silently beside Owan, who was savagely mad and screaming in their faces. They all spoke Spanish and they didn’t like what Owan said. One slapped Owan softly on the cheek. Owan screamed something insanely and stormed back into the bar for what I assumed was a weapon. Figured he was going for a club or knife or gun to fuck these guys up so I screamed in their faces, “GO AWAY!”
They looked at each other mystified and put up their fists and snarled at me. I took a hard step at the hairier one and pushed him with all my might in the chest. He flew airborne and landed hard on the street. His head cracked on the cobblestones and his eyes rolled up in his head. The other went to punch me so I pushed him square in the chest and he flew and cracked his head. His whole body convulsed like something was electrocuting him. I screamed at their unconscious bodies: “GO THE FUCK AWAY!”
The first one started to get to his feet on unsteady legs and staggered across the street. Owan emerged from the bar without a weapon, ran up and snagged him and slammed him against the brick wall across the way. The barback dashed out and tackled the other one as he tried to get up and they both fell at my feet.
“I’LL STOMP YOUR FUCKING HEAD!” I shouted and raised my boot and stomped the Moroccan’s head into the cobblestones. There were about 300 people watching and 50 or so women screamed simultaneously in horror. I grabbed the Moroccan by the back of his shirt and his pants, picked him up, and threw him as far as I could down the street away from The Harp. He got to his feet and the other rushed over and they backed slowly down the street with their fists up as Owan, the barback, and I stalked them. Then I noticed a mother obliviously pushing a double-stroller with two toddlers in it toward us, a ways behind the Moroccans.
“STOP!” I screamed. “There’s kids here!” The Moroccans somehow understood that, looked back, saw the kids, nodded, and jogged away. A lot of the people in the street clapped at the conclusion of the performance. I didn’t pay for a drink for a very long time after that and never paid for another drink at The Harp. And I drank a whole lot. I know what you’re thinking: pretty funny that a practicing Buddhist is violent, right? Well, Buddhism was the only thing keeping me from fucking killing somebody.
When Graeme got back about fifteen minutes later, someone told him I was fighting again. He shrugged and walked over to me and said, “I’m gonna have to let you go, Bill.”
I shrugged and said, “Can I sit here a while and keep drinking?” Then an uproar of support swelled in my favor and a few seconds later Owan came out of the bar and told Graeme the whole story. Graeme apologized and commended me for what I’d done. He gave me five euros and told me to go buy a cigar for myself. I got up and my knee throbbed and wouldn’t straighten for a while. I walked off and bought the cigar and came back limping badly. As I approached The Harp from about a block away Gary stood in the center of the narrow channel of the street, sipping a quart of San