boom rumbled in the sky. Then a wild cheer from the balconies and barricades swung up behind it. A steady stream of runners rounded the curve and flowed past me. Some laughed; others yelled, terrified. A low, deep rumble grew in the distance. The speed and density of runners pouring around the bend grew. Only terror-struck faces flew past now accompanied by a high-pitched scream. The leaden rumble twisted into a sharp hard crackle. The cobblestones and buildings resonated. A large black streak surged through the curve. The crackle exploded. Time froze. The lead bull bucked a runner with its forehead. The man floated on a cushion of air above the bull’s snout with his arms flung out. His lips stretched in a wide-mouthed terror-grin. Bulls, steers, and men crashed into the mural of San Fermín next to the photographers’ barricade with a thunderous, wooden boom. I gawked rigidly. Most of the herd rose and rumbled past. One bull stayed and dug his horns into the fallen people. The immense sculpted muscularity of his neck and back contorted under his black fur. A white flash swirled in the corner of my periphery. A hard-panging bell flooded my eardrums. I turned. A giant steer barreled directly at me an arm’s length away. I dove backward and pressed my hands into its shoulder. The fur stretched taut as a drum. Somehow my legs missed his hooves. The young American couple jogged obliviously ahead of me, hand in hand. The steer plowed through them. Its hooves gobbled them up. Their arms and legs splayed wildly under the hooves. They screamed.
My forward momentum carried me over them. At the last second I leaped and pulled my knees way up to my chest. My feet barely cleared the couple. I stopped and hovered over them. “You OK?” They both writhed on the ground. I reached down to help them when the last bull at the curve bellowed wrathfully and raised his massive black head. His powerful white horns swung up tall. I remembered hearing that a separated bull is deadly dangerous. He broke into a gallop and I turned and ran as fast as I fucking possibly could. Luckily the final bull rocketed past me on the other side of the street. The thick stampede of people spread to allow him through. Other individuals seemed to force their way in front of him and sprint ahead for several strides before peeling to the side. I kept sprinting forward, at first in terror, but as the crowd slackened I remembered that they released vaca (wild cows) into the ring after the run. I sprinted for the arena at the end of the course. As I got to the opening of tunnel into the arena several police officers pushed the immense red double doors closed. A crowd fought to get through the narrowing opening. I pressed into it as well. Then the police pulled out their batons and cracked a few of the revelers in front. I gave up. Another stick-rocket burst above the arena and a joyous cheer washed over the entire city. I cheered and grasped at others nearby. “Did you see that? Did you see that?” They shrugged me off, laughing. I realized that this was bigger than any individual experience, that all of us had shared it together. Then the joy twisted to shrieks again. A wild ramble of shouts and panging bells approached. I had nowhere to go so I climbed up on the barricades just in time. Four steers swept just under my feet. They’d opened the arena doors to let the steers in. I hopped down. The police struggled to shut the heavy doors. Two other runners pushed at the opening. I sprinted and drove my shoulder into the others’ backs and we avalanched into the darkened tunnel. The police shut the doors and we ran down the tunnel giggling. Jogged down the dark tunnel and I stepped onto the white sand of the arena for the first time. The brilliant morning light struck me like a warm wave. The entire arena, full to the rafters, gave the hundreds of runners a standing ovation. Then the cheers fell into Spanish songs. Complete strangers embraced on the sand. Others raised their arms like victorious gladiators. I walked around dumbfounded with euphoria among the wild pandemonium.
Then some cops called us to a corral door. I walked over. They motioned for us to kneel. About fifty of us did. I knelt near the back of the shell-shaped group of kneeling men and women. We gave the animal no way to exit the corral except over and through us. It’s like Rodeo Poker. We were fucked and we all knew it. Even so, we exchanged smiles and pats on the back.
A red door opened. A cubic black void appeared. Something stirred in the darkness. Fear shot me to my feet, but regret at my cowardice sank me back to my knees beside my new friends. A man in the very front stood and waved the unseen animal forward. Suddenly the vaca’s horns emerged from the darkness—corked tips with brown leather straps over them. She galloped and bounded over the first three rows of kneelers. Then she landed hard into the fourth and fifth row. Her hooves dug deep into shoulders and backs. A young guy screamed, twisted, and lunged toward me. The vaca trampled the rest of the way through us. I rose and backpedaled. The vaca bowed her head, slung her horn between a guy’s legs, and vaulted him into the air. He flipped sideways and landed on his shoulder. The vaca barreled through the thick crowd and somersaulted another mozo. Hundreds in the ring ran for safety; some leaped the arena walls. I dashed around and tried to stay safe.
As the minutes passed I noticed that some people actually ran at the vaca. I couldn’t figure out why, so I got closer to see. They sprinted up and slapped the vaca on the ass. Then they dashed away as the vaca tried to retaliate. I instantly knew I had to do it. I didn’t notice the Spanish guys who instantly beat the crap out of anyone who touched the vaca, because doing so is strictly forbidden. Even so, I devised my plan. I’d sprint right at the vaca’s ass then slap it as I rushed past. It was a good plan—simple and as safe as possible. I took a deep breath and bolted at the vaca—cutting through the flock of people. As I got close the crowd thinned. I careened close to the vaca when she saw me in her periphery. I reached out to slap her ass and she turned and her hindquarters whipped out of reach. I kept running and exited her wrathful realm. Dejected, I gathered and lined her up again. As I swept past she spun again and I smacked the wind.
I worried they’d take the vaca away before I’d had chance to slap her ass! The realization sank in. I’d have to go in slow, sneak in, or face her outright. I jogged up and slowly stepped to her with my knees bent, on my tiptoes ready to dodge or dash away. She pursued another mozo as I snuck up on her broadside. I approached almost within reach when she saw me. She seethed and whirled around on me.
I jumped backward and smashed into another guy who crept up behind me. We caught each other by the arms and balanced. She twisted on another runner and her big furry dung-spattered ass was beside me. I gathered, leaped in, and smacked her bottom with my brittle palm. She unleashed a high-pitched bellow and whipped around on me. I twisted and dove into a sprint. Another mozo dashed in behind me and clipped me with his shoulder. I flew airborne and fell belly-down. As I descended, I brought both palms up over my head, swung down, and smacked the sand hard. The collision vaulted me back up into full stride. She galloped and seethed at my back as I hauled ass straight to the wall and leaped headfirst. I cleared all the people standing along the outside of the wall. My thighs crashed into their heads and shoulders. Some of them grabbed my legs and I landed hands first on the cold concrete. My shoulder slid out of the socket and I tumbled to the ground surrounded by jolly laughter. My shoulder was an old football injury; it slid back in on its own. The adrenaline coursed through me and stopped any pain. I figured I’d accomplished that one and decided not to get back in. Walked around and out of the arena down the same tunnel I’d come in.
Outside, I walked with a strange purpose. Restless explosive energy pulsed in my palms and shoulders, throbbing right under the skin. Images of the morning’s events riffled through my mind: bright visions that ejected roaring shouts and mad laughter as I bobbed and leaped through the Pamplona morning air. An entire giant arena had just urged me through a daring act on the sand where matadors and bulls danced and died. I kept pondering if it were real. If there was really a place in this modern world of sitcoms and McDonald’s culture where just about anyone could show up and partake in this epic, wild tradition. I actually pinched myself. The up-close sight of those immense bulls—TV does them no justice. Their heads stand shoulder height; they’re incredibly wide; and their necks, backs, and shoulders bulge with enormous, sculpted muscle. They’re fantastically fast, agile, and powerful. I wondered if someone had died that morning. No one had, but injuries hospitalized several runners. I didn’t know any of this at the time, and later I’d realize I didn’t know anything about the experience I’d just survived. In the coming years I would become a tour guide for the run and grow disgusted by people who came to fiesta without any knowledge. Even later I’d realize it was my duty to inform them.
I walked to a café beside one of the large circular intersections that mark the modern section of Pamplona. Inside locals packed the long