To Run With the Bulls
Imagine being stuffed into a crowd so tight the temperature is higher than a street over. You can smell the spilled liquor across the alley, the cigarettes burning with the sunrise. In front of your eyes is a sea of white, dappled with red. A thousand thousand souls boxed before and behind you. And the sound… Oh, the sound. The roar of men and women drunk on the elation of danger, wine, and chaos. Balconies climbing ten stories high line the road, each filled with shouts and cheers.
You have to physically shove past those in front if you hope to take a step. Spanish voices ring out, but also those of many languages. All gathered for this. Lines of police begin to shriek their whistles and jostle the mass into some order, but what order can a mob ever be found in. Shoved to the side of the alley only to be moved back to center and back to the edge again.
Sweat trickles down your spine, cold anxiety fills your gut. The time is coming, the moment is palpable, eyes dilated in anticipation. Then suddenly it is here, after hours of build up, days of traveling, and months of planning.
The first rocket sounds, and then the second. The crowd screams murder and panic. A thousand bodies sprint towards you and past as if the devil is behind them. You hold your ground, knowing they can’t be here yet. But the more you are passed and crushed, the harder it is to stand still.
You hear them before you see them and the adrenaline is a shot to the heart. You run. You smash into those before you, desperate to get away, frantically seeking shelter from the clatter of hooves that pursues you. But there is no where to go, no refuge or safe haven. You could climb out, but you haven’t turned coward yet.
And faster than you realize they’re beside you. Six tons of horned fury stampeding the mob, and the mob stands no chance. Humans are thrown about like chafe, ribs are stomped, and arms are gored. Then in a breath they are past, you are alive, but the mass surges forward, and you continue to run.
Your feet carry you into a coliseum of old, taking you back to days you can only read of. Yet you are there now. The arena holds two thousand souls screaming in glee at the pandemonium unfolding before them. You have remained intact, stepped on and bruised perhaps, but not broken. This is the end of the race, and your guard comes down.
Why then does the crowd cry out? Why does the band play? Why do the locals prepare? It is because the onslaught continues. Only the brave stay in the sandy pit, and the reason is quickly found.
In shock and awe a singular bull is released into the horde, catching many unaware. Bodies are thrown through the air and smashed into the dirt. We become an organism that only reacts. Where the bull goes the body diverts and flees. Not everyone escapes. Blood is spilled but the marathon goes on, the hurt simply dragged off of the field of combat.
You stand before the beast, screams and jeers fill your ears, time slows, heart beats, beats. It singles you out of hundreds and charges. You leap to the side, planting a hand on the monsters head and grab a horn to divert it from spearing into your ribs. But not fast enough, the point grazing your arm before dodging out of deaths door. The crowd roars, your compatriots praise your bravery, and you rally further into the moment.
An hour later, as if time could be computed, the bulls are gone and you stand victorious. Backs are slapped, friends are found and stories are shared. You light a cigarette and drink deeply as you recount your harrowing experience. Locals clap you and foreigners regal your triumph. This is San Fermin. This is Running With the Bulls. This is Spain.
Eric being run down into the arena.
