Running of the Bulls

A fictional account of Running with the Bulls in Spain

Running of the Bulls

Fear cut through my stupor as the bull bore down on me. This was not a good way to honor Abuelo! Adrenaline pumped through my body. Every muscle and nerve fine-tuned and ready to respond to the slightest cue. Never had I felt so alive! The cobblestones beneath my feet were slippery and even the treads on the soles of my expensive Nike shoes could not grab hold of the street. No traction, I was a goner! I dug down deep, remembering my diligent training for track and knew that Coach Stein would have my head for this one. All I had to do was keep one step ahead!
As I rounded the corner, sunlight blinded me. Relief! The sun had dried the cobblestones here! My feet found purchase and I was able to pick up speed. That natural runner’s high, the best feeling in the world, restored my sapped stamina. I was on top of the world! Nothing could stop me now. Not wind, or snow or…bulls. Shit.
Suddenly the roaring of hoof beats against the worn stone increased tenfold, penetrating and reverberating in the canals of my ears, nearly shattering my ear drums upon contact. Shit. I felt hot breath on legs and knew he was behind me. El Toro. My restored reserve of stamina plummeted sharply. Every breath hurt as the red belt I had around my waist fluttered in a teasing trail behind me. My limbs felt like sledgehammers with lead handles. I willed my legs to carry me onward, faster, further. His breath was like the breath of the devil himself on my body.
I gasped for air, pushing myself as hard as I could. My muscles ached, my feet protested. I felt like I had been I had been running for miles. Behind me I heard the cries of the fallen, the cheers of the spectators and the wail of ambulance sirens. Just ahead I saw a doorway to my right. I glanced behind me and saw the malicious glint in the eyes of El Toro.
I stretched out my arms like Milorad Cavic, reaching for the sturdy brick, a welcoming safe haven. Knowing that relief was just three paces ahead I coasted. Little did I know that this bull happened to be the Michael Phelps of los toros.
Pain scorched my veins as he caught me. His horns like sharpened, polished steel pierced my skin. I was small and insubstantial to him. This was it, the end! I struggled to fling myself to the ground in front of him. My grandfather’s voice rang in my ears. “If he catches you, drop. His anger will abate. It is better to be trampled live then to be gored to death.” Tons of flesh and hooves stampeded all around me, missing me by millimeters. I was seconds from death. My life flashed through my mind. The cries of my unborn children flooded my ears. Images of my grandmother shaking her head, my mother crying, my fiancé mourning my death inundated my frantic mortal thoughts. This was the end.
I heard birds singing. The bulls and the other runners moved past. As dramatic as a flash of lightening, el encierro1 started and ended. I was left, broken and defeated. My face felt like it was ground into the cobblestones. Pain radiated my body and I knew I was still alive. Feet pattered on the ground, the screeching whine of stretcher wheels clattered and echoed, bouncing off the walls of the rustic, red tiled building that lined the narrow street of Pamplona.
“Hablo español?” a harried-looking petite Spanish EMT asked as she gently rolled me onto my side.
“Mas or menos.” I murmured. I tried to tell her that I belonged here. I was not some stupid American tourist. Pamplona was as much my town as it was hers. I noticed her name tag. Pilar. Maybe she knew my cousin! Again, I tried to tell her my story, but all that came out of my mouth was a groan. Pain radiated from my side, I felt bruised, beaten.
“Señor, rest. We are here to help. Ven aqui!” she yelled to someone in the distant. I stopped resisting, allowing myself to collapse back onto the ground. I felt like my insides were spilling onto the street. Surely I was dying.
You couldn’t tell by looking at me, but, this was in my heritage. My grandfather grew up in Pamplona, this was his home. He immigrated to the United States when he was in his late twenties, seeking a better life for his wife and young son, my father. Abuelo Fermín died just a few months ago after a valiant fight. In the end, when the cancer riddled his body, causing monstrous pain, he fondly remembered his boyhood in Pamplona. I promised him that I would take a pilgrimage to Pamplona with his ashes and lay him to rest in his homeland.
As I began doing my research for my trip, I learned that the running of the bulls would occur while I was in España to bring him home. I remembered his stories of the machismo and bravado involved in the running of the bulls, los sanfermines se celebran de San Fermín. San Fermín, his patron saint. What better way to remember his life than to encierro?
“¡Señor, señor! Como se siente? ¡Ayi, no hablo español! Sir, how do you feel? What hurts?”
“Lo siento senorita. My Spanish isn’t what it should be. I, uh, think he got my back.” She didn’t respond to my apology, instead calling to another EMT who brought a stretcher over. I was loaded onto the stretcher and taken to the ambulance.
The EMTs stopped asking me questions, probably assuming I couldn’t understand them. I could understand, just not answer. Pilar swabbed my arm; I tensed for the sting of the needle I knew was about my follow. Amidst the other pain, the IV lost its sharpness. I lay on my stomach and could feel the other EMT pressing against the wound, presumably to stop the bleeding.
“No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte2,” the other EMT remarked to Pilar. After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at a hospital. As they wheeled me in, I saw a nun. Ah, a Catholic hospital. Yes, they would take care of me. I was Catholic! And, if they had just bothered to ask, they’d know I was Spanish too.
I was transferred to the capable hands of a nurse who looked to be about my mother’s age. After receiving some stitches and painkillers, I was allowed to call my gran tía, my grandfather’s sister.
“Antonio!” she cried upon arrival. “¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!3” She continued on in Spanish, her tone frantic and anxious, her accent lilting and musical. Pain clouded my mind; I could not understand. Feeling like a failure, I shook my head. Seeing my despair, her daughter, my aunt, Victoria stepped forward.
“She’s saying that we tried to find you but we lost you,” Victoria paused, looking at her mother who was now clucking soothingly and softly stroking my face just like my mother would. “She says Fermín would be proud of you.”
Relief coursed through my body. Mission accomplished. A fitting tribute to an unsung hero. I knew I would never forget today, just as I would never forget mi abuelo and all the wisdom he had shared with me.

1: Encierro- The Spanish term used to describe the running of the bulls.
2: No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte- “It is not bad. He is very lucky.”
3. ¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!- “We tried to find you but we could not!”