A few hundred people and six angry bulls make for an exhilarating but terrifying morning run through Pamplona
The crowd erupts. The bulls are close now, skidding out of Mercaderes and into Estafeta. My panic turns to terror, as the back of my right leg is struck by what feels like a Fiat Uno – the supposedly docile bell-oxen flings me over its head, between its horns and down its shoulder and back.
The street is damp and very, very hard as my face hits the gutter. Several people fall over me. I know I have to get out of the foetal position and start running again, but my heart is pounding hard against my ribcage. Scores of corredores (bull runners) are dodging past me at breakneck speed, which can only mean one thing – the bulls are still coming. I join the runners and, after 50 metres or so, I dare to turn around. One large bull, with 109 branded on its back, is running parallel to me. Earlier in the day, I had been warned by one of the locals: a pack of bulls is dangerous; a lone bull is lethal.
Charging down the street at full speed, the bull – whom I later discover is called Romero – loses his footing, skidding on his belly and knocking down runners as he falls. From the look in his eyes, I can tell he’s angry, wild – and as terrified as I am. I stand as close to the wall as I can and try not to make eye contact. I’m about to learn that there is only one thing more dangerous than a lone bull, and that’s a lone bull running in the wrong direction.
Romero turns around and faces me.
Earlier that morning I felt quite confident as I climbed through the two-bar fence marking the boundaries of the encierro (bull run). At 7.15am the street was packed with bleary-eyed revellers spilling from the clubs and bars lining the route. Bar owners were barricading their doors and windows with iron sheeting and everyone was sporting the same uniform: white trousers and shirts with red neckties and belts. Watching the crowds singing and dancing in the cool morning sunshine, I began to wonder if I had arrived too early – none of these people looked capable of outrunning a milk float, never mind six wild bulls.
I’d been awake barely five minutes when I’d watched an interview with an injured bull runner on Canel Quattro – the channel dedicated to the San Fermin festival. The injured man, Andrew Slater, came from London, and was lying in Pamplona’s hospital showing off a 15-inch wound to his thigh. Later that day images of Andrew’s run came rushing back to me as I passed the shop doorway where he had been gored.
Walking down the street I began to wonder if I was in the right place: there were no marshals, no officials, and there was no real sense of organisation, aside from the barricades. A medic sat on her stretcher sharing a cigarette with two police officers. I turned to a sober-looking girl, doused in what looked like red wine or sangria and asked, “¿Donde esat el encierro?” She held two fingers up to her head in the shape of horns and shouted: “Torros” before running the full length of the street.
Read the full article in out August 2009 issue.