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Pamplona Spain Running Of The Bulls
was 18 years old when I seven day celebration deeply
made the decision to take rooted in tradition, is held
the summer off before annually the first week of July
entering what I imagined to be in northern Spain. It's most
four years of incarceration in characteristic event, the
university, and thus set out in "encierro", or running of the
search of an adventure so bulls, is a bizarre and
compelling, it would sustain me ostentatious display of machismo
through the tedious and bravado. The spectacle is
interminable life of a student. promptly initiated each morning
My inspiration to make the by fireworks, proclaiming bulls
journey stemmed from my father, have been released from their
who as a poet, writer, and avid pens to run freely through the
traveler, had instilled in me a barricaded streets of the village
burning desire to explore the to the nearby arena. Audacious
vagarious, exotic world of a thrill seekers test their courage
rover. Countless nights I by running ahead of the
listened fervently to his tales stampeding herd, often with
of Spain, and of the splendor and disastrous results. Since its
pageantry of the bullfights that inception in the 13th century,
his hero, Ernest Hemingway, had (when butchers hurried slightly
immortalized through his prose. I in front of bulls being led to
knew intuitively that my first auction to ensure themselves a
(and possibly last) quixotic choice place in the bidding),
quest before entering the realm several people have been killed,
of academia, would be to run with and hundreds of others seriously
the bulls in the famous summer injured. It was with this
festival of Pamplona, Spain. disconcerting thread of
historical data weaving through
The fiesta known as San Fermin, a my road weary head, that I
circumspectly stepped down from result of the generous amount of
the bus one pristine evening, libation consumed, but more
into the quaint, and sleepy importantly, because they were
village known as Pamplona. young and carefree, passionately
embracing the ephemeral,
Arriving a day before the bittersweet joy of their youth.
official start of the festival, I
was hard pressed to find a room The next morning I and my
anywhere, and finally with luck comrades began the day in the
stumbled upon a run down hotel on manner that anyone facing almost
the outskirts of town, where an certain death would .... we drank
assortment of like-minded as much wine as possible. With a
adventurers had gathered together sense of dread and exhilaration
in camaraderie born of necessity. in equal measure, we made our way
I found myself sharing a room to the threshold of the village's
with three sleep deprived makeshift corral, where secured
revelers, who having arrived a behind a massive wooden gate
day earlier, enthusiastically stood a legion of ominous looking
briefed me on the previous nights bulls. They appeared as
activity, which consisted apprehensive and fearful as
primarily of inhaling massive ourselves, and I secretly hoped
quantities of vino from a that through some inexplicable
goatskin bag, the erubescent means of cerebral transference,
liquid invariably cascading we would establish telepathic
profusely down their white linen agreement to stay as far away
shirts. Looking fondly back on from each other as possible
that time, I recall a sea of during the impending ordeal. I
scarlet clad men careening was stunned by their stupendous
through the village streets in a size and obvious strength, and
state of exultation, no doubt a realized, that as my sister had
so adamantly informed me of the from the beasts, but among them.
day I left, I truly must be A conglomeration of thrashing
insane to contemplate such an legs, arms, and gleaming sweat
endeavor. With one long last pull laden bull flesh had somehow
from the wine bag, I resolved to intertwined, generating a
scoff in the face of danger, and pulsating throng of spasmodic
like a dauntless matador about to motion that thundered along the
enter the arena, I cast my fate narrow cobblestone passageways in
to the Mediterranean wind. a frenetic state of terror,
aggregated with an emotion that
What ensued in the next few can only be described as...
seconds, is referred to by euphoric.
ancient zen masters as... kensho.
A moment so firmly entrenched in Running surrealistically amidst
the present, that all mundane the advancing horde, I
concerns of past and future instinctively strived to remain
concede to to the all upright, and as far away as
encompassing now. Upon the possible from the the myriad of
release of the formidable horns that encirled me.
creatures, I remember sprinting Peripherally, I caught sight of
blindly forward down the one terrified participant
antediluvian road, my one overcome with fear, frantically
consuming thought that of attempting to make his way over
reaching the distant ring, where the spectator-lined barricade,
those who successfully finished only to be pushed forebodingly
the course would be granted a back by the crowd, abandoned
seat to the afternoon bullfights. forsakenly to confront his
Propelled onward by a flush of precarious fate.
panic induced adrenalin, I
suddenly found myself running not With a profound sense of relief,
I spotted the tattered wooden paltry aperture into the relative
doors of the stadium, when safety of the ring. Standing
without warning I was flung nebulously inert among the
violently to the ground from dispersing crowd, I was overcome
behind, overtaken by the by the realization that I was
onrushing vortex of pandemonium still physically intact, still
vehemently intent on bursting breathing the crisp morning
through the small gridlocked air.... the life affirming touch
opening that constituted the of the sun's luminous rays
entryway. With a steady clicking reassuringly enfolding my
of hooves resounding inches from trembling shoulders. Like the
my ears, I sprung to my feet in a multitude of madmen before me, I
desperate attempt to reach the had run with the bulls of
sanctuary of the arena. Noticing Pamplona, and survived to tell
a momentary breach in the deluge, the tale.....
I swiftly passed through the
About the Author:
Jim Sherard is a freelance writer, traveler, and owner of http://www.jackaroohome.com/, which features Australian outback clothing.
Read more articles by: James Sherard
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