The first running of the bulls, or the encierro, as they call it here in Pamplona is over. It is the first of eight mornings where the bulls that fight in the afternoon run from corrals at the edge of town through the old town streets to the bullring.
This isn’t a one-day-a-year event it lasts for nine days from noon on July 6th through midnight on the 14th. Every year the dates stay the same regardless of weekends, World Cup soccer matches, Wimbledon or the Tour de France. These days are a fixture in my life.
I’ve never been much of a runner. My first time, I didn’t even know from which direction the bulls would be coming. I managed to get myself thrown out of the streets and looped around to the beginning of the course following other displaced runners desperately racing through the narrow streets to climb over the barricades into the street where the bulls would race on their way to certain death.
Even after that fighting bull baptism, I never became what anyone would call an elite runner, but I learned that danger was completely random when it came to these animals during this fiesta.
It seems that the real runners, those who actually attempt to race alongside the animals may get gored, scraped, trampled and slammed to the cobblestones; but it is those who seemingly are only trying to get out of the way slipping through the barricades, or staggeringly drunk getting up after falling during the run, or simply standing along the wall or the barriers beside the street that have died.
Now mind you, I have come close. A runner beside me had his stomach ripped open by a bull that I never saw until the last minute. I have been in the newspaper with three bulls at my feet standing meekly, almost as though I was waiting for a bus, along the wall of Santo Domingo. Another morning my photo made the front page as my “88″ t-shirt was featured diving over the barricades as the bulls turned to enter the bullring. And my favorite photo was one of my “88″ shirt framed by the horns of a bull that two old ladies who ran the market coffee shop pulled out every time I came to order cafe with a sol y sombre after the run.
Each of those incidents were random. Basically, I showed up for the run and events happen. I have fatalistically sat the bulls, with my back to the coming danger, stood in doorways, watched from balconies and viewed the action on TV from my bed. The photos were a snapshot of a split second in time from four out of hundreds of runs.
This is an event driven by adrenaline that builds step-by-step until the moment that the rocket shoots into the air alerting the runners that the door to the corrals has been opened and the bulls and steers are on their way.
Before the run, the police close the streets along the last two-thirds of the run. Then, street cleaners meticulously clean up broken glass, cans, plastic cups, cigarette butts, newspapers, sandwich wrappers, empty wine and champagne bottles, plastic water bottles, a random running shoe or sandal, flour, broken eggs, burst balloons, trashed botas and a film of beer, wine, cola, juice, sawdust and gum wrappers.
Pamplona even has a special chemical that lifts much of this slippery festival filth and helps to make the street more navigable for the runners.
Before the run a town representative walks the course to make sure that the street is clean and that runners who stumble and slide during the run are not faced with broken glass or other dangers.
In the meantime, at the base of the run, only about 25 meters from the doors of the corral, hundreds of runners gather in the narrow chute of Calle Santo Domingo. Tourists from Texas ask from which direction the bulls will be coming, locals chat with friends about their adventures, some calmly read newspapers, teenage students discuss their strategy for the run, others tell tales of previous runs. There are lots of buenos dias, suertes, hello hugs and kisses and nervous laughter.
Mouths run dry as the minutes tick away to 8 a.m. when the bulls will be released. Everyone who understands the random danger of death or injury begins to tense up. And the runners crowd into the narrow chute to stand in front of a tiny statue of San Fermin, the patron saint of this festival, in whose name the celebration washes across the city.
At three minutes to the hour, the first prayer to San Fermin is sung in front of the statue standing in its niche about 12 feet above the cobbled street.
A San Fermin pedimos,
por ser nuestro patron,
nos guie en el encierro
dandonos su bendicion.
For years this was the verse that was sung twice, but for the last three years, the locals have begun to sing the second chant in the Basque language.
Entzun arren San Fermin
zu zaitugu patroi,
zuzendu gure oinak
entzierro hontan otoi.
In English (more or less):
St. Fermin we ask you
as our patron
to guide us in the bull run
give us your blessing.
This prayer is sung three times, once a minute prior to the release of the bulls. Each time the pucker factor seems to build. Various runners leave after each singing to head to their chosen spot and some choose to run from the center of this narrow chute.
After the final chant to San Fermin, there is about an amazingly silent 30 second pause as runners wait to hear the first rocket shoot into the sky marking the opening of the corral gates. Then comes a second rocket announcing that all of the animals have left the corral.
And the runners are on their way. Some, waiting to see how the bulls are forming their pack; others, racing forward in a panic, outrunning their feet; many jogging slowly, knowing that the bulls will eventually catch up with them; some stand calmly by the side where they can be part of the massive group adrenaline surge but feel safer (at least from the crowds).
Fear surges through the crowded street. Runners’ eyes widen. Breathing quickens. Barriers fill with racers hurling themselves out of the way. Runners fall and lie still waiting for the bulls to pass.
Then it is over.
Where I normally stand these days at the beginning of the run, the action on most days ends quickly. The bulls run by me in a pack still herding shoulder-to-shoulder with their brothers; some say, quicker than a quarter-horse for their first hundred yards.
I find that my stretch is safer than the later stages of the run where the bulls have a chance to get strung out and separated from the herd. But, there is always the constant reminder of random danger, no matter how many times one has faced these thousand-pound animals.
Pingback: Running of the Bulls Complete « HC Consulting Group