A Lot of Bull

Can it really be? Has one year gone by already? Yep. One year ago today I was in Pamplona running with the bulls with my son David. Well running with the bulls is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like running away from the bulls.
It’s still a vivid memory. Sure hope years from now it’s just as clear. It was a special time for a father and son. Celebrating his thirtieth birthday in grand and ultra Macho style. Too bad my Dad wasn’t alive to share the adventure. Not by actually running but listening to our accounts and looking at the pictures. Although, not to sell my Dad short, given the opportunity he probably would’ve joined us. This nut didn’t fall far from that tree.
I have not tired of telling the story of our Spanish exploits. But others have, I’m sure. So if you’re one of those, it’s probably better if you stop reading now. But even if you’ve already heard it why not indulge me and give it another shot. It’s not your normal “what I did on vacation” story. I promise.
The wife, my son and I had flown to London and after a few days David and I flew to Pamplona. We flew via Iberian Airlines, the national airline of Spain. Four flights total. Two there and two back. All four were late. We actually missed our connection to Pamplona and arrived hours late. I think Iberian Airlines’ motto is “We just don’t care” or possibly “If you don’t like it, take the bus.” Either one pretty much sums up their service. And I use that term loosely.
But we made it and took a cab to our hotel. Not a bad place. We walked to downtown Pamplona and it was very exciting. Lots of activities. Vendors, bands, entertainers and drinks. I never felt in any sort of danger. The entire community embraces the festival as witnessed by the fact that almost everyone is decked out in white with red scarves, sashes and bandanas. The running of the bulls is a very small part of the Festival of San Fermin. But it is the most famous part.
The next morning we arrived at the route and put on our game faces. It was belly buttons to assholes in the overcrowded square and the nervousness was palpable. We finally made our way down the route and picked our spot. David reminded me to assume the fetal position should I fall. He reassured me by saying that if necessary he would pick me up and throw me over the fence. Yikes. Quite the reversal of roles.
At precisely 8AM the first rocket is set off, soars upward and explodes signaling the opening of the gates. Yep, the bulls are on their way. The look of sheer terror was a common one amongst the runners. Then a second rocket explodes. The last bull has cleared the gates. Still not too late to climb over the fence and just watch the bulls run by.
A few minutes later a wall of humans comes yelling and screaming towards us. I turn and join them. Literally seconds later, I’m sprawled on the cobblestones. But I didn’t come all the way from Bakersfield to watch the action from a fetal position. I get up and on my left is a bull.
Some moments will forever be etched in my brain. I remember thinking that the bull was not nearly as big as anticipated. I’m closing the distance between us. He’s deceptively fast. He’s at a gentle gait but I’m almost at a full sprint trying to keep up. The gap between us is now about ten feet. My sanity returns and I slow, watching as he moves on to meet his fate.
David and I meet and amid hugs, high fives and beaming smiles we take pictures. Exhilarated, adrenaline pumping and just plain tired. It’s over. Gone. All the planning and missed connection forgotten. Who cares about that stuff now? Hey, we ran with the bulls.