A stupid man’s guide to running with the bulls in Pamplona

One man’s guide to tempting death during the weeklong San Fermin Festival in Pamplona.

If you ever decide to attend the Running of the Bulls and you’re in your right mind — and thus plan merely to spectate — let me make the case for the Plaza de los Toros, the bullfighting arena at the conclusion of the course. It is there that spectators wait and, immediately following the running, cheer on a drunken, amateur bullfight between all of the runners who make it inside and a series of smaller, horn-capped bulls.

For one, the price point is better: The cost of tickets to the Plaza is cheaper than renting a balcony. And while you will not get the chance to stare down at the mad sprint from one of those vertiginous perches, what you will see is bull leaping.

Bull leaping is, for my mark, the best sport in the world. (It is also probably the only properly mythological sport in the world — the Minoans were big into bull leaping, and the sport is at the heart of the myth of Theseus and the minotaur. Check the art.) The rules of the sport are not complicated and are spelled out in its name — you leap over bulls.

There are actual competitions throughout Spain, but the San Fermin festival is a sort of unofficial chance for the up-and-comers of the sport to show off their skills among an uncontrolled pool of amateurs, like a top NBA Draft pick showing up at a neighborhood park.

Once the big bulls who ran the track are ushered into pens and the smaller bulls are released, the bull leapers get to work.

One will clear some space among the hundreds of milling fools, goad a bull into charging at him and then leap over the animal. I saw one boy, who could not have been older than 18, taunt a bull into charging at him, then, a half-second before impact, jump up in a perfect split — his legs just clearing the horns — land atop the bull’s backside, bounce off the animal, plant his feet, and then, in a moment I will never forget until the day I die, whip a paper fan out of his back pocket, flick it open, and fan himself dramatically as he walked away.

I have watched thousands of sporting events in my time on this Earth. I have seen fourth quarter hail marys and bicycle kick goals and a full-court heave go in at the buzzer. That leap is the greatest sporting moment I have ever witnessed in my life.

If you are set on running, well, OK.

The run starts every morning promptly at 8 a.m., but you should be there early to secure yourself a spot. You’ll need a good pair of running shoes, something with grip, as you’re going to be running over cobblestones that are slick with red wine and vomit.

San Fermin is, aside from the running and the leaping, a weeklong party held at the start of July every summer in Pamplona. Europe’s youth descend upon the small town, dressed all in white, and drink horrifying amounts of cheap red wine. (Spilling is understandably a major issue, and with the red wine splattered across their white outfits, it gives most parties there the appearance of very cheerful bloodbaths.) The festival is meant to celebrate Fermin, a bishop who was decapitated in the 4th Century and then dragged through the streets by bulls, or maybe wasn’t dragged through the streets by bulls, or maybe never existed at all.

I was there with my wife of 11 days, on our honeymoon. We showed up the morning of the first Friday of the festival with no plan, really, unsure we were going to run until we found ourselves on the course and essentially dared each other.

People come from all over the world to run, to escape their problems or get a thrill or get back at their dad or any such old thing. Many more come to watch, of course, and just take part in the party. But plenty run. And yes, there’s an incentive to do it, as well: While balconies overlooking the half-mile route can cost in the hundreds to even thousands of dollars to rent, and tickets inside the Plaza de Toros are somewhat difficult to find, running is totally free. Not a cent. If you show up and are willing, you’re in.

From the start of the route, after we were patted down by police, we paraded through the course. The crowd sang “Seven Nation Army” and the “Ole” chant you’ve heard at international soccer games. The buildings rose up on either side, up and up, so high and narrow it felt as if they were closing in on us.

My wife and I found our spot on the route, about two-thirds of the way down. It got quiet.

Then the cannon went off. A loud rumble; a scream. The people in the balconies above craned their necks to see the start of the course. We had time. The bulls run the course in two minutes. Some runners behind us began to move. We moved with them.

We would take a few steps, then turn back. People jumped to see if the bulls were coming, popping up over the crowd, like prairie dogs. We could hear cries in the distance. Then they became louder.

A swell of bodies appeared behind me. It was time. We began to run. I knew how to do that. I have spent a lot of my life on soccer fields, and the basic concepts are the same — sense the bodies around you, move within the group. I picked up my steps, stayed on my toes. Then, an abrupt stop. In front of us, a woman had frozen. She wouldn’t move. Spectators leaned over the railings and implored her: CORRE. CORRE. RUN. RUN.

”I can’t,” she said. She was American.

We tried to ease her forward, but it wasn’t the time for that. I yelled at my wife to go. She went, sidestepping the woman and then joining the crowd moving forward. I tried again, gently telling the woman, “You need to run.” She looked at me, eyes glazed over, a look I had only ever seen in war movies. She couldn’t move. I repeated: “You need to run. Now.” She shook her head. We were pushed up against the guardrail on the right side. A man reached over and grabbed my shoulder.

“Corre,” he said. Then he pointed behind me.

I turned and looked; there they were. Bigger than I could have believed, muscular, a thousand pounds each, at least, and moving at speed. Their horns were at least two feet in length and I could see the tip of each, pointed, as if sharpened.

Fuck, I thought.

It was only in this moment that I truly understood how easily these animals could kill me. They were an abstraction before. I had to keep them that way. There was no way I could have lined up to run if I hadn’t. Now I was here, stuck behind a woman in shock, maybe 50 feet away from them and the distance closing rapidly.

I needed to run. The woman had finally started staggering forward, but I danced around her. (I’m embarrassed by this act of cowardice, and only slightly comforted by the fact that we saw the woman inside the arena later, smiling and giddy; she had made it.) I saw my wife up ahead, pushing her way through the crowd headed toward the arena.

I navigated around a few runners, making my way forward, trying to get to her. Then the mass of bodies thinned. I suddenly had room around me, which struck me as strange.

They had arrived. The first bull ran by me, maybe 15 feet away, as I ran along the right edge of the street. Then another. Another. I stole a glance ahead — my wife was still on her feet, still moving. This was it. I kept running, sticking close to that right rail, the bulls so large as to seem unreal. I looked forward to check my next steps, then back; the animals and I were running alongside one another. The crowd was screaming. The bulls were moving in rhythm, staying in the center of the street. I had this, I thought in that moment, I was OK. The animals passed me; a man was chasing them with a switch, keeping them moving. I was still a bit behind my wife, maybe 50 yards, but I watched as the bulls safely passed her too. We were OK, I thought. I would find her inside the plaza. We would make it.

Then a shrill cry came from the crowd.

“MÁS!”

The bulls had separated into two groups. The first group had made its way past me, but here, now, was a second herd of three bulls.

We had been warned about this ahead of time. The herd breaking is incredibly dangerous because smaller groups are unpredictable, and because people let their guards down when they think they have finally found space, as I had done here. Later I learned that the group had broken up because these three bulls had targeted human victims earlier in the run.

As the bulls approached, I was making the final left turn into the closing stretch to the arena. Along with being warned about the herd splitting, I had been told that the last place I wanted to be when I met the bulls was on a turn. Turns are where people slip, where bulls slip, where the animals get out of their comfortable running rhythm and act erratically. Turns are where people die.

I seemed to be running alone as I entered that final turn. Two of the bulls made their way past me.

There was just one left. The final animal. He was running right at me. He had entered the turn but had not, perhaps, realized that it was a turn. I was there at the vertex, helpless, sprinting but seeming not to move. I couldn’t believe how big his eyes were — I had once read a bull’s eyes described as being apple-sized, and that seemed impossible. I can now say concretely: It is true. I couldn’t tell you what color he was. I saw only eyes and horns. I must have been running, though maybe I had stopped. I don’t know.

There was nothing I could do, I realized. If he wanted to kill me, he would kill me. I had no control.

Illustrations by Tyson Whiting.