The Sun Also Rises

The Running of the Bulls made headlines yesterday when an experienced runner was gored to death by Capuchino the Bull.  With the added motivation of outrunning a thundering beast, if the course wasn’t so tricky with sharp turns and slippery cobblestone the world-famous encierro could be the fastest 850m dash around.  A few years ago I witnessed the running of the bulls firsthand.  Scores of still drunk tourists tested their “bravery” by hopping into a corral in front of six 700kg fighting bulls and a pack of tame steers and running their hearts out all the way to the bullring.  Well, in theory they run in front of bulls all the way to the bullring.  In reality many dove through the protective fencing after just a few metres of running and one glimpse of a bull.  Others waited in doorways until the bulls ran by and then chased the bulls to the bullring.  It wasn’t so much running with the bulls as it was running out of the way of the bulls. 

The more daredevil of the sprinters ran ahead, shoulder-checking for bulls and brandishing a rolled up newspaper in case of a close encounter.  That newspaper seems more security blanket than practical as “swatting” a one ton beast hardly seems an effective method of self-protection.  Very few runners actually managed to stay in front of the herd.  The bulls caught up quickly and the runners often got in their way.   That’s what happened with Capuchino after he tripped over some runners and fell behind the pack.  The sprint only lasts two minutes, although I’m sure that feels like an eternity to those trying to outrun the bulls. 

The path decidedly favours the runners, as the bulls often lost footing and slid around the corners effectively losing all momentum and speed (not to mention the injuries).  This adds vewing excitement when the bull rises, as he is just as apt to go in the wrong direction as the right.  Once a bull separates from the pack he becomes confused and aggressive and may attack.  A bull running backward through the pack, into all the runners who had hid from the animal at first pass, is often a highlight of the race for those anticipating runner-bull interactions.  There is something karmically pleasing about this outcome. 

Husband (then Boyfriend) and I flip-flopped for two days – to run or not to run, that was the question.  With the late night partying and bench sleeping (just try to get a room in Pamplona during the Festival of San Fermin at the last minute without paying a king’s ransom) caution won and we merely spectated.  It was the best decision, yet every year around this time a niggling “should have” infects my brain.  We also had to consider that we ran (ha) the risk of waking up with no running shoes, as the “campers” (bench sleepers) were often subject to late night shoe-thievery. If you ever see a shoeless bull runner, now you know why.  My camera was worth stealing, but my well-travelled running shoes were not.  I was also reluctant to run because, well, I’m not comfortable with bull-fighting.  Even watching, and therefore supporting, the event was as a moral dilemma.  I temporarily rationalized my participation by declaring that I could not oppose what I had never witnessed and therefore did not truly understand, so I watched and to my surprise was infected by the excitement in the air. 

Still, I will admit, I was (quietly) rooting for the bulls.  Not that I was hoping for someone to meet an untimely death (although there have been fifteen since the 1920s), just for some bullish revenge.  I similarly alarm myself by rooting for Dexter the (fictional) Serial Killer.  I’m talking about a non-fatal goring or two, some bleeding that didn’t come from the poor bulls and their ever-ticking clock.   The runners at the start line seemed far too cocky considering their challengers.  Not that they weren’t nervous, as evidenced by the anxious hopping as they awaited the release.   But they knew the odds were high that they would survive and the bulls would not.  I’m convinced that the bulls are sedated and disoriented before the run, to avoid a possible bloodbath.  In fair conditions those taunting amateur runners, having never interacted with anything more aggressive than their cat Mittens, would be trampled, tossed, and gored before they got around the first bend.  The year I watched there were no major injuries to humans; it’s best not to mention the bulls.  If I ever go back to Pamplona during San Fermin perhaps I’ll run the historic path as part of another event: The Running of the Nudes.  Ole.

Title Reference: Ernest Hemingway – The Sun Also Rises. 1926.