Exactly one year ago today, I ran with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. This entry is from my personal journal and describes the events of the day. It was written that night. I reproduce it here unedited except for spelling corrections (I resisted the temptation to correct some rather obvious grammar problems). Webb is a friend from high school that I toured Europe with. Kolby is an American we met in Pamplona. Note that some of the pages on the San Fermin web site don’t work well with Firefox

The Bulls!

My, my. How could I go this long without describing the real highlight of the day: I ran with the bulls this morning!

But first, some backstory.

The Night

We once again slept on the grass in a park. This time, we chose a location slightly farther from the rambunctious partiers: same general area as the previous night (“The Fortress”) but down one terrace. [If you have Google Earth, download this file to see the exact location. It’s cool – try it!]

I found a nice spot on the ground, laid out my garbage-bag “tarp,” and spread my sleeping bag upon it. With my daypack once again masquerading as my pillow, I soon fell asleep.

Drip. Drip. Drip drop drip. Look at watch. 2:15 a.m.; I’ve been asleep 45 minutes. Hmmm… is it raining? Drip. Drip. Sounds like some sprinkles hitting my bag. Look around. Webb’s asleep. So is Kolby. Maybe the sprinkles will stop. Waiting… Waiting… Darn. It’s still raining. Hmmm… maybe I could just sleep through it. Down insulates even when wet, right? Or maybe that was synthetics and not down. Gosh, I just can’t remember. I’ve slept so little in the past few days that I’m barely functioning. I’d better do something before it starts really raining.

I woke Webb up and at about the same time, Kolby woke up.

Webb had a tent with him. We decided to use it. The catch was that the tent had never been used before, it was dark and raining, and in any case, the directions made no sense. After standing confused for several minutes, all the while getting wetter, we decided on a better role for the tent: a tarp.

While Kolby went off the stay up the remainder of the night, Webb and I cast the tent over our sleeping bags. Somewhat drier (or at least not getting much wetter), we slept for another couple of hours.

Soon came 5:15 a.m., and we got up to deposit our belongings at the consignment [a big secure holding area for bags]. We met up with Kolby near the consignment. After that, it was bull-running time.

The Bull Run

We had been reading papers and looking at photos chronicling the various gorings from days past. Before I arrived in Pamplona, I had always assumed that the bulls comprised the significant danger during the run. It turns out that I was wrong.

The greater danger comes from the other runners.

As I walked towards the course entrance gate, I had to constantly evade sloshing cups of sangria held by stumbling drunks. Every couple of yards, the air would be filled with the pungent stench of reefer.

As I drew closer, the crowds thickened. We waited for the police to clear the course and the buffer zone between the course fence and the spectator fence. As it was the only Saturday running of the festival, the participation was phenomenal. Myriad locals and tourists crowded and pushed to observe or be observed during the run.

We squeezed through the fence onto the course. There were so many people that it was nearly impossible to move.

I bumped into a guy next to me, a Scotsman, who had run Pamplona 72 times. He offered me this advice: “Judge where the bulls are by watching the photographers’ flash bulbs. When the flashes a little ways behind you start flashing, start running.”

After a while, the police allowed the runners to disperse from the starting point to fill in along the course.

I walked along the course a short ways until I arrived at my chosen street, Mercaderes. I stopped along the side of the course. People flowed by. And more people. And more people. Finally, the flow died down. I was happy to see that my immediate area was not crowded.

BANG! The firework explodes! The bulls have been released! BANG! The second firework: all the bulls are now on the course! It will take at least 45 seconds for them to reach my location. Excitement is in the air. The other runners’ eyes dart around, fueled by the adrenaline.


Wait for it, wait for it. Here come people running. Wait for it… There! There go the flashbulbs! Start running! Run! Run! Look to my left. My gosh, there’s a bull there! And another one! They’re passing me. I’d better get off to the side — other runners are starting to push and shove for position. The side! Relative safety. The bulls are past. Wow, what a rush! Uh-oh. There go the medics. Someone must have been hurt.

I found out later that there were two gorings that morning, including one near my running stretch. It’s unfortunate, but without the risk of severe injury, it wouldn’t have the same appeal.

The worst goring I saw was in photos from Friday (the morning we watched [the day before we ran]). This guy was running, got gored, fell, then immediately got back up (big no-no). He was subsequently gored again. In the photos, you could see the horn entering the back of his thigh and protruding out the other side, raising his jeans like a tent. Wait, jeans? He must not have been a local or a “with it” foreigner — he wasn’t wearing the white and red costume.

After the bull run, we retrieved our belongings for the last time and took a bus to the train station. We said farewell to Kolby and boarded our train.

I’m glad I got to experience the bull run much as it was in Hemingway’s time. I fear that one day, probably within my lifetime, safety concerns or animal-rights activists will destroy that wonderful tradition.