Bucket List

"Ever fancy running with the bulls?" A short silence was interrupted with laughter and then a very definite "Aye!". I was talking to my mate Colin on the phone as I walked home through Glasgow city center. Earlier that day I had watched some footage on the BBC news site as they reported the first running of the bulls of the 2007 fiesta. I was instantly drawn to the spectacle and amazed that something that was, on the face of it, so dangerous could still be allowed today. There are plenty of other dangerous things for adrenaline-seekers to try - sky diving, rock climbing etc - but they are all controlled experiences. These are Spanish fighting bulls - completely raw and unpredictable - and for some reason the thought of travelling to a small town in the Navarra hills to run through the streets with half a dozen of these beasts had a real appeal to me. I thought I might have trouble finding anybody else who would want to go but that fear was unfounded. A few more phone calls to a few other mates and after getting in touch with the Pamplona Posse to set up some accommodation, we were all set. Just under a year later five of us would be packed into a tiny hire car barreling towards the sunset on our way to Pamplona, and none of us had any idea what was coming.

It was dark by the time we drove through the outskirts of Pamplona, and it was something of a novelty to see one or two people dressed in the traditional Sanfermines colours but by the time we parked the car all we could see were people in white and red. We gathered our things and headed towards the noise and to The Harp bar to find our accommodation, the din of laughter and music growing steadily louder as we walked toward the center of town. By then we were so late that the accommodation manager was a little under the weather but he fixed us up with a beer (priorities) and guided us to our lodgings where we dumped our stuff and headed out into the party.

The scale of the fiesta is truly something special. In many of the streets there were so many people you were shoulder-to-shoulder with the crowd and barely move but even with all the drinking the mood is impeccably good-natured. All around impromptu bands play and every kind of street performer you can imagine energizes the party. We spent that first night wandering from bar to bar, repeatedly getting hopelessly lost in the old town streets which all seemed to look alike to us. Often we crossed the route of the bull run, marked by thick wooden pillars which would later form part of the fence either side of the encierro keeping the bulls (and us) inside. In the wee hours we made conversation with a group of older American guys and asked them if it was their first time in Pamplona. "No," they laughed to each other "this is our 18th year". That was my first glimpse of how this can easily become a lifelong addiction.

Sometime around 2am we walked up to the old city wall to look down at the bulls in the Santo Domingo corral; these would be the bulls we would run with in just a few hours. They were the legendary Miuras, the biggest and fiercest of all the Spanish fighting bull breeds. By some accounts they had historically been bred to be too big, too intelligent and too unpredictable for use in bullfights and the breeding pattern had to be changed to take the edge off them. They were still formidable animals.

From the top of the wall we quietly watched as the bulls stood almost motionless in the corral, only occasionally flicking their tail or moving their head to shake off a fly. For all the hedonism of the party just a couple of hundred yards away, at night a respectful silence enshrines that whole area; the only sounds are the carnival in the far distance and hushed voices as people gently jostle to take photographs. Staring down at the bulls the realization of what we were about to do really began to sink in. I will admit allowing myself the sobering thought that any one of those bulls could kill me in the morning.

That first morning we made our way to the bull run very early, sometime around 6:30am. Overnight the team of city carpenters had assembled the rows of thick, wooden fences along the course and the streets had been hosed and swept clean of the mess from the previous night. We squeezed through one of the narrow entrances and took up our position in city hall plaza where we would watch the clock tick slowly towards 8am. That morning it was cold and I had barely an hour's sleep and it was difficult to tell if my shivers were from the cold or from nerves; probably both. I bought a paper to try to pass the time but I couldn't really concentrate enough to read it. Encierro literally translates as 'enclosure' and standing between those huge, medieval-looking fences for the first time you can start to feel very small and the word could never have felt more apt. People continued to file through into the course, some clambering over or under the fences, the municipal police filtering out the odd ill-equipped runner wearing flip flops or carrying a backpack or whoever looked just a little too worse for wear. Anticipation grew steadily as the clock crept towards 8am and with five minutes to go, and the crowd by now in full voice, the police finally let us all spread out along the course.

Soon we were set up at the far end of Calle Estafeta, about three quarters of the way along the 825 meter course - the road gets wider there as you run into Telefonica and we figured that would be good place for a novice runner to be, able to escape to the fence or use the wider run-off if it all went wrong. As we stood there waiting we started to fall silent, each of us pacing around in our own thoughts, some people around us stretched, many wished each other good luck with a handshake or a hug. For the first time I really noticed the medical teams set up behind the fences - dozens of medics with stretchers and equipment, their smiling and joking with each other in stark contrast to the tense mood of the runners just the other side of the barrier. At exactly 8 o'clock the silence was shattered by the boom of the rocket to tell us that the bulls had been released from the corral. A few people around us cheered nervously, others banged their rolled up papers against their hands, many started to jump to see further along the street, although it would be nearly 3 minutes until the bulls were with us.

Many people will tell you this is the most excruciating part of the whole event, those final few moments as the bulls run the course to wherever you stand. It's a feeling that, for me, has become worse every time have I run. This is the time you have to block out all thoughts of family, your children, what you're going to do after the encierro, what your friends beside you are doing and allow yourself to be completely absorbed by the moment. Flinch now and the results could be deadly. As I looked along Estafeta I could start to see camera flashes from the balconies in the far distance and I knew the bulls had made their turn at La Curva, a 75 degree right hand turn often referred to as 'Dead Mans Curve' due to the propensity for the bulls falling, becoming separated and making the situation even more dangerously unpredictable. It felt like the bulls were picking up pace as the camera flashes chased them along the street. I became conscious of my heart thumping and my breathing quickening as people streaked past us, still no sign of the bulls. I lost my concentration on the camera flashes as the crowd running past us grew thicker and more panicked and in the mayhem, facing a solid wall of oncoming runners, I eventually had no option but to turn and run.

I ran for what felt like a good 15 seconds (in reality I'm sure it was more like 5) dodging in and out of the crowd, trying to look behind but also trying not to fall over the people who had fallen in front of me. I had no idea where the bulls were but I could sense they were close and peeled hard to the side, jamming myself onto the ledge of a doorway on the right hand side of Telefonica. It would be another second or two - although it seemed like an eternity - before the Miuras stormed past. I was totally transfixed. These huge muscular juggernauts thundered through the crowd, the ground literally shaking under their hooves, the clang of cowbells and screaming filling the air and the slap of skin on concrete as people fell around them.

I watched for a moment as this tidal swell of bodies and chaos surged furiously towards the bullring entrance then I looked back up the course and stepped out of the doorway back into the mass of people. The remaining crowd moved forwards more tentatively, nobody completely sure if all the bulls had passed or if there was another behind us. Rogue shouts of 'Toro!' kept everybody nervously in check. As we collectively edged down the ramp towards the bullring I could hear a huge roar from the arena followed by another rocket boom that confirmed the bulls had all been guided safely to the pen behind the bullring. I passed through the final gate into the arena and turned hard right on the sand of the bullring to where we had arranged to meet after the run.

The chaos of the encierro is like nothing you can possibly imagine and the first time its very difficult to be prepared for it. Watching it on video you can see the bulls, the people and the fences but its easy to forget that the cameras are 15 or maybe 20 feet above street level. On the street you cannot see the bulls until they are sometimes just a few feet away, nor can you underestimate how little space you will have with the amount of people surging forward in unison; nor is it in any way truly predictable. If the chaos is difficult to be prepared for, the exhilaration as you enter the bullring at the end of the run is unparalleled. The heady mix of relief, the testosterone-fueled euphoria and the adrenaline buzz last for hours.

The next day we repeated the same pattern - party, sleep, run - probably sleeping about four hours over the three nights before eventually pouring our shattered bodies back into the hire car for the drive back to the airport. As the five of us sat on the tarmac waiting for the flight to take off I remember looking around at the other guys and all being in collective and bleary-eyed disbelief at what we had just experienced. The next morning I would be sitting on my normal train to work looking around at all the suits and being completely taken aback by the total contrast with the last few days.

Until you've been to Pamplona you really can't explain the whole experience - the encierro, the party, the friendships you make - its just completely unique. It's incredible how this beautiful old town is transformed for 8 days into this huge party, which then packs up and leaves just as quickly as it began. There is little doubt that the focus of the fiesta and what really put San Fermin on the map - with a little help from Hemingway of course - is the running of the bulls, the encierro. Each morning during the fiesta, experienced mozos and novices alike from all walks of life assemble to take part in this tradition stretching back hundreds of years. The encierro is a complete and perfect leveler. In the streets each runner faces their fate alone, maybe for a few seconds running stride for stride with the bulls, but it is also an intensely shared experience and lasting bonds are forged between those who run together. When you participate in the encierro you are extending the tradition and to those who truly understand it, it becomes both and honour and a privilege to be a part of.

Each day in the encierro there are many aficionados who take running very seriously and just as many who are simple thrill-seekers looking to tick it off their bucket list. The first year I went to Pamplona I was that bucket list guy, like so many hundreds of others there to experience it once, to say I had done it, to have a story to tell or a photo to share, all the while probably unknowingly getting in the way of so many other runners. However, by the time I left Pamplona I was already hooked - those fleeting moments on those cold mornings on the cobbled streets that first year had stirred something that perhaps only fellow runners will understand.

For me this started as a bucket list item to run with the bulls, but Pamplona itself has become much more than that. Its now a place to catch up with old friends and inevitably make new ones. At first when I watched videos of the encierro I would see a mass of people moving through the streets. Now when I watch it is no longer anonymous faces carving over the cobblestones - I see Gus running the curve in his yellow Partick Thistle top, great American runners like Bill Hillman and Joe Distler and legendary Spanish runners like Julen Madina and the always distinctive Barbarians strips of the Hoskins on Telefonica and dozens of others that I don't know by name but recognize from year to year. Many of these people I now consider lifelong friends, brothers bonded by our shared experiences, whether that be a great run or simply because they have good chat over a beer or plate of bull stew.

I have run in the encierro 16 times now and I know I will keep coming back, each year hopefully getting better, each year picking up more advice from more experienced runners and hoping my luck holds. I'm well aware that you can never truly master this, you can only amass experience but one day that experience could be the difference between running on the horns with the bulls' breath at your heels or finding yourself under the hooves.

If running with the bulls finds it into your bucket list I absolutely recommend it but please take all the advice you can. Before I went that first time I had watched YouTube videos of previous years and read a few news stories, but on reflection I was quite poorly prepared. This can be a seriously dangerous business and, even if you only do it once, statistics won't protect you. Watch videos of as many runs as you can before you go, see how the people and the bulls move through the streets but be prepared for it to be completely different when you run. When you get there, talk to people about the encierro - experienced runners will be more than happy to share their advice and you'll find walking tours on offer that will allow you to really get a feel for the route before you have the distraction of a herd of bulls chasing you along the street. If you want to experience it in person without any risk don't try to do that from inside the fences - get up early and try to find a spot to watch the run from behind the barriers or splash out and rent a balcony spot for a morning. And if you do choose to run, always remember the most important rule of all: if you fall down, stay down.

I'm writing this as I prepare for my seventh fiesta, just under 40 days to go and I can feel it getting closer... Ya Falta Menos... Viva San Fermin!

v1.1