After you run with the bulls in Pamplona, as I did on 7 July on the first day of this year's Encierro, you are naturally subjected to several questions:
"How was it?"
"Did you actually run?"
"Did you wear the white clothes and red scarf?"
"Did you get gored?"
"Did you go to the bullfight?"
"Is there any real danger during the run?"
"What made you decide to run?"
"Dude, are you %^&*ing nuts?!"
There are simple answers to all those questions, which I'll try to make as complex and detailed as possible.
"How was it?"
The highlight of the annual Fiesta of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain, is the Encierro--the Running of the Bulls. If you've never heard of it or seen it on television, it's when hundreds of crazed men (with a few women sprinkled in, although it's seriously frowned upon, like a woman running for U.S. president) barrel through the streets, chased by stampeding bulls. Oh, and if you've never heard of it or seen it on television, congratulations: you are officially the most isolated person on the planet. Which raises the question: how the hell did you find this column online anyway?
The Encierro remains one of the most notorious, cliched, yet still utterly bad-ass adventure experiences on the planet, and in a nutshell, it was as crazy as you'd think it would be. If that's the answer you were looking for, you could potentially stop reading now. But considering how great the following paragraphs are, why stop now?
"Did you actually run?"
Did you actually read the opening sentence of this column?
"Did you wear the white clothes and red scarf?"
Regrettably, yes (that collective groan you hear is my fives of readers questioning my adventure cred). But I have the perfect excuse for wearing a white shirt, red belt, and red scarf: everybody else was doing it.
As a general rule, I travel in khaki. It pretty much fits in anywhere, and regular readers of this space know how I sing the praises of the "Renaissance man's camouflage." But for the first time, khaki made me stand out, and not in a good way. I was the only man in Pamplona not wearing the appropriate fiesta attire, like the guy in the wedding party who shows up at the church in a tank top, jean shorts, Tevas, and Pancho Villa-style bandolier (what, mine was the only one?).
Seriously, everybody was keeping it real. Men and women were wearing white with red scarves. Children and grandparents were wearing white with red scarves. Jaded backpackers were wearing white with red scarves. Stray dogs were wearing white with red scarves.
So I dressed the part. And it wasn't so bad: it's a look that works no matter your sexual preference--gay, straight, or European. I did, however, eschew the white pants for a pair of off-white khakis. White pants seemed too revealing in case my bowels ended up doing what the sight of ten marauding, pissed-off bulls naturally made them want to do.
"Did you get gored?"
At the risk of sounding like a wise-ass (which would be a first for this column), let me lay out a few facts for you: the average bull in the Encierro weighs over 1300 pounds. They're bred to basically do one thing: charge at and eviscerate humans. They're renowned all over Spain for their brute power and fighting tenacity. They're extraordinarily fast and have an extraordinarily bad temperament. They have long, sharp horns that leave deep gashes in the centuries-old stone walls of the town's castle.
If I had been gored, there would be some telltale signs like, I don't know, my entire upper body slashed to bloody ribbons, my innards falling out into my lap, every bone in my body pulverized, I'd be in a coma, etc. So if I had been gored, chances are I'm probably not showing up for work. Ever.
So the short answer is: no, I didn't get gored.
"Did you go to the bullfight?"
It's amazing how many people don't realize that the purpose of the bull run is to get the animals across town from their corral to the Plaza de Toros (bull ring), where they will participate in, and inevitably meet their demise in, a bullfight that afternoon. Why else would they let them barrel through the quaint, picturesque streets of their town? The livestock aren't exactly training for a triathlon.
I was torn about whether or not to attend the bullfight, but in the interest of journalistic integrity, I scalped a ticket to see the bulls with which I'd run do battle with three men in skintight glittery outfits. I wish those skintight glittery outfits were the cruelest act perpetrated that afternoon, but sadly for the bulls, things would get worse.
Consider this your spoiler alert: the bulls die. All of them.
Let there be no question about it: bullfights are animal cruelty. There's not even room for debate here. It's cruel and inhumane and not that sporting. Then again, that description also applies to driving on the 405 every day, so it's all relative.
I hate to trample on a time-honored aspect of a foreign culture, but then again, that's kinda the purpose of this column, so here goes: bullfighting is not really a sport. I know, I know, Hemingway is rumored to have said that there are only three real sports (bullfighting, mountain climbing, and auto racing), but come on--the guy also voluntarily surrounded himself with six-toed cats, so he's hardly the final arbiter of taste.
One major problem with bullfighting is that it's rigged. You know, like pro wrestling or the NBA. The outcome is predetermined. And far be it for me to impugn someone's bravery, but apparently Spanish "machismo" means spending most of the fight hiding behind a wooden enclosure. Sure, I would hide too if I was dressed like that, but that doesn't mean it's great theater.
I guess I'm still bummed that "my" bulls had to die. I felt like I'd bonded them when they tried to trample me in the streets, so I was hoping for a minor miracle in the Plaza de Toros. After all, even the Washington Generals stole a game or two from the Harlem Globetrotters. Of course, the 'Trotters never did end a game by jamming swords between the Generals' shoulder blades.
But all that aside, the bullfight is quite a spectacle. It's intense, and passionate, and dripping with tradition (like when the band broke into impromptu renditions of "Livin on a Prayer" and "Rock N Roll Part II--Hey"). See one if you must, to decide for yourself. But just know this: it's bloody. Hemingway didn't call his nonfiction bullfighting book Mild Inconvenience in the Afternoon. It's Death in the Afternoon for a reason.
"Is there any real danger during the run?"
Yes, but it has more to do with the other runners than the bulls themselves. Imagine that: man is the most dangerous animal out there. For all the hype and attention paid to how dangerous the bulls are, the last goring fatality was 1995, and the last trampling fatality was 2003.
There were thirteen significant injuries on the day of my run, and I definitely saw some blood and people carried off in stretchers. But considering how much sangria was being consumed there, that could have happened even without the bull run. Besides, it's not a vacation until someone gets stretchered away, right?
Like I said, these are 1300-pound bulls, and they wait or stop for no man. And there's one sheer turn, right before the Calle Estafeta, that is downright vicious: even the most foolhardy, the most plastered, the most frat boy of runners aren't stupid enough to get caught on the wrong side of that turn.
So yeah, it's dangerous. I felt lucky to have only gotten my foot stepped on (but my Air Jordans were scuffed up, a tragedy in its own right), plus I caught a few wild elbows in the melee. At any point, I was only one misstep from being utterly steamrolled. And never forget: bravery and stupidity are incestuous first cousins.
"What made you decide to run?"
Hemingway made the Encierro famous with his legendary novel The Sun Also Rises, so many people assumed the book inspired me to do it. My response to that is, yeah, I'm somewhat of a Papa fan, but that's not the full reason. After all, I didn't run off to Baton Rouge after reading All the King's Men or to Dublin after reading Ulysses (okay, I lied, I couldn't finish it).
No, the answer is deeper than that. Upon turning 30 this year, I decided to take a step back and examine my life. I was in good health, I had a happy marriage, two gorgeous kids, a good job as a TV writer/producer, a loving family, lots of friends and a long list of things I wanted to see, do and accomplish during my time on earth.
Naturally, I decided to risk all of that.
The thing is, there's no bigger sucker for a great story than me. And what better story to commemorate my 30th birthday than to run with the bulls? If my wife knew that was the reason for my run, she'd probably kill me. But fortunately she doesn't read my stuff, so I'm safe.
And finally...
"Dude, are you %^&*ing nuts?"
If you know me at all, you also know that the answer to this one is... yeah, maybe just a little.
