Running with Bulls in Pamplona

San Fermín in Pamplona is a festival of wine, tradition, and people running from bulls down cobblestone streets built for chaos. The encierro happens at 8 AM. Six fighting bulls, six steers, thousands of runners, and one cactus who read Carl's safety guide and did the opposite of every bullet point.

The night before, I did not sleep — not from nerves, but from a pre-run tradition I invented involving local wine and staring at the route until it blinked. A veteran runner named Miguel warned me: stay low, stay right, don't fall. I said falling is Carl's specialty. He didn't laugh. The streets were slick with last night's party and this morning's dew.

The rocket fired. The bulls released. The world became hooves and screaming and the specific terror that makes you feel alive in a way coffee never will. I ran — roots be damned — keeping my spines angled back so I wouldn't gore anyone except intentionally. A bull passed within arm's length. My hat flew off. I caught it without breaking stride. Miguel later said that was impossible. I said I had motivation.

I finished in the bullring with bruised dignity and a story Carl will pretend never happened. Miguel bought me a drink. I couldn't drink it. He drank mine too. The bulls were fine — they always are. The runners were injured in the usual ways. I was unscathed except for cobblestone scrapes and enhanced reputation. Carl sends his fan club a yearly "stay safe" reminder during San Fermín. I send proof that safe is boring.