Running to the Beat, Pamplona Style.

At 8.00 a.m. this morning, yesterday morning, tomorrow morning and every morning until July 14th hearts will be beating and nerves will be frayed as the sound of rockets shatter the early solitude and a small herd of rampaging bulls are released from a corral in the small Spanish city of Pamplona. A thousand people or so will be lining a 900 metre course that heads up a hill, round a town square, then a sharp right into a long, narrow straight and then finally a sharp left. In the course of two or three minutes sheer mayhem will take place. People will trip over themselves in a mad frenzy to escape the onrush of many tonnes of beast, some may even experience the sharp pain of a horn, and all will experience an adrenaline rush of fear and relief when it is all over as they make their way to the bars in the main square to re-live their experiences over a glass of Pacharan. I have run with the bulls for three years including, in 2008, being barged head on by a jandilla bull (the most dangerous) when pinned to a fence, escaping with cuts and bruises, and a broken wristwatch sheared clean off my hand by a horn. This year I am too busy to make it but the friends I have made in sharing such experiences - Ken, Bob, Robert, Bomber and, of course, the great Joe Distler - are all there every morning, decked out in white (except for Joe in his trademark red and Robert in his Irish green top) looking for the best spot to launch their run with the bulls and enjoy a moment of rare acceptance by these thunderous animals. Even after ten, twenty or, in Joe's case, over 30 years of running, the emotions will be the same - fear, trepidation, sheer adrenalin, a release, relief, ecstasy, and when the celebrations are over midway through today the first nagging, numbing signs of fear will creep into their minds again because, tomorrow, it all starts again. Suerte, my friends. Surte!