Travel Reference
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Run?
No way. We could barely walk. I frankly felt part and parcel of the death of nature and cul-
ture even then and couldn't have given a flat flying fuck about running anywhere, much less
down the middle of a street chased by a gang of abused bulls who knew they had nothing to
lose.
So we jockeyed for a vantage and finally found a space that for some reason the crowd
avoided. Oh, wait, that line painted right there on the street is the runner's line. We needed to
be on the outside. But no sooner did I step back outside the line than a fascist billy club came
down on my shoulder. The Guardia Seville yelled that nobody crossed back out. Maybe they
recognized me. I shook my head. They shook their clubs, itching to brain me. I didn't think I'd
puke for another few minutes but really couldn't lift my shoes from the sorry ass shuffle of the
downtrodden. So I shuffled down the street, thinking I'd go ahead and shuffle into the arena
before the bulls were released. After all, it was still two minutes to seven.
But someone shrieked in another universal language, and it was on. Bulls weren't actually
necessary for the few ounces of adrenaline squirting into the heart. A few Spaniards in tradi-
tional white pants and shirts with red neckerchiefs ran past at full speed and jumpstarted me
to the coronary redline on the very next beat. A quick glance back at the thundering tonnage
of hooves confirmed the onslaught. Death was imminent. Way too big to dodge or duck un-
der, the trampling wave pounded things senseless.
The first few bulls were fast, much faster than me, so I took a lead from a Spaniard and
found a doorway to duck into. It allowed only a foot or so of recess, but that seemed better
than sticking out from the wall. Many bulls remained, so I ran with the crowd toward the tun-
nel. The tunnel was mayhem if you got caught in there with the bulls. I slowed, glanced back
and then downshifted for a balls-out sprint through the darkness that kept stretching, stretch-
ing, even as the turf pounded closer from the rear. Life would end in a pounding—but then
shooting into daylight I ran for the perimeter of the arena, where fans cheered and beckoned
me to run faster.
Andale!
They urged with gaining urgency. Pop eyes and sweat-beaded faces reflected the
reaper one step back.
With a hot snort on my neck I thrust both arms up just at the wall. In a blink the hands
of God grasped my forearms and sprung me up and over to safety. Eager fans patted my back
and head briefly then returned to the fray and another runner to save. Here too was rare evid-
ence in the case for humanity. I loved them in a dazed hangover, panting and feeling existence
just over the line.
Well, it was a beautiful time of survival, all things considered, but Pamplona felt ready for
an exit, what with the shit and toilet paper running downhill and the binge going way past the
limits of a binge. Somewhere else seemed in order. Anywhere would do. The loosely spoken
plan was for John and me to ride along with Jane and Rianne. Chas and Billy would ride in
