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longer five-minute run down this 848-meter stretch of narrow, enclosed road that more
closely resembles the sidewalks and alleys I'm used to in the United States. This is partic-
ularly scary for me because before Thursday night, the biggest bull I'd ever seen was Bill
Wennington.
It's a fact: people are going to get hurt. It happens every year. People are gored, thrown,
trampledbyhumans,trampledbybulls.Sometimespeopledie,thoughnoonehasbeenkilled
ing good luck in Spanish and English and Aussie English, trying to stay positive with each
other, but looking at friends with faces that say something serious. According to the locals
I've spoken to, most of the people who get hurt are foreigners—most of them don't know
what to do.
“One last thing,” I say to Dan. “Let's agree that neither of us should feel pressured to do
thisjustbecause theotheris.Thisisanindividual choice. Neither ofushassledBrianandfor
good reason. Don't feel like you have to be here because I'm here, and I'm not going to feel
like I have to because you're here. We still have time to get the hell out.”
Dannodshishead.Ihonestlydon'tthinkhehasreconsideredthissincewebookedourtrip
two months ago. If he is scared, it isn't showing.
“I'm doing it,” he says. “I'm here. I'm doing it. I have to.”
For the last few months, I legitimized running with the bulls by telling people I played
soccer in high school and am generally faster than most people. One hundred percent of the
people I said this to laughed. Somehow they knew already that speed is going to be as valid
as spandex on a bike 'n' brew.
Atelevisioncameraispanningacrossourfacesaswespeak.Itrytohidetheworry.Ithink
about my mom. I think about my family together at our cabin in the Wisconsin Northwoods,
fishing, skiing, playing the Rolling Stones, safe, worried. I sat up all night in our hotel room
whileDanandBriansleptlastnight,allofusinthesamebed,andIstillcan'ttellifI'mdoing
thisasonelastadventurebeforeImakeaseriousattemptatsettlingdownorifI'mdoingthis
because this is what I'm turning into: a true model of self-destruction.
“Insituationslikethis,”Isay,“Ialwaysgetthefeelingthatifsomeoneisgoingtogethurt,
it's going to be me.”
“Why's that?” Dan asks.
“I suppose because I'm always the one who gets hurt.”
We've done some stupid things on this trip. In Cinque Terre we jumped off rocks into the
sea at two in the morning after watching Italy beat Germany in the Euro semifinals. In Bar-
celona, I got robbed on the way back to our apartment at four in the morning, and we all got
molested by prostitutes afterward.
We came to Pamplona on a bus Thursday and went to a bullfight. I don't agree with Hem-
ingway. I don't know much about bullfighting, and maybe it was different in 1923, but from
