The running of the bulls
Grab your shoes, some beer and let the chase begin
By: Brad Hurvitz
Posted: 4/20/10
Who would have guessed the quote that would change my life was to be discovered in a bathroom stall in the middle of Singapore?
Yet, that is exactly where my mother came across the following life-altering wisdom from St. Augustine:
“The world is a book, those who don’t travel read only one page.”
Could you read only a page of a textbook from your most difficult class and expect to have a greater understanding of the subject matter? Could you expect that even from your easiest class? Absolutely not. I listened to this idea and tried my best to understand it from my short list of life experiences, but could not fathom the concept that there was more to life than my important daily routine and future responsibilities.
However, by listening to the wisdom of those who have traveled and seeing the positive radiance of their faces upon returning from other countries, I altered my concept of what is important.
At that point, I dedicated the vast majority of my resources to seeing the world and understanding the myriad of cultures that we see here in the states, and those we do not.
Now, I am a 26-year-old MBA student who has been to more than 40 countries, immersed myself so deeply in some cultures that I did not see another Westerner for two months, familiarized myself with and led traditional events, fallen in love all over the world and had reverse culture shock so tormenting that upon returning home I struggled to keep up a conversation with some of my best friends.
But is adventure worth these exhausting effects? Hell yes, it is worth it!
Perhaps one of the most adventurous – and ill-conceived – events I have partaken in was running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.
Once a year in July, the small town of Pamplona has a nine-day festival that has developed into an international event where a few thousand people crowd the streets and run away from charging bulls.
It is said to be a 600-year-old Spanish tradition that has developed into this blood pumping festival for Saint Fermin.
The day before the event I was with my brother and a few friends we had met along the way 250 miles southeast in Barcelona.
Knowing that the running would start at 7:30 in the morning, we decided to take the overnight train to Pamplona that arrived an hour before the run began.
Six of us from three different countries used each other’s warmth to keep the heat in our nervous bodies as we pretended to sleep that night.
Once 5 a.m. rolled around and we were about an hour away, we promptly sat up and started downing some beers.
There is no way any fully sober person could go into a narrow street with giant bulls running after them. Of course, once we arrived at the famous street that would forever remain in our memories, we were as alert and sober as could be.
As we walked up the narrow street grounded by wet cobblestone, an excitement built that conjured up the image of marbles rattling around in a glass jar – I was going out of my mind.
The road was 30 feet across at its widest and was a half-mile sprint with a sharp 90-degree turn in the middle. This corner is where the bulls will usually slip, their momentum sliding them into the wooden walls as onlookers jump back in fright. The bulls will then gather their footing and charge the idiots foolishly running around them.
My brother told me he would stand at this turn and would warn me when the bulls were approaching. I stood across the street waiting anxiously for his call.
Once the two start rockets launched, informing the runners the gates had opened and the bulls were loose, everybody around me started jumping up and down excitedly in their white pants, white shirt, red sash and bandana.
This is when I asked myself, “What the hell am I doing?” White noise started escalating throughout the streets and grew louder with every second.
I stood waiting for my brother’s notification. I didn’t need to hear him; instead, his face appeared as if a baseball bat was being swung at him, which was the only signal I needed. (Although, he did yell some expletive followed by an urgent, “GO … GO,” causing everyone to bolt.)
I ran as fast as I could, but I was surrounded by a frenzied mass of people. Everyone was fending for their lives, pushing each other and jumping over the people who had fallen down (or using them for added leaping leverage).
I don’t recall too much from the running – except for the scene and my unusually primitive thoughts.
My brain went into flight mode, as the only things rolling in my mind were “Run … run … jump” – and after being pushed to the ground twice – “Get up … run … run.”
I saw the bulls pass me just feet away from where I ran. It was too close for comfort! Those massive animals were scared and angry, and their sharp horns were hungry for flesh.
The beasts passed me in a matter of seconds. I jogged my way towards the bull-fighting arena, where I was supposed to meet my brother.
Just as I came within a hundred feet of the entrance, a bull stopped, turned around, and put its head down as an intimidating warning.
Fifty of us circled around as it started running toward my direction. I charged for the wall and was about to leap over the fence into the cheering crowd beyond the wooden beams, but it changed direction for somebody else, who presumably – and luckily for me – had irritated it just a little bit more than me. “Phew!”
I ran as fast as I could into the arena, where I immediately found my brother, and we gave each other the biggest hug I can remember.
For hours after the event finished, my brother and I looked at each other, proclaiming we will “never do that again!” The reality of the situation only set in years later in those honest moments with my brother – I had turned a page and discovered I, too, can surprise myself and do things that I had never expected.
The book I want to look back upon later in life was in my hands, and this page was filled with risk and adventure.
Truth is – and we both saw it in each other’s eyes – if we were ever near Pamplona in July again, we would get our running shoes ready, a couple of beers and once again ask ourselves, “What the hell are we doing here?!”
Here is a picture of the running of the bulls. The day after the run, this photo was found on MSNBC. Still, to this day, we are unsure if that is me in the picture.
