NONFICTION 
"Mark and I were locked out of the major event,
the Encierro, the Running with the Bulls."

​​                                        Photo by Weebly.com                                    

Pamplona Sunrise
by  Matt Ginsburg

The previous morning had been a nightmare. After traveling six thousand miles to celebrate the festival of San Fermin in Pamplona, Mark and I were locked out of the major event, the Encierro, the Running with the Bulls.
 
Two policemen closed the gate as we approached. Each was wearing a black cap, black gloves, and a black truncheon attached to his hip. We thought we were on time, but they said we were late. We protested until one of them began fondling his weapon.
 
Although the festival would continue for another week, and there was an Encierro each morning, we were scheduled to depart that evening. We couldn’t easily change our schedule. During San Fermin, every hotel in town was packed and every train seat booked.
 
Running with the bulls had headed my bucket list for decades. I’d mortgaged my goodwill with my wife, used a chunk of my annual vacation, and drained my bank account to participate in the event. Even worse, I had told all the guys at work, including my boss, what I was going to do. Someone was sure to say I chickened out. I didn’t know what my three children thought about their dad’s adventure, but I was afraid they would always remember my lame excuse. Missing the event was a mind-blowing failure. After that, I didn’t need to get trampled by a bull, I was going to kick myself for the rest of my life.
 
Fortunately, our Spanish host, Juan Jose, thought it might be possible to rearrange our schedule and leave the next day. He worked the phone. For nearly an hour it looked like a fixture stuck to the side of his face. His eyes blazed and his free hand flapped about as he fired a continuous volley of staccato Spanish into the receiver. While Mark and I commiserated, unable to discern his progress as he jumped from one call to another, Juan Jose extended our hotel stay, amended our train tickets, and canceled our accommodations in the next city on our tour. We were set to try again.  ​
*       *       *
1
San Fermin is the largest festival in Spain. Each year it attracts over one million people. It began centuries ago to honor the patron saint of Pamplona. San Fermin was a Roman who lived in the third century, converted to Christianity, and preached throughout the region. The legend of his death states that he was murdered and his body dragged through the streets, pursued by angry bulls. This provides a tenuous explanation why legions of (mostly) men celebrate the martyred saint by sprinting through the center of town chased by a thundering herd of fighting bulls.
 
Mark and I had first discussed participating in the Encierro more than 30 years ago after we read an article in the International Herald Tribune while traveling in Europe after college. The story told of an American G.I. who was gored while running alongside a bull. An accompanying photo showed his painful expression as a horn thrust into his leg. Around him, other runners sped past, dodging the bulls, their faces a mix of concentration, fear, and ecstasy. We learned that the event was almost unknown outside of Spain until Hemingway wrote about it in his novel, The Sun Also Rises.
 
I read and enjoyed many of Hemingway’s books and admired his biography. He won the Nobel Prize by writing about three different wars, big game hunting in Africa, and bullfighters in Spain, among other exploits. He had lived a celebrated, exciting life.
 
I didn’t want to fight in a war, or kill any elephants, or even watch a bullfight. But there was something intoxicating about the idea of putting myself in a spot of danger and surviving to tell the tale. That was the essence of Hemingway’s appeal.
  
The Encierro checked that box, big time. When I later learned that he had only attended San Fermin but hadn’t run with the bulls—he was debilitated from war wounds and likely drunk the whole time—that only motivated me more. Who wouldn’t want to one-up Hemingway!
 
But the decades passed. Mark and I each got married, had children, forged careers, moved to the suburbs, and drove minivans. When we weren’t stuck behind a desk, we were coaching youth sports, driving our kids somewhere, or lost in the aisles of Home Depot. Whatever Hemingway’s writing represented, our lives embodied the opposite. I longed to escape my suburban straightjacket, if only for a few moments. Occasionally, we discussed, and I often imagined, a trip to Pamplona. Inevitably some excuse got in the way.
 
However, when my former banking colleague Juan Jose moved from New York back home to Madrid, he asked if I would be interested in attending the festival. He didn’t want to run with the bulls, but he knew I did, or at least he knew I said I did. He offered to pull some family connections to secure hotel reservations, bullfight tickets, and party invitations—all extremely difficult for the average tourista to arrange. This was like a golden ticket begging to be cashed in. It was time to put up or shut up.
​*       *       *
2
​Given a second chance, we set out from our hotel an hour earlier to make the short walk to the entrance. Dawn was breaking but despite some warmth from the first rays of sunshine, the morning breeze still felt cool. A street sweeper chugged beside us, cleaning away debris from last night's revelry. The engine's drone was accented by the tinkling of broken glass. The smell of cheap wine, street grime, and vomit, San Fermin's morning cocktail, wafted by as we approached the gate.
 
It was wide open. The policemen beside it were smiling, smoking, and casually talking to some of the runners. I felt a tinge of excitement when we saw the entrance to calle Santo Domingo, the street at the beginning of the Encierro route. It was a narrow, ancient road. Its cobblestones were chipped and pockmarked, but they glistened from an overnight cleaning. Three to four story buildings, most without windows on the ground floor, tightly framed both sides of the street allowing only a slender swath of sky overhead. It felt like we had entered a medieval canyon.
 
We were early, but in a few minutes other runners, known as corredores, began streaming through the gate. Most were wearing the uniform of the Encierro: white pants, a white shirt, and a red bandana tied around their necks. A few also had a red sash cinched around their waists. We wore blue jeans, but our white shirts and red bandanas made us feel legit.
 
Many runners carried a rolled-up newspaper. For most it was just part of the costume. But for those who dared to touch the bulls, the length of the paper baton provided a few inches of safety. Neither of us were seeking a close encounter. Our goal was to finish the run in one piece.
 
Nevertheless, we were clutching copies of the Diario de Navarra, purchased from the newsstand near our hotel. I was also wearing black weight-lifting gloves, the kind with finger openings at the ends. They were slightly padded and I thought they might protect my hands in case I accidentally fell or had to dive out of the way.
 
"The stones are wet,” observed Mark. “That's why we saw so many people falling down in the videos.” We had watched numerous renditions of the event on YouTube and knew that the most dangerous thing was to slip and fall in front of a charging bull. That was a good way, although not the only way, to get trampled and possibly killed.
 
"Hopefully, they'll be dry by the time we start. Let's go to the spot before Town Hall Square that we found last night after talking to that Spanish guy," I responded.
​*     *     *
3
o​The previous night we had discussed how to run safely with some Spanish runners who were seated next to us at a bar. Heavy metal music, most memorably AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, pounded in the background. Fortunately, our barstool neighbors still overheard us analyzing the route. One of them spoke perfect English and offered to share his strategy for minimizing contact with the bulls. He had run many times over several decades and only once had things gone wrong. He illustrated this by raising his arm and revealing a scar shaped like a lightning bolt that stretched from his wrist to his elbow, damage done by a horn.
 
"The danger is when they pass you. If you fall down, amigo, stay down. We will tell you when it is safe to get up," he said, staring at us while holding a pint of lager. His blond surfer hair seemed amiss atop his leathery face. And though his teeth were stained with tobacco and crows-feet splayed beside his eyes, his body was taut and lean, belying his age.
 
"How will you do that?" I asked.
 
"Someone will tell you when it is safe or maybe even pull you up."
 
Mark and I exchanged fleeting eye contact and then watched as he stood up, stepped away from the bar and turned back towards us, still holding his beer in his right hand.
 
"In some places, the bulls will run to one side of the street. Especially when they make the big turn after they cross Town Hall Square. At that moment, you must be on the other side." He said this last sentence slowly, sounding like a bandit in a spaghetti western. "This is when they should pass." He illustrated this point by holding his beer out to his right side and swinging his left arm forward like a football referee signaling a first down. Some of his drink splashed onto the floor.
 
After leaving the bar, we walked the entire Encierro route, examining the turns and the slope of the cobblestones, trying to envision where the bulls were likely to run. We saw that after Santa Domingo the route bended to the left, crossed Town Hall Square, and turned to the right. This was the “big turn” described by our Spanish friend. Because it whipped so sharply to the right, the bulls were carried by their momentum to the left and sometimes skidded and slammed into the barricade that was erected to protect them and the crowd.
 
One website called this Dead Man’s Corner. I imagined being caught and crushed between the bulls and the barricade. The Spaniard was right, we had to be on the other side. We decided to start at the end of Santo Domingo, on the right side. We would cross the Square as the bulls caught up with us approaching the big turn. We would stick to the right as they passed us on the left.
 
After Dead Man’s Corner, the route straightened onto Estafeta, the calle surrounded by six-story buildings all sprouting balconies crammed with raving fans. It was the longest, most iconic section of the route. It led to a tunnel that funneled into the bullfighting ring at the end of the route. If everything went as planned, the bulls would charge past us at the big turn and then we would follow them along Estafeta, arms thrust in the air, newspapers waving wildly, driven forward by thousands of espectadores cheering us from the balconies above.
​​*       *       *
4
o​The Encierro didn’t take long. It was a mere 875 meters from the pen where the bulls would be released to the Plaza de Toros, the bullfighting ring. The run was usually over in about five minutes.
 
The event was punctuated at the beginning and end by small rockets bursting overhead. The first rocket warned the corredores that the bulls had been released. Six fighting bulls weighing up to 1500 pounds, accompanied by six smaller oxen, charged from the bullpen reaching speeds exceeding 15 mph. Although the corredores began running at the sound of the rocket, the bulls quickly caught and passed most of them as they galloped towards the bullring. When the last bull was corralled, a final rocket exploded.
 
Calle Santo Domingo was about 200 meters long, stretching from the bullpen to Town Hall Square. We had entered the street at the midpoint. This was the narrowest stretch of the route and probably the most dangerous place to be when they passed. After the entry gate closed, there was no exit from the street. Here we had seen videos of runners cowering in a fetal position or leaping against the buildings at the side to avoid being pinned and gored, sometimes unsuccessfully. It was said that the author James Michener barely escaped that fate by hiding in a doorway.
 
We walked away from the bullpen toward the end of Santa Domingo. Town Hall Square was directly in front of us. Wooden barricades directed the route across the front of the Town Hall. They had enough space between their horizontal boards to allow frightened corredores to climb between and escape. We stopped on the right side of the street, in the exact spot we had decided to start from. We felt good that our planning had been thorough and were confident that we would avoid injury. I wondered how many people had taken such care in determining their starting position.
 
The crowd began singing and we were told the song was a prayer to San Fermin seeking his blessings. Mark and I weren’t Catholic, we weren’t even religious, and we certainly didn’t know the prayer. However, the spiritual vibe was contagious. I understood the old saw that there are no atheists in foxholes. We wanted San Fermin to bless us too. We saw it as an insurance policy.
 
“Protect us San Fermin,” said Mark, tilting his head to the sky, a look of reverence on his face.
 
“Run with us, holy one,” I replied, and pressed my hands together. We looked at each other, our expressions oozing sincerity, and started laughing. 
5
​After the prayer, I felt a sense of heightened anticipation. The corredores surrounding us were hopping and stretching. Almost everyone was wearing running shoes. Initially, this reminded me of the moments before an ordinary run, but I laughed to myself thinking about how different it would be. I liked to zone out when I ran for fun, sometimes closing my eyes, imagining I was somewhere else. I wouldn’t be doing that today.
 
Town Hall Square was the widest part of the route. The surrounding buildings were larger than those lining Santo Domingo. The most impressive was the Town Hall, an ornate Baroque stone structure. It was nearly six hundred years old and stood four stories high with a clock resting just below a dramatic rooftop pediment. On both sides of the roof were statues of Hercules holding a club and in the center a medieval figure blew a massive bugle amidst an assembly of bells, lions and the city's coat of arms. I imagined that the bugler would sound the start of the run, like at a horse race.
 
Below, the balconies on each floor were already filled with San Fermin VIPs, many of them dressed in red and white. They snacked on canapes and toted champagne glasses. I didn’t envy them. I hadn’t traveled all the way to Pamplona to watch. I was right where I wanted to be.
 
"Somewhere around here is where that guy went down," I said, referring to Matthew Tassio, a 22-year-old from Illinois who died in 1995. He had arrived at the festival the night before, slept in the park, and apparently no one told him that it was safest to stay on the ground if he fell, that it was better to risk getting trampled than being gored. He was knocked down while running across the Square and when he stood up, he was impaled and thrown 20 feet into the air. He died instantly.
 
"If you go down, stay down," I said, recalling the advice of our Spanish bar mate.
 
"Better to not fall down," said Mark, looking into the cobblestones.
 
The Encierro required no entry form and had only a few rules. We had read that cameras were prohibited because it was thought some people might foolishly try to take pictures of the charging bulls. Still, many people were snapping photos of each other or the surroundings with their cell phones. The only other rule was that alcohol was prohibited. We were not surprised when the police walking among us confiscated cameras and forcibly removed several drinkers and others who simply appeared drunk.
 
“The police aren’t taking any shit," said Mark.
 
"I can’t imagine doing this wasted,” I replied.
 
Soon the route filled with corredores pressed together. There was no longer any room to stretch or mug for the camera. Daybreak had passed. The sun had emerged over the skyline and it was getting hot. Above us, every balcony was packed. The rising hum from the larger crowd reinforced the growing tension. I looked at the Town Hall clock. Twenty minutes to go.
 
I ran in place, shook my arms, and rolled my head to channel an undercurrent of adrenaline. My legs were warmed up just enough. Bring it on, I thought. I didn’t want to wait any longer.
6
​Suddenly, we were being pushed forward, herded across the Square, around the big turn, and onto Estafeta. What the hell is going on? I thought. It's too early to start. We looked behind us. About ten meters back was a row of a dozen policia, distinctive in their blue outfits, holding their truncheons horizontally in front of them, forcing the crowd forward. This is unbelievable, I thought. We’re not going to run the full course.
 
Entering Estafeta, we saw another row of policia 30 meters ahead. They were blocking the way, walking slowly with their truncheons thrust forward, squeezing our group towards an exit on the left. Amidst the cacophony and confusion, my heart pounded. I wanted to turn around and push back, to escape, but was trapped inside the shuffling throng. We were being pushed out of the route.
 
"Why are we being forced out?" I asked Mark, not expecting an answer.
 
"Maybe it's too crowded. They are thinning us out."
 
“You’re right. We’re going to get screwed again!"
 
We now heard more English than we had all morning. People were shouting. Everyone was demanding to know what was happening. I initially thought that the locals knew where to start and that the policia reduced the crowd by culling foreigners who didn't know where to stand. But then I recalled what that Spanish guy had advised us, so maybe this was arbitrary, like when they closed the gate early yesterday.
 
Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Our group was pushed forward. We were perhaps one-third of the way through the entire route and getting close to the opening on the left.
 
The thought of getting forced out was terrifying. Everything that happened yesterday morning flashed before me. We couldn't return another day, not again. Juan Jose had gone back to Madrid. Repeating the slew of logistical changes without his help seemed hopeless. The frustration and humiliation I felt yesterday would be magnified. It was already building inside me.
 
As my mind raced, my stomach clinched. My temples throbbed and I broke into sweat. How could I return to California having failed twice to enter a run open to everyone, a run that we had talked about for years, bragged about for months, and had scheduled our entire summer around? A memory flashed of watching previous Encierros on YouTube at my desk at work, surrounded by my colleagues. My boss had quipped that I hadn’t grown up. Now I thought I might as well die. I was ready to explode.
 
"This is fucked," I said, on the verge of tears.
 
"Maybe we can get back in through one of the barricades," Mark replied.
 
We looked at each other, both certain that the situation was bleak and that we weren't going to give up. I realized we had been turned away too easily yesterday. We were compliant patsies. We hadn’t tried to get in another way. Not this time, I thought. NFW! Until the run started, we still had a chance to participate.
7
​My Spanish was limited. I thought of what I could ask a policeman as we approached the line of them in front of us. "Que pasa, amigo?" I thought. "Encierro es possible?" What else could I ask?
 
After we were pushed out of the route, I ran towards a policeman who stiffened and raised his club. I tried to calm down and took a deep breath. I didn't expect any assistance or even an explanation; I had no other ideas except to plead for help.
 
"Por favor, Senor," I said, "Como yo puedo corrido? Encierro es possible?" I begged him if it was still possible to run.
 
Below his police cap, his weather-beaten face stayed expressionless. He didn't want to acknowledge me but I stared at him, seeking pity with my eyes. After a moment he glanced at me and pointed his club down the street and quickly swirled it to the left.
 
"Izquierda, rapidamente," he said. To the left, rapidly. Got it.
 
I looked at Mark and cried, "To the left." He nodded, his eyes glowing, his face flushed. We sprinted in the direction of the waving truncheon.
 
There were less than ten minutes now before the bulls would be released. The gates had closed some time ago. The TV crews were on standby. Yet, we were outside of the Encierro route and it was blocked by barricades and guarded by policia. It was also surrounded by thousands of people pressed against the sides hoping to see the run.
 
"Izquierda, rapidamente," hung in the air. We ran to the closest intersection, turned left, and began sprinting back toward the bullpen. People of all ages, families, couples, teenagers, were streaming through the side streets, smiling and laughing, some drinking, as if headed to a 4th of July parade. We darted in between them, desperate to find a way back in.
 
We heard singing. We knew that some hymns for San Fermin were sung before the race. Hearing the music reinforced our urgency. These songs were like the national anthem back home; when they were over, the event would begin.
 
We could see the beginning of the route. We were near the opposite side of Santo Domingo from where we had entered earlier through the gate. We reached the area in front of the bullpen and saw two wooden barricades with a walkway in between. They were made of five horizontal boards separated by about a foot of open space. Behind the second barricade, I could see the corredores, packed inside the base of Santa Domingo, just in front of the bullpen.
8
​In front of us a crush of people pressed against the barricade. We pushed our way through, acting as if we were supposed to be on the other side. Reaching the barricade, we saw medical personnel wearing red vests with red and white crosses on the back standing inside the buffer zone. Several policia were also inside pacing back and forth, scanning the crowd. One stood immediately in front of us. The shade from his visor covered his eyes. He was gripping a truncheon that he rapped against his free hand.
 
The barrier was at least six feet tall. Everyone would see us if we tried to scale it. The police might beat us down. Below, the lowest board was less than two feet off the ground. It might be possible to crawl under it.
 
When the closest policeman looked away, I dropped down and slithered under the fence and into the buffer zone, smearing a rancid souvenir missed by the street cleaner across my clothing. Mark followed. When we stood up the policeman was within arms’ length. He turned towards us. It was impossible not to meet his gaze. I froze.
 
Our eyes locked. His expression was surprisingly indifferent. It was like I saw him, but he didn’t see me. He didn't react at all. Then he looked away.
 
We bolted across the buffer, dove under the lower board of the back barricade, and squeezed into the pack of corredores on Santo Domingo. We made it!
 
I could hear Mark gasping behind me as we wedged into the center of the street. When it seemed safe, I turned to look at him. His face was red, droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead.
 
“God, I can’t believe it,” I panted. My heart was thumping and my face was dripping.
 
Mark started to say something, but then he caught his breath, smiled and tapped my chest with his newspaper. “You picked up someone’s paella from last night,” he said laughing. “You stink.”
 
I surveyed the damage, a dirty yellow sash across my white shirt. My arm was scraped and bleeding. I shrugged my shoulders.
 
“We are probably the only people who got forced out and made it back in. I don’t think there was any other way. That cop saved us," I said.
  
"We're not going to make it up to the Square,” said Mark.
 
He was right, we were stuck. We were mashed into the ancient passageway, perhaps 100 meters in front of the bullpen. We were going to start from the place we had tried to avoid.
 
Neither of us mentioned that. What was the point? I thought. I didn’t care about what might have been, or what should have been. I felt lucky to be there. 
9
​Santo Domingo looked so different than last night when we quietly planned our route among the revelers or even earlier this morning when we had entered through the gate and strolled to Town Hall Square. Now we were crammed so tight it felt like a mosh pit. Some people were jumping up and down, like pumping pistons, relieving their tension by moving the only way possible.
 
The corredores, the espectadores, everyone started singing again. Outstretched arms wielding newspaper rolls thrust forward in unison, in rhythm with the hypnotic chant. A martial fervor hung in the air; it felt like we were all brothers in arms, preparing for a sacred mission. This has to be the last song, I thought.
 
"Viva San Fermin," rang out after it ended. This is it, I thought. Game on! Adrenaline shot through my body. My muscles tensed, my heart raced, and I was breathing like I’d already started running. I squeezed the newspaper and furrowed my brow, ready to charge.
 
A rocket sailed overhead. It whistled sharply, then exploded over an undulating sea of red and white. A roar erupted. A wave pushed us from behind. I placed a hand on the shoulder of the person in front of me and surged forward.
 
A minute later the pack loosened and we began to run, quickly reaching full stride. I looked ahead, focused on my footing, scanning the cobblestones, and tried to avoid bumping anyone. I immediately lost Mark.
 
I wondered when the bulls would catch us. I was still on Santo Domingo when I felt the road vibrating. As the stampede approached, the sound of pounding hoofs swelled until it felt like that boulder Indiana Jones escaped from was rumbling behind me. I looked back and saw the bulls, their heads bouncing, horns puncturing the space ahead.
 
I sprinted along the right side of the street and just reached the Town Hall Square when the first bull rushed by on my left. There was a runner in between and I didn't make contact. We turned left in front of the Town Hall building when a second bull charged behind me. Instead of weaving out of his way and running beside him, I panicked. I took a step to the side and slid feet first, like a baseball player, and passed under a barricade.
 
I felt the ground shake as I popped up on the other side of the barrier and spun around to see the rest of the herd gallop past. I climbed back into the street, still clutching my newspaper, and joined the remaining corredores chasing the bulls into Dead Man’s Corner.
 
In front of us, several bulls had slammed into the wall on the left side of the turn. A crackling sound, like timber snapping, resounded. One bull had fallen down, slid across the slippery stones, and staggered to his feet. He jerked around and faced the approaching runners. His twisting head sent reams of snot shooting towards us. I was no more than 10 meters away.
10
​Most of us stopped, except for a few corredores who seemed to relish the challenge. These macho hombres ran past him on the right whirling their newspapers, taunting and luring the angry beast forward onto Estafeta. He lunged and galloped after them, slicing through the group and disappearing into the crowd. All of the bulls were ahead of me now, charging toward the Plaza de Toros.
 
I could see the herd split the pack of corredores ahead like a bowling ball slamming into a rack of pins. Many runners darted or dove to the sides of the street as the bulls approached from behind. Some fell down and disappeared from view. Others, those who might later make it onto the television replays, ran alongside the bulls, guiding them with their newspapers and even grabbing a tail or a horn. I didn't see anyone get gored.
 
The run down Estafeta was exactly as I had imagined. Safely behind the bulls, I ran with carefree exhilaration, the wind in my face, buoyed by the fans cheering from the balconies. I felt like one of the stars in a ticker-tape parade.
 
Another rocket exploded overhead. This signified that the bulls were safely locked away somewhere ahead of us. My body relaxed as a wave of relief washed through me. I slowed to a jog, and lifted my arms in the air. I did a couple 360 spins while I ran. I wanted that moment to last forever.
 
I ran through the tunnel leading to the Plaza de Toros, one of the largest bullfighting rings in the world. To my surprise, the grandstands were filled with boisterous espectadores. A brilliant ending! I thought, ready to soak up the sun, catch my breath, and bask in the adulation of the crowd. But they weren't cheering the end of the run.
 
A bull was loose in the ring. It charged and scattered the corredores like frightened cats. Another bull appeared, then another, and another. I was a safe distance away and saw that these bulls were smaller than the ones in the Encierro. Their horns were taped, presumably to blunt their impact, but they bucked wildly and were strong enough to throw someone to the ground and mean enough to pursue them into the dirt. I stayed behind the pack, shifting back and forth, moving in the opposite direction of the action. I couldn’t relax; there was never a safe spot for very long.
  
For some corredores, this was the highlight of the morning. Using their newspapers and in some cases their shirts, they stood before the bulls, challenging them to charge and then stepping or diving aside in a parody of the bullfighting we had witnessed two days ago. Several people were knocked down and injured. A woman was pursued on the ground, butted repeatedly, and fortunately rescued by other corredores who, acting like rodeo clowns, distracted the raging beast.
11
​I later learned that the bulls in the ring were actually heifers, known as vaquillas. When the fighting bulls were corralled, a group of vaquillas was released to add amusement. And though the spectators hooted and laughed as some of the corredores recklessly engaged these smaller creatures, it was not without danger. Earlier in the festival a New Yorker was thrown onto his back and paralyzed.
 
After ten minutes, feeling frazzled and ready to quit, I pulled myself over the fence that separated the ring from the seats. But before I could get settled, two vaquillas jumped the fence and rampaged across the lower seats. Spectators scrambled up the stands. I ran around to the other side of the stadium and climbed back into a safe spot in the ring.
 
The two errant vaquillas leaped back into the ring, charging toward a group of shirtless corredores. One, perhaps drunk, frozen with fear, or just stupid, stood his ground and was rammed in the chest. I winced and felt the “thud” as he flew back and sprawled across the dirt. He quickly rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and fled, turning sharply to evade pursuit. He stumbled, fell, and would have been pounded again but for the intervention of a group of cowboys who entered from across the ring, serenaded by whistling and jeers from the crowd.
 
The cowboys carried long sticks that they used to steer the vaquillas away from the corredores. The herd was quickly separated and driven towards a gate at the back. In the grandstands people were standing, some were starting to leave.
 
I was wondering if Mark was okay when I spotted him sitting in the center of a patch of empty seats. He was smiling, watching the action like the other spectators. I climbed over the fence again, relieved to see him and eager to compare stories. He saw me approach and we both grinned.
 
My body began to tingle. I wanted to pinch myself to be certain the moment was real. Everything that had happened, all the confusion, frustration, and anger, it was all worth it. We had done it! I felt giddy. I started nodding my head in affirmation of something I couldn’t articulate. We had succeeded, but it was more than that. We slapped hands as I plopped down next to him.
 
“What the hell was that?” I asked, motioning towards the area.
 
“I don’t know. I thought the run was over when we entered the bullring,” replied Mark.
 
"I lost you,” I said. “How close did you get?"
 
"I touched one with my newspaper," he said, smiling and holding up his trusty roll. "What about you?”
 
"I bailed at one point. I slid under a barrier, but got right back in. I was never close enough to touch one." I looked down at my soiled clothes; my pants were torn and the blood on my arm was mostly dried. "I'm glad I wore these," I said, holding up my gloved hands.
 
Mark looked me over and shook his head. "You still stink," he said laughing. He was right: I could smell it too.
12
​I leaned back and stretched my legs across the seat in front of me. All the tension and anxiety drained away. My body felt like a piece of cooked spaghetti. I stared into the bullring, seeing nothing, lost in thought.
 
We had a good reason, a great reason, not to run with the bulls and it had nothing to do with danger. Fate had opposed us, blocking our way, twice. But we fought back, against the longest of odds, and won! It would have been so easy to give up.
 
As I thought about the day, I imagined Hemingway watching us. He was standing on a balcony, dressed like a corredor, sipping champagne. A smile stretched across my face, my chest swelled, and satisfaction surged inside me. I had only hoped to enjoy a few moments of the great man’s world. I realized that my own story was even better.
 
I didn’t want to leave. I tilted my head back, slumped in my seat, and closed my eyes. When at last I opened them, I noticed that the sun had risen high enough to remove the shadows from the center of the ring. 
13
Vertical Divider
​Matt Ginsburg received an MFA degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in playwriting at San Francisco State University. His work explores his interest in business, economics, and politics. His plays have been read or performed at numerous theaters in San Francisco. He has also had three short stories and three works of memoir published in previous editions of Vistas & Byways. He serves on the Editorial Board of our publication. 
Other works in this issue:
Fiction:
​The Surprise Catch
Preview:  
A Preview of the Literary Works in this Issue

Vertical Divider

We Welcome Comments
Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and photography by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University​.​
Vertical Divider
Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to theVistas & Byways  volunteer staff.