The Running of the Bulls is known as the “encierro,” which literally means “the folding.”  Every morning, between July 7 and 14, it is necessary to move the bulls from their corral to the bullring. Why?  Because the corrals that hold the bulls are built about a ½ mile away from the bullring. The corrals were built near the train tracks or the river for delivery of the bulls from their ganadería. Each night, there is the “little encierro” where the bulls for the next day’s fight are ferried into the corral.

To truly run with these bulls requires a comprehension of the histories and traditions of these, God’s wonderful animals.  You aren’t running from them; you are running with them.  Since birth, these bulls have known each other, and have instinctively joined as a herd, as brothers.  Today’s sunrise is the their last.  If you run with respect and dignity, if you run in front of, or alongside of the herd, you will join -- for just a moment – these brothers, who imminently face a noble, brave, bloody, and public end.

Once in a lifetime, a bull fights so grandly, and his torero fights so bravely, the bull is left to leave the ring alive, and never to fight again.  I have never seen this, but it's said that grown men cry like tiny babies.  Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps.

Everyone develops their own personal ritual for an encierro morning. This is ours.  Like us, you will create your own over several years, and swear noone could do better.

Ari and I wander down to the course around 6 a.m. to hear some of the dianas, by Pamplona’s formally dressed band.  We buy a paper for rolling (for nervous hands, and possibly for throwing down to distract a bull that has become too interested).  We buy a caldo, off Plaza los Burgos (near the market), to drink.  It's something like a cup of warm beef bouillon.  It's supposed to calm your stomach and wet your whistle.  You really shouldn’t eat or drink much on an encierro morning. You know, in case you need anesthesia.

Before 7 a.m., we stake out a spot in Plaza Consistorial, in front of the Ayuntamiento (the town hall).  To discourage ever-increasing and dangerous crowds, the course has been closed off in recent years at 7 a.m., so late comers become early observers.  Until 7:45 a.m., we mingle with old friends, and try to meet someone or some group new every day.  We stretch, move bits of slippery trash from the course, and look at pictures of the bulls in the paper.  Ari and I finalize our plan for the run.  Except for some locals, who can step out of their business or office at the last moment, the very large majority of runners are crammed into the plaza.  Recent years have witnessed the new tradition of driving a street cleaner through the crowd at its peak.  The logic?  If the truck makes it through, the bulls might.

At 7:45 a.m., we stop talking and reflect intensely on the morning’s goals.  A few minutes before 8 a.m., the crowd is permitted to disperse throughout the course.  Depending on the crowd and the bull breed, we try to change our place on the course throughout a festival; however, for reasons outlined later, we avoid Santo Domingo.  That’s for locals.  When the crowd is permitted to disperse, the local cops stalk the masses for drunks, cameras, bags, and the feeble.  You cannot run with protective gear, backpacks, or video cameras.  And, these cops don’t carry a pocket-sized Bill of Rights, so do what they say.  If they say "step back," they really mean "take a giant step back."   

You can casually walk down all the way to the bullring at this point; however, there are always panicky runners (we call them "champagne poppers," because they run at the 1st pop they hear), and those that enter and exit the bull ring (and shower) before the first bull has left the corral.  At 8 a.m., a booming rocket announces the first bull has left the corral.  How will you know if it’s the rocket?  You’ll know.  A second rocket announces that all bulls have left the corral.  We carefully count the seconds in between, because bulls running together are much less likely to engage in mischief.  If there is a long time between rockets, it’s likely the bulls have become separated out of the corral, and danger is afoot.  However, for reasons discussed in 6th Grade Science (I’m looking at you, Chuck Yeager), the calculation between a good time and a bad time isn’t, um, rocket science.  Look at the local runners – if they leave the course, leave the course.

At this point, its important to remember: you cannot run the entire course.  A bull is faster than Carl Lewis, who went to Willingboro Highschool in New Jersey, which is just outside of Philadelphia. Pick a point on the course, and start running hard as the bulls approach in the distance.  Don't worry about the crowd at this point -- it will disappear as the bulls approach.  The bulls will overtake you – slide out in front, and then back away. You will have just run with the bulls.  In 2006, Juan Pedro Lecuona, from Pamplona, ran in front of the bulls for about 200 meters.  I'm not sure what a meter is, but just running 200 of them sounds hard.  Kidding aside, a normal human cannot usually accomplish this feat, and it is heralded as one of the greatest runs in written history.

In all this, count the bulls. Seriously, count the bulls. The bulls are released from their corral with a couple of cabestros.  How do I say this pleasantly?  They’re castrated bulls with bells (not that there's anything wrong with that).  But, they are friendly and happy, so that's nice.  And the bulls seem to like them, and are trained to follow them.  For reasons beyond my understanding, the bulls are released with different numbers of steers each morning.  The worst thing that can happen is to be caught celebrating your brilliant run when another (couple of) bull(s) appear and you find you’ve been counting steers.  If you hear the locals yelling “suelto,” you know there is a “lone bull” and danger approaching.  A bull separated from the herd is more likely to attack, to become tired and afraid, and to cause damage.  In 2005, I was surprised by a suelto, and embarrassingly forced to climb a fence.  Local runners keep friends in the balcony to give them hand signals on the remaining bulls, to tell them on which side of the street the bulls are running, and whether they should bail out.

The most important rule in running: if you fall, don’t get up.  Cover your head with your hands, and wait for someone to tell you everything is alright.  A running bull is more likely to jump over a fallen runner.  A running bull is also more likely to gore a rising runner.  Standing up distracts the bull, and he may decide to perform a physical inspection of you and your pants.  I have fallen three (3) times, and have violated this rule by instinctively standing to protect my white pants.  Imagine that:  he's dead, but his pants look so white.

Further, despite what you see, don't touch or try to distract the bull.  Some runners do, but its really frowned upon.  You might get away with it, but it might distract the bull, who may end up killing someone else.   

Guys in green shirts -- pastores -- are set up throughout the course.  Usually, they are from the bull's ranch.  Follow their instructions, if any are given, as the pastores carry long willow sticks to direct the bulls, but may wack you to gain your attention.  Ouch, it hurts.

When the last bull enters the ring and is tucked away, another rocket signals that the run is over.  Now, run somewhere to see yourself on T.V.  If Ari and I don't climb into the bull ring, we prefer Café Iruna (Pl. del Castillo) for a cafè con leche and jugo de narranja.  And a nap.  And, wow, I love those hot air balloons.