To run or not to run?

We arrived in Pamplona with nothing but the shirts on our backs. No suitcases, no back packs, and certainly no cameras. Our philosophy was "the less we had, the better." We just shoved what little money we had deep into our pockets and hoped it was enough to last us a few days amidst the hedonism and paganism that roars through Pamplona every July during a little fiesta called San Fermin, otherwise known to the world as "the Running of the Bulls."\nOf course, I am being wildly sarcastic when I say 'little,' for there is nothing little about this festival. It's gigantic. Eight days of oblivion -- no sleep, excess, and dancing in the streets. Kind of like if the Indy 500 collided with a winery for eight days straight, but instead of the spectators watching the cars blur by at 200 MPH, they run on the track, seeing how close they can get without suffering grave personal injury. As if the inebriated chaos of thousands of sleep deprived Spaniards dancing in the gutters is not enough to deal with, you then have to worry about a stampede of reckless one ton beasts, with horns, snorting down your neck at eight in the morning ... that is if you choose to run.\nOur philosophy of traveling light worked wonders for our mobility, though it did however, fail to keep us warm at night. Because having a warm hotel room to sleep in requires some serious smooth talking, my friends and I slept on a hillside in a public park. Though the mountainous view was majestic and the grass quite soft, at night, the air felt like October instead of July, especially when the only clothes I had was a pair of faded Levis and a white T-shirt. Luckily, a trumpet player from Oklahoma leant me his jacket, so I was able to catch a few nods.\nSomewhere between a shiver and a dream, well before the rose-dust light of dawn, someone nudged me in the ribs and said, "Get up Halverson! If we're gonna run we have to go now!"\nTrust me, I dealt heavily with the question for many a trembling night. "To run, or not to run?" (Apologies to Shakespeare). A question which sent fear rippling though my spine, yet still it managed to bully my machismo and tease my better judgment. But regardless of the debate trading punches in my head, I could not lick the pulsing regret that surfaced every time I submitted to the safety of choosing not to run. It was beyond feeling cheated of life; that is, not running. It was a devastating feeling, as if I were being entirely denied the foolish illogical mayhem which salivates the tongue of life with irresistible curiosity.\nBut one can never have enough persuasion in dire times. Especially when dire times involve being chased from a herd of angry bulls. So after walking the gauntlet, of which, is 90 percent uphill, my friends and I headed to the corral to view our competition.\nAfter one look at the bulls, it was quite obvious that no fool in their right mind would make such a gamble. They looked like mutant linebackers -- some dangerous genetic cross-breed between Lawrence Taylor and a bulldozer gone horribly wrong. Their shoulders were swollen with muscle and every five minutes someone would whack the gate with a cane to rile them up. \nA pack of Irish hooligans were heckling the bulls as I stood near the pen, brooding over my decision to run. They seemed of a careless batch, with a dim concern for consequence, and were in such a festive mood that, to them, even such an absurd stunt as nude sky-diving (without a parachute) would be highly encouraged. Just the type of crowd for derelict inspiration. So I spoke with them and let them convince me that 'not running' was a serious crime against all things holy. Though the adrenaline of invasion was rioting within me, I was given a thick dose of reality as I made my way to the street, compliments of my Irish friends. One grabbed me and said, "this is what the horns can do." He was pointing at his friend's face, which had a scar from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.\nHaving jumper cables linked from your heart to the whirring engine of a Ferrari -- that's what it felt like standing in the street, waiting for the bulls. My friends had long abandoned me for safer ground, convinced I was a lunatic destined for Pamplona's ICU. Nothing left to do but pace, chew my fingernails, and remain conscious.\nA half hour before the starter rockets were launched my crescendo came crashing down, thanks to a line of police and their bold billy-clubs. A perfect example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I was soon herded down a side street with those around me and fenced behind a gate. I was among the "over-crowded" ones who were shoo-ed away by the billy-club, forced to watch instead of participate. Sadly, I did not get to run--a sour reality that, to this day, I am still bitter about. Who knows, maybe fate, destiny, or luck prevented me from undertaking gruesome wounds that day? But I don't believe in fate, destiny, or luck, so I have already begun saving my pennies for my plane ticket back to Pamplona next July.