Pamplona

With more than an hour and a half to go, we stand there and talk strategy. In these close quarters, you come to know the mix of personalities around us. First, there are those who preface the run by listing all their injuries – broken hands, cracked ribs, sprained ankles. Excuse makers exist in all walks of life. Then, there are fearless idiots who show up intoxicated and wearing sandals.

“Stay away from these disaster magnets,” I scoff. 

Lastly, there are the likable cowards like Australian Greg.

“I’m happy just to make it out unscathed,” he admits.

We nod.

“Let’s just hide here and play it safe,” we echo. Smart people live. That’s just how the world works.

Last but not least, there are Americans who tend to relate to everything to America.

“This place is Times Square New Year’s Eve times 10,” says one American in his 50’s and a recurring participant of San Fermín.

By his side is a rookie whose name I can only guess is Regret.

“I had a chance to do it in 1974 but went to Marseille instead. I’ve been regretting every year since,” he admits. Today he is here to fulfill a dream 42 years in the making. 

Brian is standing by me looking all fidgety.

“You alright man?”

“Yeeaah,” he stammers, “I need to take a shit.”