“Do you like our plan, Mr. Spencer?” Mr. Jones inquired.

I nodded, exhaling a wisp of morning air. “I do, Mr. Jones. Let’s proceed.”

I had uttered those words to my trusty comrade, Mr. Jones, on numerous occasions before. Whether we were braving scorching deserts, infiltrating ancient fortresses, sharing meals with enigmatic sheiks, or venturing onto treacherous waters in our kayaks, those words were our creed. So it struck me as somewhat surprising that Mr. Jones felt compelled to seek my affirmation once more. It prompted a brief, two-second pause, a momentary reflection, before I made my commitment for the final time. The challenge at hand was formidable: 10,000 pounds of enraged bulls charging in our direction. Yet, we were as prepared as we would ever be.

For those who have not experienced the tumultuous fervor of San Fermin, it defies adequate description, save for this: it was a place where men could briefly reclaim their essence, if only for a mere five seconds. For those who choose to delve deeper into our tale, I shall endeavor to convey its essence. The running of the bulls, an ancient Spanish ritual, persisted as a means to inject a dose of traditional Spanish masculinity into lives often emasculated by the rigors of modern society. San Fermín was a week-long, deeply rooted celebration that unfolded annually in the city of Pamplona, nestled in the northern reaches of Spain. These festivities bore the name of the saint himself, who had met a gruesome end, dragged to his demise and subsequently canonized as a martyr by the Catholic Church. It was believed that his life had concluded on September 25, AD 303.

The notion of confronting the bulls had intermittently flickered on our YOLO (You Only Live Once) list, but fate would have it that the stars aligned, and a motley crew of friends, family, and wanderers converged in Spain during the first week of July of 2023. While I had hesitated to broach this audacious scheme with my lady, when I eventually did, she threw her unwavering support behind it. And her arms around me. Her sons, it appeared, had already committed themselves with little more than a passing thought. As for her, well, she would have more thoughts on the matter later.

“C: ‘I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.’ J: ‘Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-runners.’ ” — Ernest Hemingwayfbancony

We were but novice runners in a sport that bore an inherent danger, even mortality. Thus, we embarked on a diligent regimen of preparation. We sought out individuals who had actually ventured into the fray, listened to their tales, and absorbed their wisdom. We immersed ourselves in the Netflix documentary, “Chasing Red,” and enlisted the services of its star, Dennis, to serve as our mentor. We secured a prized balcony overlooking the Mercaderes straightaway, orchestrating our schedule to align with the grandest of parties, all to evade the chaotic mess of hungover revelers on the course. Despite our preparations, nothing could fully brace us for the visceral reality awaiting us in the coming dawn.

In the sultry, pre-dawn fracas of San Fermin, on Day 2, Dennis gathered us together and began his briefing. “In the past 113 years of running San Fermin,” he began, “only sixteen souls have met their end. Yesterday saw six injuries, no gorings, and no fatalities. Your odds, my friends, are rather favorable.” In the dimly lit mist, not a single sigh of relief escaped our lips. Dennis delved deeper into the intricacies: the initial throng of 5,000 clogging the course would soon dwindle to fewer than 500, as the remaining 90% either retreated behind barriers or were expelled for inebriation. He explained the five lanes of runners; 1&5 were the outsides, where people hide and clog the path; avoid if possible. Lanes 2&4 are on the flanks of the bulls and have the most free room. Lane 3 is on the horns. Good luck there. We were given a choice of three primary starting points: Santo Domingo, Mercaderes, and Estefada, each catering to descending levels of skill (more on that later). Dennis imparted three unmistakable signs of the bulls’ approach: the deafening roar of the crowd, the telltale zing of the sky cam trailing the lead bull, and the palpable fear etched in the eyes of fellow runners when a bull drew perilously close. Dennis stressed a cardinal rule: if you fell, shield your head and remain prone until someone tapped you; otherwise, the bulls might treat you as a human plow, with dire consequences. With luck, you’d experience a fleeting five seconds in the company of these magnificent beasts, and if you sprinted with all your might, you’d reach the raucous revelry at the stadium. “Good luck,” he concluded.

It was the most invaluable fifteen-minute lesson I had ever absorbed.

With newfound knowledge, we surveyed the course, selected our positions, and waited as the Spanish sun cast its golden light upon the Estephada turn, momentarily blinding half of the runners on the Mercaderes straightaway.

By 7:00 AM, we were inspecting and choosing our starting points. Santo Domingo seemed ill-advised, as bulls were known to charge uphill with threefold intensity, and being their first encounter upon entering the square seemed fatally reckless. Past the Ayuntamiento, there lay a sweeping left turn that would force the bulls into the right-hand wall, another perilous encounter at full speed. Mr. Jones and I marked our spots just beyond the turn, affording us a 100-yard dash before the treacherous “Dead man’s” turn. The rest of our party opted for Estefada, positioned by the Fuji sign, offering a lengthy straightaway and the highest likelihood of entering the ring afterward. However, this stretch also attracted the most rookie runners, posing a potential trip hazard.

By 7:30 AM, we returned beneath the balcony for a final opportunity to relieve ourselves and bid farewell to our beloved spectators, who would observe the spectacle from their vantage point above the Mercaderes straight. They also served as a designated rendezvous should we lose our way. This was a critical moment because we had entrusted our phones to the hands of the unknown, opting instead to carry a piece of paper containing copies of our passports, emergency instructions, and crucial phone numbers. Selfies were not on our agenda. I found myself alone, with a calm and empty bladder, waiting amidst the drunken revelry that had defined the past 36 hours of San Fermin. I purchased a panuela for my son, intending to pass it down to him should he ever decide to run. We assembled for one final photograph below the balcony as the roars of anticipation continued to swell, signaling our move toward our designated positions in the square.

At 7:45, the Mayor, accompanied by an imposing police escort, conducted a ceremonial inspection of the course, a spectacle that seemed more pageantry than a practical process. The police, however, seized the opportunity to clear the route of those revelers who had lost their balance or their nerve. It was at this moment that Mr. Jones and I were instructed to remove our hats, a precaution against the possibility of these essential accessories being inadvertently grabbed at the wrong moment. In hindsight, we ought to have replaced them later, for purposes of identification, but such considerations eluded us in the face of the impending chaos.

And so, by 8:00 AM, the first rocket pierced the sky, signifying the release of the bulls from their corral. These particular bulls hailed from the Jose Escolar Gil’s Farm, known for their speed. As Dennis had shared with us, these bulls had grown up together, frolicking in vast fields for years. Yet, the previous night had seen them packed into a corral, where they were confined tightly. By morning, they were more than eager to be unleashed, and the sound of the rocket acted as a catalyst. After a single circuit around the corral, the six bulls surged through the open gate, as if half a dozen heifers were waiting just around the bend. They charged uphill, gaining momentum with every stride, heading for Ayuntamiento and the initial line of runners bathed in the gentle glow of the rising sun, where Dennis stood ready. The crowd on the balconies erupted in a cacophony of cheers. The bulls bore down on us, and we held our ground.

Around 8:00:30, the distinct sound of the skycam came to a halt after the turn, accompanied by the deafening roar that now included the 10,000 pounds of thundering hooves. I adjusted my position, drifting slightly to the left, occupying lanes 2 and 3, and surveyed the runners ahead whose eyes had shifted from distant unease to intense determination. These were the runners closest to the horns, signaling that the moment to commence our sprint had arrived.

Bulls!

I veered left, my anticipation centered on the belief that the bulls would correct their course after their initial collision with the right wall on the first turn. I had ample space to maneuver, navigating through both the people ahead and the bulls in hot pursuit. As I passed by the unassuming Burger King establishment (a peculiar landmark in this chaotic milieu), the lead bull, a formidable black-grey specimen from [the farm], surged forward, closely trailed by several grays and browns. Little did I know, this particular bull was the one Dennis had managed to brush horns with at full tilt. Approximately 10 meters from the turn, one bull faltered inexplicably, a common occurrence among these creatures, and its stumble unleashed pandemonium. It collided with an unfortunate runner, his ribs bearing the brunt of the impact, and heads crashing against knees. While it felt as though I were in dangerously close proximity, photographic evidence later revealed that I had never ventured closer than five feet from any set of menacing horns or powerful haunches.

By 8:01:00, I had veered back behind the sixth bull as they barreled into the Mercaderes turn, a maneuver marked by a distinct lack of grace but brimming with self-preservation. A Spanish dentist, clad in a pink shirt—whom I would come to greatly admire for his adroit dodging of those lethal horns—executed a near-miraculous feat, narrowly avoiding disaster with each turn. I followed his lead, vaulting over an unfortunate individual sprawled beneath the Fuji sign on Estefada. With approximately six bulls ahead of me and, by my estimate, six more trailing behind, I sprinted with every ounce of strength left in me toward the stadium, acutely aware that six additional bulls awaited our arrival.

By 8:05:00, the half-mile felt interminable, but I finally reached the downhill curve leading to the stadium’s entrance, just as the second wave of bulls charged forth. The descent funneled us into a narrow tunnel, a challenging passage with no room for evasion, its cobblestones giving way to sandy terrain as we entered the ring. The tight quarters, coupled with the additional 5,000 pounds of rampaging horned might trailing behind, spelled a recipe for human pile-ups. However, I managed to avoid being ensnared in this disordered chaos, navigating around the fallen and the snowplowed. Curiously, human pile-ups seemed to be an Australian tradition, observed at the gate and defying all semblance of rationality. Bulls, however, wasted no time in discerning their path: it was a wall of reckless human bodies that deserved to be bulldozed.

By 8:10:00, all the bulls had entered the ring, penned into a separate section to await their evening performance—a tradition subject to much debate but deeply ingrained in the culture. In my perspective, they all met the same fate in a society that celebrated the consumption of meat. The only difference was in the level of dignity bestowed upon them in death, a matter on which the Spanish held distinct views. The gates to the pen were securely locked, and roughly 1,000 runners gathered in the ring. There, they danced around smaller bulls devoid of any sense of humor, while 25,000 onlookers alternated between cheering and jeering, depending on the skill and audacity of the runners. As far as I could reckon, only 250 San Fermin runners made it into the ring, while the remainder consisted of the drunks and teenagers who had been expelled from the course but were more than happy to rejoin the revelry in the ring. For any true aficionado of the San Fermin run, being tossed in the ring was a source of embarrassment.

After a half-hour of maneuvering around smaller, yet still formidable bulls, the crowd’s enthusiasm began to wane, and we shared the sentiment. It was time for everyone, including us, to go home and rest, perhaps to reflect on the inexplicable allure of the spectacle. All that remained was to convene at our designated spot for a delightful concoction of chocolate milk and brandy—an oddly satisfying choice for that early hour. To our surprise, the Spanish TV station deemed it necessary to interview us, the curious men in berets, although our Spanish left much to be desired. Fortunately, Luka, who had arrived from our balcony, served as a perfect translator. To this day, I remain oblivious to the content of our conversation during that interview.

Indeed, there were no American casualties that day, aside from a few broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and a couple of concussions. Curiously, these incidents seemed to be separately tabulated for Americans. We returned to San Sebastian, where we were celebrated throughout town, and then journeyed on to the South of France, where the enthusiasm continued unabated. However, upon our return to the United States, the awe surrounding our adventure faded into indifference, and we began to set our sights on the next exhilarating endeavor.

“Do you like our plan, Mr. Spencer?”