Bull Session

Melissa Schorr

Tuesday, June 2, 1998 | 9:53 a.m.

The testosterone was flowing almost as freely as the Sangria when the decision was made to run with the bulls.

"Let's do it," suggested one of my traveling companions, and the others, undeniably all male, agreed.

I turned to look at my boyfriend of the time -- a solid, Midwestern, student-of-the-law. Surely, he'd have more sense than that. Surely, he didn't want to leave me bull-widowed in a foreign land.

Instead, he had an unfamiliar gleam in his eye -- like a steer suddenly infected with Mad Cow disease.

The news that Mesquite's City Council agreed to host a Running of the Bulls in Nevada on July 11 resurrected memories of my own night -- "The Shunning of the Bulls" -- four summers ago in Pamplona, Spain.

Any chance that they will accurately re-create this ancient Spanish tradition is far-fetched: A bogus bull run down Mesquite Boulevard, with its '50s-style diners and insurance offices, spilling out into Si Redd's Oasis's parking lot?

One shudders to think what Papa Hemingway might have to say about that.

Anyone who's walked the narrow, crooked streets of Pamplona and roasted under the sun in the Plaza de Torros knows it'll take more than a couple of steers let loose in the streets to transform Mesquite into a mecca of machismo.

The night before

Our own trip began on a long-planned whim -- we arrived in Pamplona unprepared, abandoning our hotel room 100 miles down the train tracks in the coastal city of San Sebastian.

Rooms are typically booked up to a year in advance for this annual institution, dating back to the 16th century, which is held during seven dog days in July starting the seventh day of the month.

Upon arriving in town the night before the race, we learned that not a single bed was to be had. We would have to spend the night with countless others, sleeping in the public park, undeterred by rumors that the "policia" came around with hoses to discourage the vacationing vagabonds.

We were unprepared in other ways, too. We arrived in summer wear, not realizing the mountainous atmosphere would make for a chilly evening. None of those who decided to run -- Nick, Brian, John and my beau, Greg -- had the proper garb: the all-white, loose painters pants outfits, or the mandatory dashing red sash to tie around one's waist or neck.

They had little idea of how the race was run -- or the chances of survival. Three people had been hurt in the previous day's run, according to what we could decipher from the Spanish newspaper. The somber prospect of making news as the young American -- and it seems there's always at least one, isn't there? -- to be fatally gorged that year wasn't mentioned.

None of it mattered -- they were ebullient, young, foolish, thousands of miles from home and a universe from reality. Friendships were forged in a hurry. Fellow travelers met on the packed train ride in had become instant comrades -- blood brothers, if need be.

One does not prep for the race with a full night's sleep and a bowl of pasta. On the contrary, running with the bulls requires a healthy disregard for any inkling of common sense.

Early in the evening, we stumbled into the main square, the Plaza Del Castillo, where music and dancing were there for the taking in every direction. We miraculously got a table, ordered some pitchers of sweet wine, some fried croquettes, some more sweet wine. We ventured on the dance floor, dumping our oversized back packs in a pile on the floor before us, and danced to the live music until we were dripping with sweat.

Later, we meandered through the tiny twisted streets for the rest of the evening, bar-hopping and loading up on churros -- long, fried bread dipped in thick hot chocolate -- for a much-needed reserve of energy. The streets were so densely packed with broken glass and people that we had to link hands to ensure no one would be left behind in the crowd. Vendors sold beads, balloons and red roses for the runners to console their inconsolable mates.

The mood was Mardi Gras on steroids. Despite my growing anxiety for what the morning would bring (and where we'd spend the night), the enthusaism was infectious. People were unabashedly dancing throughout the narrow streets. And it went on and on and on, an unending frenzy that was still going strong that morning -- long after even the most raucous stateside New Year's Eve celebrations die down.

After a few hours of fitful sleep on a grassy mound, we woke at dawn to find that somehow, the proper accoutrements had been rustled up from street vendors, the wooden fence lining both sides of the "spooky" streets had been hastily erected, and it was time for the runners to get in line.

It was almost time for the race to begin.

Countdown to the race

We said our goodbyes to our foolhardy four like we were shipping them off to war.

Inwardly, I was torn -- I was terrified of their decision to run, but who was I to insist someone pass up a once-in-a-lifetime experience? (There was never any question that we women travelers wouldn't join them, although there was a sprinkling of female participants.)

Showing no fear, they jauntily handed off their bags, waved goodbye and left us to make our way to the packed arena to await their emergence.

Inside the stadium, singers, clowns and a small band were doing their best to entertain the frenzied crowd. Suddenly, a cannon boomed, then another. The two Spanish girls sitting next to us explained that the cannons signified when the first and last bull had been released into the streets.

It didn't take long -- a few minutes, at most, to dash the 800 meters -- before the first runners spilled through the stadium's gates in a blur of white and red sashes.

Pinpointing which ones were ours in the midst of the melee was at first futile, then panic-inducing.

Those who have successfully run with the bulls tout the heart-pounding, pure naked fear as the most exhilarating part of the race. Maybe so, but for me, there is no greater anxiety than the stark terror that comes with fearing for a loved one's safety. My imagination ran wild until we finally spotted them.

But it wasn't over yet.

Thinking the worst was behind them, the inexperienced runners let down their guard, milling aimlessly around the stadium. When the glistening black, outraged beasts finally stormed into the middle of the packed arena, those meandering near the entryway were nearly taken out of commission.

We watched in horror as the steers were released back into the arena, delighted to find their prey as tightly packed as fish in a barrel on the arena floor. The huge creatures began barreling around the stadium.

Many runners jumped -- some head-first -- over the side into the stands, their legs left dangling ridiculously in the air, inches from the horns of a bull. The more experienced machismos recklessly dodged the bull's charge, then whacked a thump on the bull's behind as it passed.

At last, the bulls were corralled into their pens to await the evening's bullfight -- which we did not stay around to watch. The paper reported later that day that three people had been "gravely hurt."

The reviews were in soon after -- and they were mixed. One obviously American voice pierced through the crowd: "This is the stupidest thing I've ever seen." Nick later admitted running the race gave him "a sick, sick feeling."

John was so primed to stay well ahead of the thousand-pound, fire-snorting beasts that he was the fifth one to enter the arena, and, to his chagrin, was greeted with boos.

Naturally, my own travel companion was unrepentant. It was "100 percent pure adrenaline," he swaggered. Upon lamenting later that his technique had been lacking -- the true Pamplonian runs "with" the bulls, not "half a mile ahead of" the bulls -- he swore right there to return someday to "do it the right way."

The desire remains

When I heard about the Mesquite run, I had to call and see if that promise still held true. Surely, I told the solid, Midwestern, practitioner-of-the-law, four years of hindsight has tempered those thoughts.

But even over the phone lines, I could still detect that familiar gleam in his eye.

"I want to do it again before I'm 30," the 27-year-old reaffirmed, though the cost of another ticket to Spain is currently postponing those plans.

Now, thanks to Mesquite's city council, and Bulls America Inc. of Phoenix, he just may have his chance.

And, if so, I guess I'll be there again, sitting in the stands, holding onto his bag -- and praying for dear life.

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