You know they spit on women, don't you?

Claustrophobia—it was suddenly all I could think about. The walls of the buildings were enclosing me. My 5’1 stature felt like it could reach up and touch the bottoms of the balconies without stretching. The makeshift fences littered with people were on top of me. I couldn’t make a move without bumping into a drunk. I took a deep breath to remind myself that I was only walking the route with the guys. I wasn’t dumb enough to actually run with the bulls.
The 825 meters seemed forever to walk. Worst yet, being the typical American, I had absolutely no idea when those meters would come to an end. I wasn’t waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel, just the entrance to an arena. Despite being hosed down earlier, you were still feeling the crunch of glass and the smell of human waste as you weaved through the narrow streets.
The claustrophobia subsided when you stepped into expansive Plaza Consistorial. The railings were being put up to map out the route. Only a day earlier I sat on one of those 3” wide slats for 4 hours, catching on tape a guy who ignored the rule that if you fall, cover your head with your hands and don’t get up until the police let you know its ok. Instead, he stood just in time for a bull to catch him square in the back. He didn’t get up again. I kept the video rolling as they took him off on a stretcher. As I continued walking, I could still see his blood stain on the stone. I needed another deep breath.
Next up was dead man’s curve. The 90 degree turn was too sharp for the bulls to make, so they crashed into the left side of the wall. This gave people the false sense of security that if you stayed to the right, you’d be safe. We continued on down the homestretch as the arena came into sight. Now the route bottlenecked—it opened up, only to corral you as you entered the Plaza de Toros. We got to the end and took in our surroundings—the fences were crammed with people and the police were pulling a puker from the route. Hemingway’s bar was in view, a fitting reminder to how this act of stupidity was popularized.
We returned to the Plaza Consistorial to wait for the 8 am start. As I stood there, an overhead camera tracked my every move. I was the only girl in the vicinity—a sideshow act of sorts. I still had no plans to run, but was it enough just to say I was there and watched? Was that the experience I was hoping to gain? Did I walk this route subconsciously knowing that I wanted to run?
A local approached and asked if I planned on running. “You know they spit on woman,” he continued. I stared at him for an eternity. Then I took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I’m running.”

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Part of trip: European Sports Adventure

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