The festival Hemingway made famous is more than a run before horns
Runners mill about the street below my balcony. Most wear the traditional costume: white pants and shirt, red sash or scarf. Nervous and fidgety, they jump up and down, stretch their legs, anxiously check their shoelaces.
At exactly 8 a.m. a rocket explodes, echoing off buildings on the narrow street, and all heads turn toward the tsunami of humans surging their way and the six fighting bulls at their heels. Runners pick up speed, leap to the side to avoid curved, pointed horns. Some stumble and fall. The wave passes below my feet, a blur of white and red and the black backs of the bulls. In a matter of seconds, they are gone.