September, 2018: We leave our hotel in Pamplona early in the morning, walking left down the hill and then sharp right up the hill, to the point where annually the bulls are assembled in the pen, before they begin the running of the bulls through the narrow streets and finally to the ring where await the matadors and death.

On this morning we American tourists stand in front of the gates of the empty bull pen, our necks bedecked with our red souvenir bandanas, and obligingly paw the ground and snort for our tour guide’s camera, before beginning the climb up the narrow winding street, where the bulls run, chasing the men in white with their red bandanas. The average weight of the bulls is about 1500 pounds and they are aggressive when cornered.

At the plaza we stop for a photo op with a statue of a majestic bull in full charge with statues of runners before him and around him. We freeze into motifs of the runners, our arms reaching out, our mouths open for air while our guide takes more photos. Then we take a break at Plaza Castillo where the Cafe Iruna popular with Hemingway is located. We relax with coffee, our voices joining the other tourists and echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

We climb further up the streets of Pamplona to arrive at last at the bull ring, where the bulls meet their deaths in front of the crowds. And every year during the running of the bulls, some of the men in white with their red neckerchiefs also meet their deaths or are injured. How foolish they are to take such risks, we think to ourselves, removing and folding our red neckerchiefs.

And yet…

July 27, 2019: This morning I slide behind the wheel of my small car and drive north up the narrow local road, to join the tollway. I set the speed control for just over the speed limit. Traffic is light here but as we enter the curving lane to merge with the Beltway, traffic slows to a crawl. And traffic is crawling on the Beltway, cars moving at 24 miles per hour. Finally the invisible barrier lifts and the speed picks up, these beasts weighing on average 4,000 pounds now moving well over the speed limit of 55 mph, at speeds over 70 mph in heavy traffic. Ahead of me a blue sedan weaves in and out of traffic from the far right lane to the far left and then back again, dodging a massive tractor trailer truck.

I am thinking about the four crashes that occurred four days ago on the Beltway, involving three tractor trailer trucks,  leaving one person dead, and causing major delays during the morning commute.

I check my outside left mirror, turn my head for a quick look, and move into the left lane, preparing for a heavy merge from the right. Five more miles up the road, I signal and slip into the far right exit lane. Here comes the dangerous part, with the beasts criss-crossing fast moving lanes of traffic, some trying to enter the highway, others like my car trying to exit. A white car and my dark gray car have a narrow miss. Like the bulls, we are compressed into a narrow, curving road.

Finally I am off the Beltway and onto a less heavily traveled highway. I take a deep breath and let it out. I am done with running with the bulls…until tomorrow.