The clock strikes 8:00 a.m. The rocket is released with a bang into the clear, blue morning sky above Pamplona. In a flash, the bulls and steers are released onto the cobbled streets of Pamplona.

Like my fellow bull runners, I’m wearing white pants which feel too tight and a white shirt. A red scarf is tied around my neck, and a red sash around my waist.

We don’t only look alike in our bull running uniforms, we hold the same fears. And adrenaline-fueled excitement.

Before my own fear paralyzes me, I lift my feet off the ground and start running, faster than I’ve ever done in my life. No looking right or left, no stopping to breathe even as my heart thunders inside my chest.

The ground shakes as bull hooves beat down on it.

The run should be around two minutes, but when your life is on the line, two minutes can be an eternity. It’s a matter of life and death.

Some bull runners fall to the ground. I have no time to wish them well, to hope they’re not trampled by the animals. According to the rules, if we fall, we should remain on the ground as it’s safer down there. If we get up, the chances of us being gored by the animals is higher.

Some runners don’t fall but fear makes them quit the race early, sliding under or jumping over the barricades which mark the route, and keep the animals from escaping into other parts of the city.

My feet lift and pound the cobblestones, my breath catching in my throat, sweat pouring down my face, adrenaline pumping like a drug inside my veins. I’m drunk with adrenaline as I breathe in the dust, the sweat, and the fear permeating the air around me. The cheers coming from the crowds on both sides of the street hit my ears, merging with the sounds of the hooves slamming against the ground.

The onlookers shout words of encouragement, calling out names, and screaming when a bull runner comes to their downfall.

Don’t pay them any attention, Derrick. Focus or die.

I push my way through the sea of bull runners, the ocean of red and white, and I swear I feel the hot breath of a bull hitting my calves. But I don’t turn to look, because one moment of distraction could be the death of me.

As I turn the corner, running harder and faster, careful not to fall to the ground, I catch a flash of long, curly jet black hair among the crowd of onlookers on the other side of the barricades. My mind instantly returns to Ruby, the first prostitute to reject me.

Why the hell am I thinking about her now of all times? I shake my head to chase off memories of her. She’s a distraction I cannot deal with. Thinking is a deadly game when one has a pack of angry bulls hot on their heels. Death is not the only possible outcome in this situation. Bones can break, teeth can be lost, concussions can occur. I intend to walk away from this race unbruised.

Nothing else matters.

Making it out of these streets alive is the only thought I give my mind permission to hold at this moment. I refuse to end up a statistic.

Fresh determination courses through my veins, I turn into another street, almost colliding with another bull runner, who’s screaming like a girl. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. In reality, it can only be a few seconds, but judging by the way my heart is pounding and my legs are burning, it feels like hours.

I come to Pamplona every year, since the year my parents died. At the start, my brothers gave me hell, telling me I was a fool for putting my life in danger, accusing me of not valuing life. What they don’t understand is, I value it as much as they do. The reason I come here—the reason I dare to stare danger in the face—is the same reason they don’t participate in these kinds of dangerous sports.

Only by putting myself in danger do I realize how precious my next breath is. Without my fix of adrenaline every two weeks, at least, I might as well be dead. I’d be the first to admit I’m addicted to adrenaline, but at least I don’t turn to drugs or alcohol. They prefer to play it safe, to stay out of the line of fire. I’m different. The only time I feel completely alive is when I’m staring danger straight in the eye, challenging death to take me and then, at the last second, cheating it. That’s the moment I start to breathe.

Maybe I’m nuts, maybe one of these days death might actually win.

No. Fuck death. I am living.

My chest is so tight it threatens to crack open as we near the bullring. Only then, do I veer to the left and hop over the barricades, the same moment when the bulls enter the ring. My lungs are on fire, but I’ve completed the race without a scratch. This blinding, exhilarating rush will carry me for a while until I crave another fix.

An hour later, I’m sitting on a stool at the Catalina restaurant, showered and dressed, eating a breakfast of crispy bacon and eggs. The only proof I’d been part of the bull running race is the rush of life in my veins. I feel invigorated, better than I’ve felt in a long time. This feeling drowns out thoughts of the tragedy that took my parents’ lives, the imagined sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass as their plane hit the ground.

At one of the tables, I recognize the face of one of the bull runners, the one I almost crashed into toward the end. He’s having a beer for breakfast and he raises it with a grin in my direction. I raise my glass of freshly pressed orange juice and give a nod.

Like everyone else in the restaurant, we all turn to the large flat screen TV and watch the replay of the race. As it’s repeated over and over, cameras zoom in to witness every moment of the action, to spotlight the fears and the excitement on the faces of the bull runners. The sounds of people cheering, the pounding of hooves on the ground, the hard beating of my heart, makes it seem as though I’m back there. I still smell the sweat, the dust, and the fear.

“I don’t know how you do it.” My friend Diego, the owner of the Catalina restaurant, says from behind the bar as he tops up my glass of orange juice. “On the house.” He slides it toward me. “So, why do you do it?”

“Do what? The race?” I ask and he nods.

“It makes me feel alive. There’s nothing like it. You should try it sometime.”

Diego swings a dishcloth over his shoulder. “Forget it. I have a wife and a child. Responsibilities, you know.”

“I have responsibilities too. I may not have a wife and kids, but I have a family. But this is me and I have come to accept that. I’ve been doing this for years and I’m still standing.”

“Will you be here again next year?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I drink my juice.

“As much as I like to see you every time you come to Pamplona, sometimes I wish that you would find a sweetheart who will keep you from doing these crazy things. My Pa was one of the best bull runners in town, but I still don’t believe in playing games with fate.” He dunks a beer glass into a sink of half-soapy water “Life is about family, my friend.”

“I can never give this up for any woman. And I’m too young to start a family.”

“You say that now. When love hits you, you forget yourself and age doesn’t matter. I was your age when I got married. Twenty-four years young. Since I married my Catalina, I’ve never looked back.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones.” I push my empty plate in his direction. He sinks it into a bowl of soapy water. “I don’t think there’s a place for a woman in my life, not now, and not in a few years. Marriage is not for everyone.”

“Tell you what, let’s have this conversation again when you meet the one.” He rinses my plate. “You’re leaving tomorrow, am I right?”

“Yep. I’m taking the first flight.”

“Then why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? Catalina will be happy to see you. You know how she likes to spoil you. She’s cooking your favorite shrimp chorizo rice.” He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

“How could I say no to that?”

“Perfect. I will go and tell her. She will be so happy.”

With that, Diego disappears into the kitchen to look for his wife, the chef.

As I wait for him to return, Ruby’s face flashes in my mind again and my dick flickers at the thought of seeing her again in a week. What the fuck is wrong with me?