by James Coles

Created on: July 26, 2008

I was much younger back then in 1978. Perhaps I was not as wise - and certainly not as beat up - as I am now, but I was eager for adventure...for a thrill, any kind of thrill; and Pamplona was just 12 hours away by motorcycle from my home in Griesheim bei Darmstadt, Germany. The fit was natural for me, and I got the urge to go to the running of the bulls about a week before the run and I talked my boss into letting me go to 'shoot photos and write a little feature' for the Sunday Stars & Stripes newspaper...what a deal: I'd get to ride over to Spain, run with the bulls, shoot photos and write a short feature; and S&S would pay for my gas and hotel room.

Well, we all know what is said about the best laid plans of mice and men. I left Griesheim about 5 a.m three days before the running of the bulls, and headed South towards Switzerland...just after passing Basel I ran into rain...a gushing torrent from the skies that almost blew my Suzuki and me off a high bridge. The storm forced me to lay-up for almost a full day. The rain eventually ended and I pressed on; arriving in Pamplona about 36 hours later than I had planned on...only to find that my room reservation was no longer good, and since people come from all over the world to run with the bulls, every room in town was taken. I ended up in a tiny bed and breakfast about 40 kilometers outside of town, but at least the room was clean and the food in the house was superb.

One of my pals was stationed at the Rota Naval Base, and as arranged, we met for dinner and drinks the night before the run at a place he knew in the area. The evening went as most evenings with him went: a nice dinner, some laughs and lots of booze...lots of booze, so much in fact, that I couldn't ride back to the B&B outside of town. My pal was buds with the owner of the cafe who let us sleep on cots in his storeroom - without pillows or covers.

I awoke early the next morning, just as false dawn began to light the eastern sky, with my head feeling as big - and as rough - as an Atlantic Ocean storm, but I managed to stumble out onto the street where I found my bike and rode - as gently as possible on the rough old stone streets - to the main plaza area, where I parked and dug out my camera...for the next two hours I shot photos and chatted with young men in white shirts and khaki pants pacing nervously around as they fooled with red bandannas, or smoked foul-smelling French cigarettes and spoke in overly-loud voices of previous high-adrenaline

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