San Fermin, Running With the Bulls in Pamplona | Pamplona, Spain

Most in the claustrophobic huddle were locals - white pants and t-shirts, red scarves wrapped around olive necks, rolled up newspapers tightly gripped in their hands. Both young and old, experienced and novice, all certifiable depending on whose opinion you sought.

At any other time I'd have marveled at the century old structures that surrounded me. The slippery cobbled stones of Santo Domingo would have seemed quaint, far from an obstacle, Ayuntamiento Square, a picturesque interlude and the small figure of San Fermin would have held my attention for more than a passing glance. But not today.

My stomach was churning, my palms sticky, my heart smashing at the inside of my ribcage. I put on a brave face. Strange to think that I'd paid to be here.

Up ahead the crowd was building. By the time we began they'd be pushed a dozen deep behind the hardy wooden fences, hanging from trees, gaining any vantage. I took a deep breath, there was no way out. The rich and the lucky lent from balconies, wiping sleep from their eyes and sipping coffee from well above the danger. Yesterday I was one of them. But not today.

A rocket signaled the beginning. Behind me six, 600 kilogram bulls had set off in my general direction, ahead, eight hundred yards of sheer madness until the safety of the Plaza de Toros. Not your average Friday. Today I was running with the bulls.

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