In the morning shadow of the Sugar Mill, an uncertain fate awaits the bold.
Runners dressed in white and red, wait anxiously as the clock inches its way towards 8 a.m. Clusters of them form, some waving flags, some dressed like Elvis. They keep the nerves at bay with beer, prepare to defend their honor with daiquiris.
The master of ceremonies’ voice rings out. An incantation. A prayer.
“WELCOME TO THE FEAST OF SAN FERMIN!” he bellows, this year just like the last. The seated masses are led through a ritual that will protect them on this day. Hopefully.