A horn through the face didn't stop him from coming back
Each July, the ancient streets of Pamplona become a theater where human daring meets animal force, and the ledger of consequence is settled in seconds. On Saturday, the fifth morning run of the San Fermin festival left thirteen people injured — one with a bull's horn driven through his face — as a black bull broke from the pack and carved through a crowd that, for many, never saw it coming. The ritual is a century into its international life, shaped in part by the literary imagination that gave it global fame, and it continues to draw thousands who understand the danger in the abstract but meet it, when it arrives, with the full weight of flesh and bone. That so many return the following year — some still healing — says something enduring about the human appetite for tests that cannot be simulated.
- A black bull separated from the herd early and drove its horn directly into a runner's face, one of the most severe gorings the festival has seen in recent years.
- Thirteen people were injured across the 957-yard cobblestone course, including a compound ankle fracture so severe that bone broke through skin.
- Many runners had no warning before the bulls were upon them — shoved and scattered by half-ton animals moving at full speed through streets barely wide enough to breathe.
- One injured American runner, still facing surgery, declared he would return next year, embodying the festival's stubborn covenant between participant and peril.
- The centennial of San Fermin's international fame arrives alongside a reminder that the event's deadliest risks fall hardest on novice runners and unprepared tourists.
- The run ended in under three minutes, as it always does — the brevity of the danger doing nothing to diminish the depth of its consequences.
On a Saturday morning in Pamplona, six bulls and their steers thundered through the packed cobblestone streets of the San Fermin festival, completing the 957-yard course to the bullring in roughly two and a half minutes. In that span, thirteen people were injured. One runner took a horn to the face; another, an American from Miami Beach named Ander Etxanobe, suffered a compound ankle fracture severe enough to break the skin.
The most dangerous moment came when a black bull broke from the main pack early and plowed into a cluster of runners, striking one full in the face. The University of Navarra Hospital confirmed the facial wound alongside a dozen other injuries. What struck witnesses was how many participants seemed unaware of the animals until they were physically shoved aside — the bulls clearing a path more than attacking, but their sheer momentum sending runners tumbling into one another in cascading pileups.
Etxanobe, a veteran of nearly a decade of runs, was unequivocal about returning despite his injuries. "By no means does a broken ankle break my spirit, break my corazón," he said — a sentiment that distills the festival's essential logic. The runners know. They come anyway.
Gorings and fractures are a predictable feature of San Fermin, driven in part by the flood of novice participants and foreign tourists who arrive with enthusiasm but little preparation. This year's festival carries a particular resonance: it marks one hundred years since the novel that introduced the event to the world and turned a regional tradition into an international spectacle. The last fatal goring was in 2009. The streets fill again tomorrow.
The narrow streets of Pamplona turned violent on Saturday morning when six bulls and their accompanying steers charged through a gauntlet of runners packed shoulder to shoulder along the cobblestone course. By the time the animals reached the bull ring two and a half minutes later, thirteen people lay injured—one with a horn driven through his face, the rest scattered across the 957-yard run with fractures, contusions, and the kind of bruising that comes from being knocked flat by a half-ton animal moving at full speed.
The chaos unfolded during the fifth morning run of the eight-day San Fermin festival, the annual tradition that draws thousands of thrill-seekers to northern Spain. A black bull separated from the main pack early in the race and plowed directly into a cluster of runners, striking one person full in the face with its horn. The exact moment of the goring remains unclear in the aftermath, but the University of Navarra Hospital confirmed the facial wound along with a dozen other injuries requiring medical attention.
Among the injured was Ander Etxanobe, a runner from Miami Beach who suffered a compound ankle fracture—a break severe enough that bone fragments pierced the skin. Despite nearly a decade of participation in the festival and what he described as some of the worst injuries he has sustained, Etxanobe made clear he would return. "By no means does a broken leg or a broken ankle, in my case, or whatever it is, break my spirit, break my corazón, my heart," he said. His defiance captures something essential about the event: the runners know the danger. They come anyway.
What makes Saturday's incident particularly striking is how many participants seemed utterly unprepared for the moment when the bulls arrived. Witnesses reported runners who appeared completely unaware that animals were breathing down their necks, only to be shoved violently out of the way rather than gored. The bulls, it seemed, were more interested in clearing a path than in attacking. Still, the sheer mass and momentum of the animals created cascading pileups as runners stumbled and fell, trampling one another in the panic.
Gorings and fractures are routine at San Fermin, a consequence of the festival's particular demographics. Experienced local runners know the rhythm and the risks, but the event draws novice participants and foreign tourists who arrive with enthusiasm and minimal preparation. This year carries additional weight: the festival marks one hundred years since the publication of a famous novel that introduced San Fermin to the world and transformed it from a regional tradition into an international spectacle. That same centennial also arrives in the shadow of the last fatal goring, which occurred in 2009. The festival continues anyway, as it always does.
Citas Notables
By no means does a broken leg or a broken ankle break my spirit, break my corazón, my heart— Ander Etxanobe, injured runner from Miami Beach
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why do people keep coming back to something that regularly breaks their bones?
Because the risk is the point. It's not an accident that happens to them—it's what they signed up for. Etxanobe's been doing this for nearly a decade. He knows exactly what a bull can do.
But a horn through the face is different from a broken ankle, isn't it?
Absolutely. That's the line nobody wants to cross. But even that doesn't seem to stop people. The festival has killed someone before. That was 2009. And here we are in 2026, and the bulls are still running.
What's the difference between the experienced runners and the tourists?
The locals read the bulls. They know when to move, when to stand still, when to let the animal pass. The tourists and novices—they panic. They don't know what they're looking at until it's already on top of them.
So the injuries aren't random?
Some are. But a lot of them come from people who simply weren't ready for what they were doing. That's part of why gorings happen every few years. The festival keeps growing, keeps drawing people who think they understand the tradition but don't.
Does knowing that change anything about whether people participate?
Not for the ones who come back. Etxanobe broke his ankle and said it didn't break his heart. That tells you everything.