Title: Chasing Horns and Heritage
The journey began on a wild Sunday morning, sparked by the kind of nudge only others can give—pushing you toward the extraordinary, the unexpected. I never imagined myself running alongside bulls, their massive horns adorned with clanking bells that echoed like a chaotic symphony through the dusty streets of Spain. Yet there I was, swept into an age-old tradition that felt both absurd and exhilarating.
The night before, we’d shut down Gasterea Finca Restaurante, a rustic spot where the air buzzed with laughter and the clink of glasses. We devoured pigs’ ears—crisp, strange, and oddly delicious—paired with exotic wines and coffee liquors that left us warm and reckless. By 8 a.m., we were back, not for more food, but for the Running of the Bulls. A Spanish man with a weathered grin handed out green bandannas, and before I could blink, Jim, Luke, and I were tied into a conga line—a Cuban carnival relic that snaked its way into this Spanish madness. It was a dance of absurdity, a warm-up for the stampede to come.
Then the gates swung open, revealing a 1,000-meter stretch of chaos. The bell-oxen lumbered ahead, their clanks a fleeting warning before the fighting bulls charged. It was every man for himself. Luke, in his red-striped shirt—like some fugitive sailor—caught their attention, the bulls zeroing in as if the crimson lines were a taunt. I dodged, rolled, and ran, heart pounding louder than the bells.
The day before, Saturday, had been quieter, a solo ride pivoting me toward Madrid. I’d stopped to refuel in Santiuste de San Juan Bautista, where a chatty, orange-blonde woman named Esther pumped my gas. The station was barren—no loaves of bread or hanging hams like the others I’d seen. “Not much around,” I remarked. She nodded, then lit up. “Segovia!” she said, as if it were a secret worth chasing.
So I roared off, tires humming on roads I’d likely never ride again. The farmland stretched flat and unremarkable, dotted with pine trees stripped of lower branches, their tops fanning out like drab umbrellas. Then, a cathedral pierced the horizon—Segovia, maybe? But the road twisted, and I ended up at a mental hospital, its staff eyeing me warily. “When you lose your laugh, you lose your footing,” I quipped, channeling One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. They didn’t laugh. I parked, scaled a wall, and snapped photos of the distant cathedral anyway.
Back on track, I punched “aqueduct” into Google Maps and soon stood before Segovia’s Roman marvel—a UNESCO gem towering over the city. I took the tourist shots, then settled into a café with an extra-hot café con leche. Lukewarm just wouldn’t do. My friend Juanjo pinged me on WhatsApp: “Eat at Restaurante Cándido, under the aqueduct.” I wasn’t hungry yet—the coffee was enough for now.
Shaded from the sun, I sipped and stared into the void of my own thoughts. The ride group I’d crossed paths with often met me with blank stares—empty, deer-in-headlights looks that unnerved me. Was there something ticking behind those skulls, or was it just the caffeine whispering riddles? My clothes, caked in dust and sweat, begged for a wash—or maybe a bonfire. I’d decide later.
From bulls to aqueducts, Spain had flung me through its wild heart. And as I sat there, the clank of bells and the taste of pigs’ ears lingered, stitching together a story I’d never have written alone.
SUNDAY: Other people can steer you to do extraordinary things in life that you wouldn’t ever expect to do yourself. Like for example, running with the bulls or if you prefer, large cows with extreme sized horns and bells around their necks that go clank, clank, clank or other tintinnabulation sounds.
Last night we closed down the GASTEREA FINCA RESTAURANTE where we ate such delicacies as pigs ears and exotic wines, coffee liquors and other strange foods. This morning we ubered our way back again, arriving at 0800. No, Not this time for food but, for an age old tradition in Spain.
The Running of the Bulls is a free-of-charge bullrunning game that challenges the player. The Spanish guy walked around handing out green bandannas. He said put it on. Jim, Luke and I did just that and before you could say Canadian Canuck; we became part of a conga line. Another age old tradition. The conga line dance is derived from the Cuban age old carnival dance tradition. It challenges the body in a totally different form than the running and stampeding bulls will ever do.
From there the line swung into an open section of a gated 1000 meter zone. Next thing you know there coming at me is something like a stampeding herd of Spanish fighting bulls. The clanking tamed bell-oxen lead the bulls so there’s adequate time to stop, think, drop, roll or run.
It was then everyone for themselves. No one could think or act for you. Luke was wearing a red striped shirt similar to the kind that seamen or prisoners of the past wore. Those bulls seemed fixated on the red stripes on his shirt.
SATURDAY: Today I took the road less traveled that pivoted me back towards Madrid. Before getting there I gassed up in a town called Santiuste de San Juan Bautista. A chatty orange blonde 5’ tall woman attendant pumped my gas.
Not many people around I said. She agreed. This station isn’t as nicely stocked as the others I stopped at I said. Remember in earlier dispatches the loaf of bread’s and ham’s for sale. She had none.
I asked the woman whose name was Esther; what would be worthy of my attention and time, as this was my last riding day, before turning in my rental.
Segovia! And soon I was off again, laying down tracks on roads that I would possibly never see again. The land is farmland all around however, not as scenic as in other areas. The trees that are planted are pines and not attractive at all for pines. Long ago their lower branches were removed and now they’re umbrella like in many ways.
From a distance away I saw a cathedral. Could this be my destination. And then it was all gone. I turned the motorcycle around on the blue track that I was on and made my way on onto an uphill road.
Soon, I found myself in a dead-end and at a mental hospital. The staff came out, gave me a quick look.
“Man, I said, when you lose your laugh you lose your footing.”
from one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.
Wondering if this fool was here to self register or to visit a friend. Me seeing no small men in white shirts and pants or anyone wanting to know why I was here; I parked, climbed up a wall and took some pictures of the cathedral you see in the picture below.
When I made it to the bottom of the hill; I typed in Aqua-duct on google maps. Ten minutes later I was already parked, I started taking the obligatory tourist pictures and then enjoyed a cafe con leche, extra hot. I order it this way or else it arrives to me lukewarm.
Segovia is another one of those UNESCO World Heritage cities. This one is renowned for the stunning Roman Aqueduct.
My friend Juanjo whom I’ve been communicating with on WhatsApp just sent me the following suggestions;
A comer al restaurante Candido
Está abaio del acueducto
That I should eat at a restaurant called Candido and that it is located just under the aqueduct.
Breakfast was about an hour ago and I’m not yet ready for more food or drink but, the cafe con leche did hit the spot.
I sit at the coffee shop in a shady area and start contemplating life itself. They say that to do so, is to be filled with deep and serious thought.
Many people on this ride group have at times only offered me a blank stare. A Blank Stare is when you look at the other person and all you see is no behavior pattern, or any other emotions. Almost deer in the headlights sort of look. But all that I think back is that there’s got to be something hidden in that skull. Maybe it’s just the caffeine now talking.
“You see, the subconscious mind feels uncomfortable when it sees a blank stare because the mind doesn’t see behavioral patterns or emotional patterns to predict.”
Perhaps I’ll do laundry when I get to the next hotel or perhaps a good fumigation or setting fire to my clothes is now more in order.
End
Trawlercat Chronicles 