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Telegraph reporter runs with the bulls near Atlanta

Special to SEGAZINE

It’s over, and I’m dripping red. I’m bruised and throbbing. It feels like someone kicked me in the ribs and punched me in the jaw.

People have asked me why I wanted to run with the bulls. I gave them the expected answers: “I’m a thrill seeker.” “You only live once.” “I’m certifiably insane.”

But here’s the sincere reason: It was there, so why not? The century-old adventure, which has become a tradition for danger-chasers, has migrated stateside from Pamplona, Spain. On Saturday, the Great Bull Run brought people, like me, to the Georgia International Horse Park near Atlanta.

Thousands of adrenaline junkies, curious spectators and downright nutcases ventured to the park on a cloudy, chilly afternoon. Many were clad in the customary all-white garb, but there were a handful of tutus, capes and a few people with bright, red bull’s-eyes painted on their shirts.


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