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Jay Helwig
The Man with No Name
The Man with No Name
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“Do you know anything about this?” My Mom asked.
Yes” I replied.
“This article is all wrong.”
We were referring to the July 14, 1970 Time magazine issue It was a small article about how the American motorcycle gangs had ruined the Pamplona bull festival. Previously I had been traveling through Europe on a Triumph Bonneville. 650 cc of pure joy. I was mimicking Easy Rider. I had a poncho like “the man with no name” of Clint Eastwood western fame.
The riot started innocently enough. We were all parked on the main drag into Pamplona, 40 motorcycles on the side of the road, one right next to another. It was an outdoor café with tables and chairs on the sidewalk. It was at an intersection in the heart of town, right side of the road coming in. Most of us were staying at a campground a couple miles outside. It wasn’t a gang. Didn’t know them. Just guys and gals on cycles who converged on Pamplona for the running of the bulls.
The town was thick with Spanish guys wearing all white with red bandannas and waist bands. It was the festival of San Fermin, the running of the bulls.
There were 4 of us seated at the table. 2 guys and 2 girls. We were enjoying a pitcher of Sangria. I remember the fruit floating on the top. I never appreciated before how fruit floated in red wine. After a few glasses, I appreciated it even more.
I could see the group coming towards us, maybe 20 feet away. Spanish guys all in white with red. One approached the girl opposite from me from behind. He was drunk, they all were. He leaned over her and reached down with 2 hands and grabbed onto where girls are not supposed to be grabbed – at least in public.
I didn’t hesitate. I swiped with my hand as I rose, grabbed the pitcher handle and smashed it into the side of his head. He went down like a rock. The first guy behind him swung, I managed to slip the punch. The next guy nailed me, but I didn’t go down. My companion rose, got a shove on one of them, and the cycles started to tumble.
All hell broke loose. Guys ran to their cycles. The fists started to fly. Guys in white descended on us from all over. Chains came off from around necks. The chains were common. Cycle theft is a big problem, so when traveling it was common to chain your cycle to a tree or post. If there was no place to chain it, some guys would drop them around their necks. Wearing chains has a discouraging effect upon would be aggressors.
The riot spread up the sidewalk and into the street. Not surprisingly, the traffic cop at the intersection stayed away.
I managed to break free, got to my cycle, got her aboard and took off. As we drove away she whispered in my ear, “A Swedish guy would never have done that”.
No, I guess not. But the “man with no name” would have.
Yes” I replied.
“This article is all wrong.”
We were referring to the July 14, 1970 Time magazine issue It was a small article about how the American motorcycle gangs had ruined the Pamplona bull festival. Previously I had been traveling through Europe on a Triumph Bonneville. 650 cc of pure joy. I was mimicking Easy Rider. I had a poncho like “the man with no name” of Clint Eastwood western fame.
The riot started innocently enough. We were all parked on the main drag into Pamplona, 40 motorcycles on the side of the road, one right next to another. It was an outdoor café with tables and chairs on the sidewalk. It was at an intersection in the heart of town, right side of the road coming in. Most of us were staying at a campground a couple miles outside. It wasn’t a gang. Didn’t know them. Just guys and gals on cycles who converged on Pamplona for the running of the bulls.
The town was thick with Spanish guys wearing all white with red bandannas and waist bands. It was the festival of San Fermin, the running of the bulls.
There were 4 of us seated at the table. 2 guys and 2 girls. We were enjoying a pitcher of Sangria. I remember the fruit floating on the top. I never appreciated before how fruit floated in red wine. After a few glasses, I appreciated it even more.
I could see the group coming towards us, maybe 20 feet away. Spanish guys all in white with red. One approached the girl opposite from me from behind. He was drunk, they all were. He leaned over her and reached down with 2 hands and grabbed onto where girls are not supposed to be grabbed – at least in public.
I didn’t hesitate. I swiped with my hand as I rose, grabbed the pitcher handle and smashed it into the side of his head. He went down like a rock. The first guy behind him swung, I managed to slip the punch. The next guy nailed me, but I didn’t go down. My companion rose, got a shove on one of them, and the cycles started to tumble.
All hell broke loose. Guys ran to their cycles. The fists started to fly. Guys in white descended on us from all over. Chains came off from around necks. The chains were common. Cycle theft is a big problem, so when traveling it was common to chain your cycle to a tree or post. If there was no place to chain it, some guys would drop them around their necks. Wearing chains has a discouraging effect upon would be aggressors.
The riot spread up the sidewalk and into the street. Not surprisingly, the traffic cop at the intersection stayed away.
I managed to break free, got to my cycle, got her aboard and took off. As we drove away she whispered in my ear, “A Swedish guy would never have done that”.
No, I guess not. But the “man with no name” would have.