Glad you like it, Miss Shadoru! xD
Well, how exactly is the pearl he's supposed to find supposed to get with him if he isn't single, Mere? O.o And Chem is Chemistry; sorry about that. O.o I thought you'd know; a lot of us are used to that during our third year. xD And I can understand why the dork question; may as well have raised it for others. ^-^
I've seen a lot of that kind of thing these days, Pancake; believe me, I have. :/
Chapter Four
He started liking the Running of the Bulldozers at the young age of fifteen. He'd snuck out of the house with his older brother just to watch, only because his mother wouldn't approve.
Every July 7 to 14, there would be a special feast or festival week dedicated to San Fermín, the patron saint of Navarre. A road to the dozer ring that passes through the old part of Pamplona was made, using planks of wood as barriers, its length being 826 yards. Only cars eighteen years and above could join, though. Six fighting bulls would be released each day for seven days, the runners just ahead of the dozers and the steers right behind. The runners would run the length of the way, from the starting point tooth e dozer ring, where the bulls would be led to the pen to be killed later that day in a regular bullfight.
"Hermano, what are they doing?" he asked his older brother.
"It is the Running of the Bulldozers," the older touring car told Miguel. "They run all the way from there," he jerked his bumper to the staring point, "to the dozer run there." He stared at the general direction of the bull ring. "Will be able to hear and see four rockets, each with its own meaning."
"What do they mean?"
"The first would mean the bulls have been released from their corrals. The second means they're all out of the corrals. The third means they've entered the ring. The fourth would mean that all the bulls are in their pens."
Young Miguel Camino nodded in understanding. And then, the first rocket sounded, and everyone seemed to get excited. He heard an unfamiliar call that rose within the crowd and the runners.
"Viva San Fermín! Gora San Fermín!"
"What does that mean? Why are they cheering, Tolomé?"
"They're cheering for San Fermín, Miguel, that the saint may protect them as the runners run."
Miguel nodded once more, and soon, he could see the runners in white and red, followed closely by the golden bulldozers.
"Come on little brother; let's go to the ring, where the toreros are." He led his little brother away from the fence.
Once in the stands, the third rocket was sent flying, and the ring was dominated by cars and dozers alike, six cars of which that had magenta and gold dress capes. Some of the golden animals would veer away from the torero, a car with the pink dress cape, and charge at the others. But the other cars, the runners, would help get the bull's attention back, and the leading would start again.
Young Miguel was amazed by how fun it seemed, how good the cars were at handling the bulls. He wished he would be down in the ring someday, to be the one running, and, if he can, to be the one with the magenta cape hung just on his taillights.
But when he returned home, he wasn't so sure.
"Rodrigo! Arturo!" his mother snarled at them. "You had no right to go to the San Fermín festival!"
The brothers' fronts bowed as their family, their mother and three sisters, watched, the sisters' gazing on contemptuously. Miguel and Barolomé Arturo had been caught 'red-tired' sneaking in.
"We already told you, Arturo, that the encierro is not for you!" Sofía was absolutely fuming. "You are higher than them! You do not deserve such a lowly celebration!"
But Bartolomé couldn't take it anymore. He and his little brother has had enough of their mother raising them to be what they didn't want to be: cars of nobility and class. As boys, they wanted the freedom of a peasant, and the happy life of such, where needs are met and wants weren't so much. The Caminos had everything, which made things worse.
"It is a festival for San Fermín, mamá!" he spat. "It is an honor to celebrate Pamplona's patron saint!"
"Nevertheless," Sofía growled, "you are forbidden to attend that event!"
It wasn't odd to them that Sofía would claim the decisions of the welfare of the children; it was actually normal. Estéban, their father, was out all day, working to keep up the amount he made each month, to keep up the lifestyle he gave Sofía and his children. But he did decide on the bigger decisions, like moving or having a construction in the home.
"Why can't you be more like your sisters: well-mannered and with posit and grace?" she hissed. At that, Sofía turned away, leaving her children to talk amongst themselves.
"Nice going, Rodrigo," Eugénia spat, voice low.
"Yeah, nice going," Mercedes replied.
The youngest, little Mireia only followed suit, nodding. Mireia had always sided by Mercedes, no matter what happened. Although she liked Miguel and Bartolomé, Mercedes had stepped in to lead Mireia, and it was like that ever since.
Bartolomé sighed as the sisters left. "One day," he vowed quietly, "I'll be in the Running of the Bulls."
Miguel nodded in agreement. One day, he promised. One day.
And that day came, indeed.
When Bartolomé was old enough to work, the age of twenty-one, he and Miguel, having just turned eighteen in less than a month, attended the week of San Fermín festival, having reserved a room at a nearby inn. Bartolomé promised his brother a surprise for his birthday, and this was it.
"Mamá cannot find out this way," Bartolomé reasoned out.
They had claimed to go on a brotherly vacation in Cataluña, where they can see the Cataluña Grand Prix. Luckily their mother didn't follow any category of motorsport, because the races at the Circuit of Cataluña had been over since months ago. The other day, they had themselves a new paint job, consisting of the standard 'uniform' required for the running: the color white, and a cloth of red around them that resembled a neckerchief.
And so, on the morning right after the announcement of the tart of the Sanfermínes festival, both of Pamplona's own Camino brothers stood at the starting point.
"Remember," his brother murmured, "it is a test of speed and stamina. Do not dash away too hard or too far." Miguel only nodded. "Our goal is to lead the dozers to the bullring, so you may want to stay as close but as safe as you can."
Miguel nodded again as the prayer of San Fermín broke out. "A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición!" This was chanted three times, and the brothers joined in.
Soon enough, the brothers joined in, and security cleared the way for the runners. In his sideview mirrors, he could find a tinge of gold among the cars in white and red. Rattles over the pavement sounded in his ears, and he and his brother dashed away.
"Viva San Fermín!" Miguel called at the top of his voice and out to the heavens. "Gora San Fermín!" With that, he raced out to the open road.
There was a thrill in his lines as he ran, much like adrenaline. It drove him forward and back with fearlessness, as he played with danger and safety.
Soon enough, they reached the ring. There they met the six toreros, and the runners scattered. Miguel and Bartolomé watched at the sidelines as the cars with the magenta capes took charge.
Miguel could only watch in awe at the speed and agility of the matadors. Each movement was not without importance; every flick of the cape or a swerve meant something, and Miguel wanted to know what they were.
"I want to do that someday, Tolomé," he murmured to his brother.
"Maybe, Rodrigo," Bartolomé replied as he too watched in awe. "Maybe."
The words shared weren't just words; they were a prophecy.
One season of the fights was all he needed to learn how; one more season to try his skill out, and his debut came the next year.
And then, there he was, standing in the middle of the ring, a traditional red muleta or cape, and a sword hidden at the wooden dowel, or the stick that stretches the cape and serves as the handle for the cape.
He had himself re-painted for traditional purposes, and donned the traditional traje de luces, or the suit of lights, where red dominated the colors over the gold, as that his usual yellow concealed the intricate gold patterns. A montera adorned his top, a Spanish bullfighter's traditional black hat. The muleta hung over his taillights, connected to a hook he could control, much like a tow truck's cable. And he stood in the middle, the afternoon sun reflecting off his country's colors, his green gaze moving over the crowd as they cheered, looking on. He winked at a few señoritas that were hyperventilating in the crowd, and they swooned. He chuckled, his grin widening.
The tired golden bull standing to the side glared at him, and with a loud muuu, the matador turned. The bull approached, and Miguel held his ground at a practiced stance.
The crowd fell silent as they watched in suspense. It would be an interesting fifteen minutes tonight as the finale of the day's events ensued.
Miguel presented the red side of his cape, just on his side as he faced the bull up front. The bull snorted and charged, and Miguel only need raise the cape. "¡Olé!" he called, and the crowd replied the same, excited.
The bull snorted again, and turned, glaring at the matador whose cape was dangling enticingly off a chain. It moo-ed, and charged once more. "¡Olé!" the crowd called again as Miguel reversed, facing the bull that had just run past.
It was the same thing over and over, his style getting more and more intricate as the golden dozer charged heavier and heavier. Miguel was as quick as he was handsome, and he hardly failed to put on a good show. The bull, in turn, was getting more frustrated than ever. The air was tightening with tension. Would Miguel be able to deal the final blow?
The gasping animal stood there as the matador held up his cape once more, twitching it to lure the bull to charge. But this time, the cloth was right in front of Miguel's eyes. The crowd gasped. How would he be able to see? The bull bellowed again, and charged. Everyone stilled as they watched.
But it was easy to calculate how fast the bull was going, how far it was from himself, but only because the thing was as noisy as chirping birds on a serene morning, and Miguel sidestepped at the last moment, driving the blade straight at the middle of the bull's engine.
Everyone cheered as the bull collapsed in front of them, right in the middle of the ring, dead. Anyone nearby could hear the silence that emanated from the dozer, and mules were brought over to drag it away. Miguel looked up and straightened despite his exhaustion. His green gaze glittered as he watched the crowd again. Even if it was just another day at the dozer ring, it still felt special as the crowd applauded his performance.
As he re-entered his so-called dressing room, his brother greeted him there.
"Congratulations, Rodrigo," Tolomé called smilingly.
Miguel only sighed as he hooked the montera off his head. "Another exciting day," he replied as gaily. He blinked. "Why didn't you become a matador again, Tolomé?"
Bartolomé only sighed. "Remember, I have a new life now. I don't want to keep risking my life for my family."
Miguel only nodded. "Yes, I remember." His brother had gone off with another girl once more, but this time, it had been more than just a relationship. It had grown to a full-blown marriage, and soon enough, Bartolomé had chosen to quit his profession as a matador to please his wife. And besides, what would Alfonso think if his father had died so early in his life?
Rodrigo sighed sadly. If only Perla wasn't so selfish, he thought, I would have been the one for her. He glanced into space wistfully. If only.
As soon as he was out of the parlor, having changed back into his usual yellow color, he caught sight of fangirls, and he grinned. "Will I ever be rid of them?" he asked his brother, and they laughed as he approached the girls, and they barely contained their excited squeaks.
But it wasn't always this easy.
Once Sofía knew about Miguel's and Bartolomé's plan to become toreros in the dozer ring, she was outraged, throwing a fit.
"You are better than that, Rodrigo, Arturo!" she screamed at him. "You must choose something better!"
But he was twenty, is brother twenty-two, both well above the age of consent. Her outrage at his plan became theirs, too, at her utter dislike of their chosen career, and it forced a harsh retort from Bartolomé. "It is what I have chosen, mother!" Tolomé snarled at her. "I am twenty-two years old, and you cannot tell me what to do!"
"For as long as you are my sons, I have full control of what you will choose!"
"Well, maybe I don't want to be your son!" Miguel spat back, and the rest of the family gasped. "You heard me," he growled. "I'm sick and tired of you always having to choose! I want to be a matador, not some business executive."
"Miguel Rodrigo Camino, that is enough!" Sofía snarled.
"No!" he roared, glaring at her with the full force of his fury. "I will not tolerate my twin sister or Milagros! I will not tolerate your choices for my life. I am a grown car now, and I will choose what I think is best for myself."
"What you think, Rodrigo," Milagros shot back. "What our mother is choosing for us is because she knows it's the best."
"But what if it's not?" Miguel glared at her. "What if it's not meant to be?"
"As long as you live under my roof, you're following my orders, Rodrigo!"
"I'll leave then!" Sofía winced at the tone of voice he used on her. "As long as I'm rid of your decisions for me, that's where I'll go!" He turned. "Come on, Tolomé; let's pack up and go."
That was the last time he ever saw his mother, his father, or his sisters again. It was only lucky that they had left when Bartolomé had a job already, but soon enough, both brothers were working for themselves. Eventually, Miguel had to move out because Bartolomé had his own life now, and getting engaged and married wasn't the best thing for the younger brother. But as his career as a matador flourished, he could support more than himself: he can support his wants, too.
And then came that fateful day his career would take a universal turn.
"Hey, hey you," someone called.
Rodrigo was playing in a small corral with a young cow, and he turned to face a strange car. "Yes?" he asked as he approached. The young cow lowed and nuzzled his side gently.
"You are…" the car glanced at the paper, "Miguel Rodrigo Camino, is it?"
"Si, that is me," he replied. "What do you want?"
"Yes, well," the car cleared her throat as she lowered the paperwork from her face. The girl spoke with roughly an American accent, although by the looks of her, she was Spanish. Maybe she was like him, too, as that her first language was English. "My company has heard that you are quite a prestigious matador in the dozer ring."
He blinked. "That's what they all say," he said, chuckling.
"The company wanted a little more publicity than usual, and they would like you to represent them in the races of the Grand Touring segment of motorsport."
His eyes widened. "Motorsport?" he repeated in utter disbelief.
"If there is another kind of sport that is available to a car, then no, the company will not accept that," she replied sarcastically. "We are asking if you will do it or not."
He blinked at her. "Why are you asking me to do this?" he inquired. "Why a lowly torero like me?"
"Because," she said. "Just follow." There was a pause, and she sighed. "The bosses have watched your performances, and had decided that you are the one to represent the company on endurance races," she replied. "Is that enough for you?"
He felt proud of himself. All that time, practicing with various mediums—cars, dozers and younger cattle—paid off. Now he was to start another phase of his life: a racing career.
He stood straight. "I accept."
Be sure to await his racing days! xD
