In the apartment basecamp's kitchen, Andy and Dennis debrief while eating a highly non-Spanish stromboli that's been sitting in the oven for an indeterminate amount of time. "Man, I saw the highlights, and I was the best out there today. Nobody was doing what I was doing." He's not bragging, just amped, and deservedly so. He's also right. But this is where him and Dennis -- who himself is nursing a seriously cut and banged-up knee from a rare fall that morning, luckily the worst injury sustained in his bull-running career -- diverge.
They're both incredibly good at this: Dennis because of his litheness, experience, and focus, and Andy because his cognitive and physical faculties somehow accelerate when most men just want to fling themselves through the window of a churro shop. The switches in our brains, the on/offs we frantically flail at upon realizing things just got very bad? Andy doesn't have those. Or, his circuits have been irreparably frayed by years of racing motorcycles at their absolute limit, and sprinting trucks through raw and unpredictable dessert in the Baja 1000, and, again, getting pulled in trashcans at 61mph as the plastic bottom visibly melts away, fast. That fraying, though, couldn't be more beneficial in this situation. A single doubt about whether or not he could pull it off, a single flinch and moment of "why?", is the difference between slamming stromboli in the kitchen and that bull's horn slamming into his back at La Curva.