| What are we doing?
November 21st, 2004 Seven Hills Walkabout "This could turn into a problem." Fysiotherapist Rob, of Healthcenter Spaarneboog (the local gym), made a serious face to accompany the message. And fear struck my heart. Paling, I asked him: "But I can walk, can't I?". "Yes", he said, with a comforting smile, "you can walk normally".  He shouldn't have said that. Because if you say that to a Chielie, he, lightly torn medial ligament in the left knee or not, sees no reason not to take part in marches he'd already enrolled for (he would, by the way, not see one anyway, because a Chielie, when it comes to marches he's already enrolled for, will only go missing when he's in his coffin, that's how that works, Chieliewise).
And so Chielie did what he'd set out to do: take part, by invitation of Wandelsoc.-Member 22, H.L.A.M. (Dick) van Kuppevelt MA, in the first edition of the Seven Hills Walkabout (a marching variant added for the first time, to the Seven Hills Run, a 15 k runner's contest organized for the 21st time this year), through the Groesbeek forests around Nijmegen. Good thing this did not produce an aggravation of existing, or new injuries.  What it did produce was a good adventure. Which started the night before. I'd reserved a Greenwheels, and gone south in it, in the direction of Gassel, where Dick lives. And I had, in advance, neatly, from my newly acquired CD-Foongids, called up directions and printed them. Don't ever! Better to stash Harm Swarts' Bitchin' Betty in your car. It sends you throught real shady outskirts of Liège, but at least you get to see things interesting.
This, print in hand, I could definitely not say about the things I saw. What I saw, to my misfortune, was the first exit towards the A59. See, I knew that was the motorway number I needed to find, just off Den Bosch. But although I am armed with a sense of direction that's usually better than average, this turns out to be utterly useless with respect to motorway exits, which can after all lead anywhere. Moreover, this was my first independent drive southward (I'd once driven Marco's Polo to Visé, but it turns out Belgium is easier to locate than Gassel is). And so I didn't take the second, but the first exit towards the A59. Not at the Hintham intersection, therefore, but as early as the Empel one. Complicating factor, also, was that, after the Geldermalsen one, Nijmegen's no longer indicated anywhere, southward, because the authorities would, in this case, rather have everyone go westward at Geldermalsen, when coming from the north. So when I did not drive eastward, but westward, I soon thought: "Zierikzee? No, this can't be right". I should have stuck with that thought. But, once turned around at the Dussen ferry, I still couldn't find a sign saying 'Nijmegen' anywhere. Back in Den Bosch I therefore consulted a city map. This didn't help much. After two more to and froes and trying exits Heusden and Engelen, both in easterly direction, I did not have the lucid idea to try my luck one exit further up (because I'd then have seen the only sign 'Nijmegen' for miles around, and taken the right exit, albeit from an unintended side), but to believe, after all, that 'Zierikzee' was indicated a bit early. Shortly after (darkness had long since set in) I drove past the Haringvliet onto Goeree-Overflakkee and thought: "Well I'll be damned! I know this place! This is the way we used to drive to grampa, in Goes!" and "This is not where I need to be". Dick, doubled up with laughter by now, sniggeringly directed me back, and, under constant GSM-guidance (handsfree, of course, with my Jabra Bluetooth BT200 headset), eventually successfully showed me that right exit, past Rosmalen, so that, around nine, I did finally arrive at his home, on De Akker, and could park my Greenwheels there, in the freezing cold. I then, despite my immeasurable stupidity, received a warmhearted welcome (with boilingly hot Quattro Formaggio and pleasantly pearling Palm). Albeit not from both sons, Ronald and Niels, who'd long looked forward to my arrival (I draw the conclusion that, other than the Four Day Marches and 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', little happens in Gassel, me being a diversion), but were by now sleeping for quite a while already, but this was entirely made up for by Dick and his sweet spouse Inge. 
Who then proceeded to amuse herself greatly with, besides a good conversation about the building of websites, my domestic activities. Because I did not only immediatly sow a new Society emblem onto my equally new S.W.A.T.-vest (experience had proven that I had better wear that now that, because I wouldn't be marching alone, but with Dick, I was going to walk in Soc.-outfit, instead of long black), but also asked for an ironing board and iron, in order to straighten out that Soc.-garb. And Inge helped me at it, to her astonishing joy. Dick himself namely never allows her to do that. But I thought it rather handy, all the more so since she taught me new things (that it is handier to iron a blouse like that inside out, namely, because it helps you to flatten the stickers on it, this without melting them).  The next morning was gruesomely cold. And even the SMS, that I got in the early hours from Lourens E. Dinger (Wandelsoc. Member 13, whose participation in this endeavour had been announced to me earlier by Secretary van der Schelden, an announcement of which, having learned the hard way, I had taken note whilst firmly answering "I'll bloody believe that when I see it"), that he was on his way to us, could not warm my heart and soul.
 What did do that, was, after (from Cuijk, from where we'd taken the train because it seemed to Dick to be smarter to park there, than in Nijmegen itself) arrival in Nijmegen, the starting grounds. Because that was the Wedren. And I shall never be able to wander there without cold shivers, sporting a Four Day Marches' cross as I, after all, am. Bizarre, to now have a cigar there with Dick, with ample room around me, but in front of the same kind of row of baldachinos, whilst waiting for Dinger. But he took so long to arrive that we decided to leave, and informed him of this by telephone. What ensued was a pretty forest walk to, almost, my Cousin's home, in Groesbeek (just before which we hung a left), and the Seven Hills Road. There, we walked to just before the spot where Raymond de Gisser once enjoyed his triumph, the Canadian honorary cemetery, rightward around which we arrived at the first and only rest.
It was there that Dinger caught up with us, and greatly pleased me by taking the Society banner, bandolier and white gloves included, from my hands. The joy over this, by the by, swiftly left me when it turned out that I'd have to spend the rest of the march constantly halting and running, because I had to explain, time and again, to interested fellow marchers, about the flag that had already walked on much further. This does of course have advantages: it gives one a chance to spend one's website-cards, and makes our association gain respect and fame. 
The fellow marchers, by the way, were, apart from interested, utterly bearable. Because what walked here, was the hardened kind of marching mongoloid: the people who do not deck themselves out with vests full of stickers, because they believe that's beneath their station, but inconspicuously walk around the entire world. Pleasant crowd. Must be due to the cold, and the relative obscurity of the march: they were pioneers of the type one usually only encounters during the MESA.  And what was true of the fellow marchers, was also true of the course. See, it was admittedly only 25 k long, but beautiful, and astonishing. Because it became clear to me, what I hadn't thought: Nijmegen has hills! One wouldn't think that, being used to the Seven Hills Road, because those bumps (there's only five of them anyhow) aren't worthy of the name to those used to the Belgian Ardennes. But today's track, of which the loop after the Seven Hills Road is not part of the Four Day Marches' course, did pass across hills. Very steep ones even, around the Devil's Mound. And gorgeous, with hollow roads and fairy-like roadsigns - but very dangerous to my knee, because it was quite uneven and, at times, awfully slippery.
Prettily muddy moreover, so the three of us enjoyed ourselves to bits. Somewhat disenchanting, really, to then stand at the Wedren so soon again. There, on the other hand, we could take delivery of a splendid ribbon (but if I hadn't been assured of this beforehand, I would not have gone at all, of course), of neat red-white-'n'-blue, with a bronze right-angled medal, hanging from it. 
Grand piece of marchness, we felt, today was. Even the hilarious overconcernedness of the organizers (in the accompanying 'plasticized' almanac, which is a leaflet in a separately provided transparent plastic bag, we were warned not to go marching on high heels, bruhaha) could not alter that. Worthy, of doing again, and one heck of a hot tip, for the people, to boot (but beware: this march, from its onset, has a limit to the number of participants). 
Following some sociable getting together at Dick's abode (during which Niels and Ronald finally got their diversion, although Ronald was actually much more fascinated by the Allied Assault on his Playstation), Dinger and I therefore contentedly set off for home, in my Greenwheels. And Dinger, who'd shown himself to be a better navigator than myself much earlier already, guided me back to Haarlem without trouble now too. All's well, that ends well: to your health, gentlemen, excellent walking there. |