What are we doing? August 15th, 2000 Friday night, August 11th, at 2100, the thing for which the MESA was the preparation got underway: the Dodentocht (DeathMarch), 100 kilometres (62.1 miles) in one go, from Bornem to Bornem, in West Flanders. 24 hrs later, at 2117, I reached the finish intact. This completed the careful planning of my hiking coach Henk van der Schelden, which should not only please him, but also does me. And it should be said he succeeded in training me for this brilliantly. This time there were no blisters, no tendon inflammations, and no swollen feet (I did experience all of those at the MESA, but that was my own fault, I should have bought better shoes at an earlier stage). More importantly, I finished the DeathMarch within the time limit. I consider that a major victory over myself. 100 km's pretty nasty to a hater of vitamins in the physical condition of an occult nerd. More important this time over was the group thing, though. We were four: Johan van Dijk, Max, Henk and me. That made it a totally different thing than the MESA. Johan and Henk are very experienced hikers. Max and I went at this for the first time in our lives. Of course I can't speak for Max, but I suspect he shares my gratitude towards Messrs. van Dijk and van der Schelden. Max, by the way, is the hero to this story. Johan may claim I "was the best walker in the group", and he's right too, since even he and Henk were humiliated by my beautifully erect back, swinging pace and proudly extended chest during the last few miles... ...but I didn't have any blisters. Max did. Max had blis-ters r-e-a-l b-a-d. Henk treated them twice. This was a festive sight, since cheerful fountains of the fluids inside kept squirting out high, up and unto Henk's glasses... ...to say nothing about Max's statuesque facade when contorted by pain - a visually overwhelming experience that I will never forget. But it must have been hell on poor Max. At that point the efficiency of the group strategy defined and implemented by Johan and Henk came to light: after these treatments we sent Max on, to walk by himself with a mobile phone, remained at the rest ourselves for a short while, and then marched on as a mopup squad. This had two effects: it made us walk like shit, because the longer you sit, the more your muscles stiffen. This caused us to take 3,5 hours to walk a stretch of 10 kilometres during the hottest period of the day. But Max! On Max it had an incredible effect. He would only allow himself to rest five minutes to the max each time, and finished the march like a grim devil, purely on character, racked by hellish pains. That, to me, is gallantry the average preventively drugged walker can learn by. "Only through deep hardship shall man uncover his real self" - Goethe, I believe. Max, congrats. I'm deeply impressed, this is quite an achievement of yours. I really mean that. Max by the by also experienced the advantages to all this. He got to be taken care of for a prolongued period of time by a nice nurse. Really very nice. Yes, very nice. But that about sums up all nicety there is to this DeathMarch. I will never walk this sonofabitch again. What unbelievable FUCKER, this march. It has made me DETEST Flanders, and had not the MESA already taught me differently before all this came to pass, I would never walk again and have myself transported by plane and cab for the rest of my living days. And I am truly sorry to have to say this. Because there WERE entire Flemish families who selflessly offered the hikers water and other refreshments, cheered them on and bolstered their spirits, and along the last one and a half mile, in the streets of Bornem, hundreds, if not thousands, DID applaud the marchers. And I was deeply moved by the actions of both these groups, and I am very grateful to them. But they make up only two percent of what's along the route. The rest of them are rude bastards, watching the walkers from the safety of their chairs and making you feel like a circus animal. So okay, you're nuts if you march this motherfucker at all, but to time and again receive only deadly glances in response to your raised hand and cheerful 'Goodday', whilst you are genuinely suffering yourself - it is an experience that lacks cool. It is, in fact, an utmostly uncool experience. And this would not be so bad (there's Goethe, after all), would Flanders around Bornem not also most probably be pretty - but this not be completely invisible due to the horrid ugliness of its architecture. It's a blessing most of the walking is done by night. What depressingly Stalinist bleakness. The only handsome part of it is a group of villas on the edge of town, just before the finish, but by that time one is totally oblivious to this, having reached the end of one's capabilities, being plagued by great pain and utterly irritated by the fact that, between those roadside signs reading '4 km', '3 km', '2.5 km', '2 km' and '1 km', there is at least a solid 10 km every time, crossmyhearthopetodie. And this would not be so bad would those SOTS of the Kadee not commit the heinous crime of maintaining an open course. This is absolutely unique. For laypeople among you: it means that as, for instance, you are grinding your way along a narrow country lane by the seventhousand, at 32 degrees (89.6 F), under a blistering sun, having already done 80 km (50 miles) and being enveloped in a cloud of dust, any moron in possession of a tractor, automobile, bicycle or moped has the right to drive up close behind you, honk or ring loudly and, at an agressive pitch, tell you you're a stupid fool blocking the road and should fuck off instantly. Is that bad? Yes, that's really bad. That is so bad it makes you seriously contemplate murder, and although I was slightly embarrassed when Henk verbally chastised a generally gentile bicyclist of the female gender on the last dike for this reason, I understood and shared his sentiment completely and she should be glad I didn't kill her myself, right then and there. And if you add to that the fact that during this DeathMarch few friendships develop, because it's not a multiday march, therefore you won't meet the people around you again, that everyone is in a bad mood because you're all walking an inhuman distance, that nevertheless the lack of manners at the rests (people push and shove eachother around oldfashionedly while trying to reach the cup of water) is appalling, and that the place is swarming with selfdeceptionists roughing it out on bikes between the checkpoints, then you will understand I hope you understand me when I say that this DeathMarch pales to NOTHINGNESS in comparison to the wonderful experience the MESA is, and that the only reason I have for expressly wanting to return to Bornem next year, is my intent to spend the entire day seated on the terrace of the Land van Bornem (Land of Bornem, a great place with good food and beautiful beer), then to stand by the finish handing out flowers to the arriving walkers - because They HAVE Earned It. But I am not being entirely truthful. I haven't yet related all that was fun about this march. I mean, I now am a bearer of the skull, and this rocks. Very gratifying also, was the humor within our Societas Ambulationis Academica. This stretched from the identical uniforms we wore (we look like a fascist relic, matching brownshirts and khaki trousers, the batons of our medals pinned to the top of the left breastpocket - but we do this for fun, and it offers advantages since, oddly enough, it appears to demand respect from bystanders, particularly when you're walking in a formation, they stand aside to let you pass and all), through the familiar singing of van der Schelden MA (this time over it was the DDR-anthem, to the astonishment and touchedness of two Ossies present) to the insane religiously pornographical cabaret Max and van der Schelden performed the entire night and most of the morning. Not to mention van Dijk. He remains silent, for hours, but if and when he does say something, then for instance he says when I, out of cold bitterness over my own stupid decision to go do this, quote Asterix ("Do sign up for another tour, they said, do sign up - I wish I was in Lutetia, where my brother owns a fishmonger's"), in genuine amazement: "Does Maurits sell fish???". KILLS me. Another one: I'm bored out of my skull so, out of pure peevishness, I tell Johan to "sing me the Horst Wessellied", and he goes: "Why? There's not a pensioner around." In other words: this year I became the first imbecile already dead to ever walk the DeathMarch, and I did so with a promiscuous pastor, a latent neonazi and an irreparably insane derivative of Satan... ...and I enjoyed it. But that wasn't due to the DeathMarch. That is the sole achievement of those three idiots, for whom I would give my life, because they are the best companions I could hope for in such dire straits. Gentlemen, this to me was a great honour and ENORMOUS displeasure. Same time tomorrow? Oh. I must not forget to thank my sponsor. JobTrack supplied me with a fine windbreaker and printed cap. The jacket saved me in the early hours of morning, when the cold hit home, the cap rendered good services in the blistering heat. Señores van Mierlo and van den Berg, my gratitude is immeasurable - and, alas, most probably exploitable. How was it you drank your coffee, for instance?