What are we doing? September 2nd, 2000 To wrap up the walking season, on behalf of the walking society, I took part in the 54th Airborne Wandeltocht in Oosterbeek. The longest available official distance in this march is 25 kilometres (15.5 miles). I figured it would be a nice cooldown after the MESA and the Dodentocht. Well, it was. Because the area in and around Oosterbeek is beautiful, the origin of this march (it is held to remember the fallen in the Battle of Arnhem in 1944, one of the most important events on Dutch soil during World War 2) has merit, and its distance is doable under any circumstance (and laughable to me after what went before). Okay, it rained, but it only infrequently and seldomly did. During the latter stages of the march, in fact, it got hot, which made climbing the hills that popup often during that part of the march somewhat of an experience. The bad thing about this march is its scale: more than thirty thousand people participate and their number is rife with whole families, prams included, because shorter distances are available too. Not that these are unfriendly people: but it takes you a long time to get into your own rhythm. Meaning it took me an hour to walk forward far enough to have enough space to not have to hold back all the time. Despite this I had to anyway, during the last kilometres, through the village of Oosterbeek, because the shorter routes merge with the loner ones at that point and the walkers are preceded by marching bands walking in slow step. A sudden, then prolongued break in speed is quite a strain on the muscles... ...particularly if your average speed in the march is 3.8 miles an hour, which mine was. This had four reasons: 15.5 miles by now no longer is a challenge. So I skipped all the rests and walked passed everyone, in order to get into battle with myself. In which I succeeded, to win it too. as I said, I wanted to escape the prams, so I could be 'alone' with the terrain. And I enjoyed that when it happened. I had to be home before stores closed. Prosaic, but true. The trainride from Haarlem to Oosterbeek and back takes such a long time that I only just made it in time to do my shopping. Afterwards, it emerged stores were open the next day (sunday), but I didn't know that at the time, and I'd run out of food for the cat. it was raining intermittently, which I hated, so I was eager to be done with it fast. Not that being fast helped: the real rain came down AFTER I finished, on the way back to Oosterbeek's railway station. Cats and dogs in numbers large enough to make me reach the train soaking, grumble. Anyway, I finished drugfree (barring four fags smoked while walking, and without food or drink) in four hours, at 14:30 (Max, I suck at math, but this really is right, and I still think it's fast). This was good fun, especially since I was again derided by the overwhelming majority of marchers, both because of my speed as well as my costume (because this was the close of my own beautiful marching season and the MESA was the highlight of it, I marched the Airborne in exactly the same outfit I wore then, black basketball trainers included). This time was different though. Those who laughed at me were opposed by those in their own groups who had noticed the MESA baton on my coat. Most satisfactory. And of course even the most acidious critics fell silent as they entered the field at Sportpark Hartenstein to find me waiting there, beer in hand. But these were the less important aspects. Important about the Airborne, to me, is that it was a nice and well organised walk on a goodlooking course, and that I ran into some of the members of the walking club of ex commandos, whom Henk and I had met during the MESA. Since I don't know their names (but I suspect that befits the atmosphere surrounding them) I'll call them Baldy, Moustachio and Gramps. Baldy was elsewhere, to my great sadness, but Moustachio and Gramps were more present than ever. Moustachio brought along his son, about whom he had told us much during the MESA. My apologies, Moustachio, I was in a hurry (see above), otherwise I would have stayed a bit longer and have introduced myself to him. I spoke to Gramps for a while after the march (while Moustachio, understandably, still was walking) - this nutcase told me that on the last day of the MESA he had marched into Vielsalm at noon, hours before his buddies made the finish line. What impressive sot. Hats off. I had to say goodbye in a rush, but not before we had agreed to meet eachother next year, in the Ardennes. See you then, gentlemen. This was a great season. It brought me a swine, a skull and a flying horse and I have to say: this brings satisfaction. Next season's target: to become bearer of the IML International Walker (Nos Iungat Ambulare). Which means Diekirch, Bern and... ...Nijmegen. Oh shit. Life's a bitch and then you die. Henk, bring on the beer - it's about time.