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What are we doing?
July 21st, 2001 85th Nijmegen Four Day March  Epic imagery: the motorcyclist, clad in black leather, alone, but in company, who roars along the A73, passing below the endless string of marchers and, at 120 kilometres an hour, raises his right arm in salute, to the procession and its banners, moving across the overpass. There is nothing fascist about this: that salute conveys, in 1 gesture, from 1 to 38.000, understanding, awe, support and honour. As the motorcyclist disappears in the distance, and the heavy heartening horns of the truckers festively crush the honking of family cars, I fight away my tears. The day of Wijchen has begun, and I have underestimated Nijmegen.
Good heavens, had I been afraid of this one. Having reluctantly started walking, only folly to pursue, Schelden had successfully trained me to march Bornem. But Bornem is doable. Bornem is 1 day. Bornem is inhuman, but when you know you only have to walk for 24 hours, you walk for 24 hours and count them down. If only you don't have to do anything after those. Can fall over.  This is not an option, in Nijmegen. In Nijmegen the next day starts at three AM. In Nijmegen I rise when my good cousin still has hours to go in the bars. Limp down the steep staircase to make coffee. Make my way upstairs again, leaving a percolating machine behind, to tape down what remains of the blisters I incurred during the MESA. The deep gashes in my heels had only closed 1 day before the Four Day March began - but hadn't healed yet. They were still covered in bloodcrusts.
 And so, I was terrified. What if they'd burst open again? Bornem is 1. Nijmegen is 4. FOUR. Times fif-ty. I thank the firm of Adidas, and my own perseverance. The track in Nijmegen is flat, so I'm not marching on the new military boots that I needed so much during the MESA, but that hurt me badly there. In Nijmegen I march on the trainers that proved themselves during the Deathmarch. And this works. It not only saves me, it makes me triumph. The feet therefore freshly taped down, the socks folded around them, I silently and carefully descend. Drink my coffee and step into nocturnal Nijmegen, ill at ease. Ill at ease! As if I haven't lived for those Summerfests for years! But there you have it. No Summer. No Fest. Just the Wedren, when, following drowsy confusion, I've finally found it (I almost went the wrong way at the Keizer Karel because I thought the people marching past there had already come from the Wedren).
 Thus begins my 85th Nijmegen Four Day March. My first. Marco van Zijntergen and I had, in wicked conspiration, succesfully conned Henk van der Schelden. A singular event. He really believed van Zijntergen would be lacking, due to work. But he had booked a room in Jachtslot de Mookerheide the day after MESA, so that even the selfless offers that the Holy Mother Prakke and the Incredible Bert Van Prijzen made through a Schelden desperately clawing around, were unnecessary.
 Therefore, on the monday, I had not arrived at my cousin's home by train, but by Polo. My cousin lives in the van Welderenstraat, these days, which would turn out to be a great thing. Quite apart from the fact that his girlfriend Kirsten, someone I appreciate highly, turned out to be pregnantish all of a sudden (hooray-I-stand-to-become-uncle-yesyes), they inhabit a pleasantly Frenchish largely white building in the centre of town, two minutes walking distance from the start at the Wedren. And they had supplied me with a guestroom that was so comfortable I didn't even need the army sleeping bag I had only just bought. Ample reason for beerbashing, which therefore took place at the Grote Markt, until abouts two AM, in the company of my cousin, and with a better conclusion than some of our drinking bouts have had: contentedly we turned homeward, without any noteworthy incident.
And so I groggily stumbled onto the Wedren, at the beginning of The day of Elst.  Mobile phones have great capabilities and so the reunion with Marco materialized quickly. At once, tradition set in. I had hitherto failed to believe Schelden in this, but that ham sandwich and the coffee that came along with it tasted of eternity. In the twilight of dawn, sipping coffee, I was suddenly gripped by the shoulder by Wey, standard bearer of the Walking Society of Ex-Commandoes, moving past in a way that said he was ready for action. The Commando Corps is in one's darkest moments eh. When he had left waving, Marco and I also took off. Past the card inspectors, and across that bridge to the other side of the river Waal.
 Shortly after sunrise, we pounded our way into Bemmel. Admittedly ready to rest, but otherwise mostly pitying Astrid, who, after all, resided here. Astrid, you see, is a lady from Gilzen we met during the MESA, and of whom we knew that she was marching here too. And Bemmel makes a lot of noise, on early mornings like these. But it does so in style. They threw a Swiss week, and so there were greybeards in appropriate traditional dress, sporting pikes and provincial banners, keeping watch along the track. This drew my respect. Especially after I had, for at least three quarters of an hour, been eating fried-eggs-and-bacon on the terrace of the Bemmel Arms, and hadn't seen them move a muscle all that time.
 I met them one other time during the March, on the Via Gladiola, and they were most impressive then, too. This was therefore a good experience, although, sadly, Schelden unmasked our deceit here. You see, the Bemmel Arms is a Quality Rest and so he was there too, eating tomato soup, dressed in his Wiener Sängerknaben-join-the-navy-outfit. "Effing bastards! But I am glad to see you!" See. That's the Wandelsoc.. More to follow, on the subject.
 But now I should first explain the term 'Quality Rest'. It's like this. Schelden marched the Four Days of Nijmegen for the tenth time this year. And all those times, he had done so in the company of two absolute fools, who met him there at an early stage: Bert van Prijzen, now known as First Friend Of The Wandelsoc., and Ted Snodendroom. They did Nijmegen for the twelfth and fourteenth time, this year, respectively. And they have, over the years, chiseled the term 'Quality Rest' out of nothingness, and filled it with meaning. A Quality Rest is a spot that meets four requirements: there always is ample seating space, it is audiovisually quiet, there's a large assortment of food and drink available, and it puts a roof over your head.
 This, by the way, is one of the starkly contrasting aspects of the Four Days of Nijmegen. As compared to all other marches the Wandelsoc. has participated in, that is. All other marches have you stopping at officially designated rest areas, although the population of Diekirch and Bern is slowly (and carefully) starting to take part. So in Nijmegen, the shifting around of walking parties occurs at a much larger scale, making you constantly reacquire the same people. Add to this the Audience along the route. That is an aspect entirely unique to Nijmegen.
And this is touching. It's great to finally be appreciated for doing all that stupid walking, where, in Bornem, you are jeered at, and, elsewhere, you're ignored, by everyone except the march organizers. Gelderland, thank you.  Anyway, so Schelden was there. So Schelden took off, as we were eating. Schelden did shake hands with Bemmel's burgomaster, R.J. Persoon M.A., before continuing, because that too, is part of the Four Days' Etiquette: one shakes the hand of all burgomasters. Unless, of course, as in my case, this is your first time around, in which case one may not find it appropriate or simply not dare to.
Having therefore shaken the hand of Persoon M.A., in my intimidatingly black outfit (totally MESA but for the Adidases, but the black trousers short, this first day), I moved on with Marco, in the direction of Huissen (where we had been before, I remembered with a grin).  Through Elden we then walked on to Elst, where the Audience hit us like a Ton of bricks. What had looked like a well meant (and gratefully accepted) trick of the local enterpreneurs in Bemmel, was a moving fiesta in Elst. I was astounded, and as I write this my eyes are pricking all over again. Damn, thank you. I cannot describe this. See, I can say the entire village had turned out to cheer us. But I cannot tell you how. And I will never forget it. So that is when the realization hits you and you finally understand why Schelden can afford to welcome the freshly appointed mayoress of Elst, Mrs. E. Tuijnman, to Elst, this being his tenth Four Day March. At the same time, I did not contemplate to go shake her hand. I would not dare to, this being my first March, overpowered as I was by this thundering hospitality. Holy shit, what a welcome. It's a good thing that the chairman of the Royal Dutch League for Physical Education, KNBLO, Emile M.L.H. Termont, present at the scene, will have understood this.
 And so this was when we came to that second Quality Rest. Feestzaal Fortuin in Elst. There, to our unspeakable (but nonetheless outspoken) joy, for the first time during this Four Day March, we ran into Mr. van Prijzen. And, as far as Marco and myself were concerned, for the first time period, Ted Snodendroom. Van Prijzen had proven himself to us absolutely, during Leg 1 of Crossing Borders From Border To Border - but Ted Snodendroom, vice-rector of the priest's college of the Archbishopric of Utrecht, was the man Schelden had told us so much about - but whom we had never yet seen.
 But we did now, which soon proved to be pleasant: Ted watched, smiling benignly, his already blistered feet resting on the table, as Marco and I called Schelden ugly names in our traditional manner, before greeting him in brotherly fashion. This calling of names, by the way, appeared just for a long while, since Schelden had told us in Bemmel that the next rest was only one and a half hour's worth of walking away, but we only got to Elst 2,5 hours later, having pounded the road like madmen. As it turned out, he hadn't wilfully deceived us, as we thought ("Where the fuck's that little blue nincompoop in the faggotty sailorsuit? Marco, you hold the fucker, and I'll kick him until he ceases moving"), but he'd been conned by the KNBLO, just like Ted and Bert. The being blistered of Snodendroom, by the way, also applied to van Prijzen, we learned. And also nice was that, here, after having buttermilk and the likes, on leaving the premises, I was discovered by Yvonne Kuhlman, whizzing by whilst marching the 40.
 Anyway, on we went, through Valburg and Herveld to the Beatrix Hall in Slijk-Ewijk. Tradition is a wonderful thing. We had barely collapsed into chairs there, completely worn out (the Four Day March by now was really very much like the Deathmarch, the heat included), when van Prijzen said "Oi. The Blarentrappers are late, this year". Too true. Half a minute later they raided the Hall. Most noisily too, since that's their specialty. The Blarentrappers (the word means 'blisterkickers') march with constantly rattling tambourines and a walking Tannoy-pole that, besides prerecorded Dutch schlagers, vomits anything into the open air that the guy who wears it cares to blurt out via his cheap microphone.
 And I have to hand it to them: they can march. They're everywhere, you see, and the large grey fellow we'd already met in Bern, so we knew what his track record is (you don't want to know). But I wash my hands of the Blarentrappers for some time to come. You see, they jumped the queue, at the counter, where food and drinks were to come from. And not just my position in it, but eachother's too. Loudly, bluntly, and elbowing. In short: grant these punters a hike to the Costa if you'll please. I'm about to throw up. All the worst qualities of my fellow countrymen, shoutingly unified.
 They could definitely learn a thing or two from the Belgians. An honest Belgian delivered my wallet, which I left here in passing, to the bar of the Beatrix, so that its personnel could call to warn me at a later stage, so that I could Polo my way back with Marco by the time we got to the end of today's leg (which, by the way, was somewhat of a troublesome affair, since Slijk is a carefully hidden village).
 This did of course mean that, in Oosterhout, I had to present our good friend van Prijzen as my regular marching partner and daylong witness, because the chief ticket inspectress would not have given me a replacement card otherwise. Of course, this was a breeze, and at the end of the day, on the Wedren, they didn't make a fuss about it either, after I'd succesfully cited my home address, zipcode and date of birth.
 Nice, nice, nice. Much less nice: the festive terror on the dyke leading to Lent. You know, the guy who walks up behind you and, VERY loudly, starts singing 'Captain Jack' - wrong lyric, really bad accent. Then to loudly and indignantly complain when nobody joins in, demanding to be supported. "I'm only gonna try once, y'all know!" And all these sheep joining in eh. Schelden to Snodendroom, about the animals-by-the-dyke: "Whenever I finish fucking a sheep, I paint its ass blue - it creates a bond, you know, with the animals". Yes, and I would gladly have provided this hoorayhooray-terrorist with a second arsehole - using a Kalashnikov.
 Lent, as receptions go, was a kind of mini-Elst, and so, much refreshed and contentedly, but envious of the beerbottleheaps, we marched across the Waalbridge and back into Nijmegen. Schelden tried, in vain, to get Marco to screw me over by ordering him not to allow me any Polo-ing to Slijk, in order to retrieve my wallet. Yesyes. Good begets good eh. After all, why would he screw me when he can also screw Schelden?
The day of Wijchen started, following a short drinking binge in De Vereeniging the night before (and fine food there too, Tilapia fillets, healthy, tasty and sensible), like the one before: white ham sandwich, coffee and Wey striding past. "Tigers, Wijchen!" was his moving comment.  Through a dark and silent Nijmegen we then trod along, at high speed, past studentcomplex Hoogeveldt in Heijendaal (ominous reunion, since this was the setting for much ado in my personal past - about which I shall supply no further information unless you buy my beer), to the circustent that sports sausage-on-French-bread. This says home to us. Moreover, there's a rather nice sign behind the counter in that tent: 'Due to a shortage of personnel, we employ human beings'.
 Through Harthatert shopping centre (beautiful name, situated right next to the meres of Overasselt and Hatert, but you don't notice that at all), we marched on to Alverna and Balgoij at sunrise. This was a hard stretch, since, for the first time, in a long line of marches that started in june 2000, after the practice march around Haarzuilens, the rain started coming down. And not just a little bit of it, but just like then, forceful and horizontally from the left. With the familiar effect: where driving rain afflicts a grumbling marching pack, the Societas Ambulationis Academica grows to bolt upright and noble heights. Stoically I therefore paced past that bewildered pack of marchers, to the joy of Ted Snodendroom. I would have stamped past both him and Bert van Prijzen (my gaze firmly focused at infinity) had they not hollered at me.
 
Past Balgoij the sun had already started to take effect again, and because, by now, we'd been walking for a real long while since that circustent, dehydration began to heavily plague me. This led to reeling, cold sweat and almost fainting. The rest in hotel-café-restaurant 'Hoogeerd' by the Maasbandyke near Niftrik therefore definitely wasn't superfluous luxury. And so Bert's enire supply of Isostar (a most effective drink, Bert had already taught me near Lent) disappeared down my throat here, following soup, and orange juice too.  In vivacious mood then, we cheerfully marched on to Niftrik, diverting eachother with the story of the horse that once bit Bert straight in the face on this bit, and from there to Wijchen, where Schelden, Snodendroom and van Prijzen customarily shook hands with burgomaster J.J.M. Franssen Ph.D. and wife, and we consequently collapsed next to the EDAH supermarket, which is only a Quality Rest because a. EDAH is part of Laurus, the supermarket group within which van Prijzen is responsible for marketing in Belgium and b. his good wife Hilda invariably calls on him there with a thermosflask full of coffee, the darling.
 Here, by the by, we also ran into that-beardy-nutcase-who-looks-like-Nico-de-Jong-but-whose-name-I-cannot-remember-for-the-life-of-me, whose name I will not forget again, since I now know it is Louis, who as always was laden with lead-in-bags. He reported, the Isostar we gave him in hand, that reservists Bakx and Spaan were on the track somewhere too. That was the only thing we heard of them - we didn't see them at all, during the Four Days. But so we did come across Louis, who was again cheerfully pacing along ahead of us before too long.
 By the scheduled open air urinal (highly illegal an action, this year, by the way), and the firm of Progomm (not a name one would give a company, it leads to unwholesome anagrams) we walked towards Beuningen, where, after the cracking of a joke or two, bizarre conversation by mobile phone with people like Max, and conversation about mobile phones with people like Snodendroom, we sat down at the Quality Rest. This is a special one. It's a terrace of an otherwise unimportant bar, which, however, pours a decent glass of jenever (the Dutch version of gin). And close by one finds the Patatterie (sells chips and Dutch snacks), a place to be raided in rotation of five years by the Quality Marchers. And so I was for it, this time over, and the rest sat themselves down behind the glasses whilst I went to procure steaming paper bags. Good marks for the Patatterie-personnel, by the way, for the speed with which they handled my order.
 This rest came after deputy mayor H.J.B. Peereboom, whose hand was traditionally shaken by the three Musketired (that burgomaster H.N.A.J. Zijlmans M.A. LL.M. is not there himself, is because of the judicial procedure which is currently underway against him, for allegedly causing psychological distress to third parties). It's a wonderful world, one would have to admit, in which citizenry with a grudge still can bring down its governing bodies, even if they haven't done anything wrong.
 Via Weurt and the industrial estate on the edge of Nijmegen, we then hiked to the Wedren. That stretch across the industrial estate was quite an experience, by the way. Not just because van Prijzen, despite his hefty blisters, cheerfully outclassed me here, but also because one of the many ATC-teams present (sadly, our friends of the Herts & Bucks Wing were not) a. gave us a harrowing rendition of the Airborne Ranger-song and b. kept eachother going, on the way to Heumensoord (when we arrived in Nijmegen, they still had to do another 6 km, although they had of course also marched 6 less at that moment, by comparison - by comparison, since they walk the 40 km distance anyway, but they have to do so wearing 10 kilogram bergens), by holding the straps of eachother's backpacks. Another moving example of the teamspirit the Air Training Corps turns out to have the patent to.
What followed was our entry into town through the van Welderenstraat, an incredible experience. The absolute prize for the Audience-Of-The-Week. A swirling party, that enveloped us like a hot bath and refreshed our weary minds and bodies no end. In retrospect, this turned out to be the entire collected gay catering industry of Nijmegen. Small wonder eh. Al-ways the same. Guys, gals, a big thank you from this hetero.  Once back at de Vereeniging (tradition must be kept, after all - up until this year, the marches began and ended at this, Nijmegen's main theatre) we prepared ourselves for the barbecue of the wandelSWOC (the ex-commandos) by drinking loads of beer. The ex-commandos had namely invited us for it by way of Peter Wey, via Henk. And by now we had struck a deal with Astrid, which entailed her going to Bemmel and back again, so she could pick up her car, then to pick Schelden and myself up at de Vereeniging, so we could drive to the barbecue together. And so we set out to consummate this deal. But first we asked Schelden to find out where it was, by ringing Wey.
 Schelden, controlfreak par excellence, of course had no inclination whatsoever to rely on a route description given by the likes of Wey, and so he refused to call him, saying he preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. When we looked at him questioningly he proclaimed "Just our luck, you'll see, if I phone them, they'll tell us it's been cancelled, on purpose". As Astrid cycled towards Bemmel, I did after all get Schelden to call Wey. But instead of just asking where it was, he said: "Could you please give me a tip as to how I get there?" Whereupon Wey cheerfully replied: "Of course, it's in West". I thought "Groannnnn" and sure enough, half an hour later we stood by the roadside, in Astrid's car, on the far bank of the river Waal, somewhere in the vicinity of Lent, totally lost.
So Astrid and I went: "Schelden CALL Wey, and don't let him go until you KNOW where it is". Schelden: "No, I've got a much better idea, stop at this house". So he rang the bell, intimidated his way onto the premises, diddled these people out of a map, and returned two minutes later with a triumphant grin on his mug, and a bold statement: "I know where it is". Ten minutes later we were certain we were close - but we were hopelessly lost again.  So Astrid and I went: "Schelden CALL Wey, and don't let him go until..." Schelden: "No, I've had enough of this, you go call him yourself, and anyway, I'm getting off here and am severing all links with you, van Reenen. You're a stupid asshole and I hope you fail to finish it and Astrid, if you decide to keep seeing this sod I don't ever have to see you again either. Bye!" Astrid: "AS YOU WISH". Me: "Goodbye Schelden". Cardoor: "Klunk". And so there Schelden was, all by himself in the middle of some Nijmegen suburb somewhere.
Half a minute later Jochem Prakke called me. He'd just driven from Haarlem to Nijmegen, especially for this barbecue, and now spoke, somewhat surprised: "You appear to have kicked Henk from the car, and now I'm to go get him in some suburb somewhere". Me: "Why am I not surprised?" Anyway, Jochem goes to get Henk as we head to the barbecue, with a local barlady located by Astrid, leading the way in her own car. 
Having arrived there, Henk did too... ...and proceeded to act as if NOTHING had happened. Shaking my head in astonishment, I decided to forget the incident. This did not go for Marco and Astrid, who, just like Jochem, made Henk believe, until very late that night, that he couldn't count on a ride home... ...which he did eventually get, from Astrid. See. That's the Wandelsoc. More to follow, on the subject. That barbecue, in the canteen of soccerclub Excelsior (not the ones from the Toto-league, they're from Rotterdam), meanhwile was most enjoyable... ...but I had totally had it, so I split early and settled into Marco's Polo for some sleep. The day of Groesbeek  Heavily hangovered, logically, we set out again the next day, past Heijendaal, towards the circustent, having had the white-with-ham and coffee (but without Wey sailing past, this time). From there we rapidly passed through Hatert, where we ran into Pro Libertate (heavily represented this time, but wearing silly hats), and through growing rain to old pensioners' home de Maldenburch, in Malden. There, we found Ted and Bert in the management's chamber, the blistered feet raised unto the table.
 So I explain to them what Schelden got away with the night before. Bert: "Ted, I do believe some pastoral work would be fitting, later today". And: "In five minutes, van der Schelden will enter this room in a wheelchair, and then he will take up the chairperson's gavel". And so it transpired. First words, from Schelden to Bert: "Van Prijzen, they chucked me out of that car just like that, yesterday"... ...sic. See. That's the Wandelsoc.. More to follow, on the subject, right now.
You see, it was therefore small wonder that Bert and Ted, on this third day, came up with two new creeds for the Wandelsoc. (the second of which, as far as I am concerned, may last): 'Nos diversificat ambulare' (may walking drive us apart) and 'Nos iungat querulantia' (may quarreling unite us). Having cordially thanked manageress Agnes of the old pensioners' home for the restful oasis she'd provided us, the weary travellers, with, on it went, in an endless stretch-through-the-meadows, by Mook, to Plasmolen. 
Here, in the pissing rain, having splashed out on soup and rolls, we advanced towards the most epic part of the Four Day March: The Milsbeek Hook. The Hook is a horseshoe shape, which is only completely marched by the 50 km. The thirtiers and fortiers cut it short and left at two different earlier spots. And the irritating thing is that one can see the entire track the entire time. That is, that used to be irritating, for Schelden, Snodendroom and van Prijzen. Since by now The Hook had been made less deep than before, and both Marco and I were forewarned, of course. And so I loved The Hook, which reminded me of Zeeland, and which moreover was a freshbreezy relief after the exclusive residential areas of Milsbeek, where, just like in Bornem, we were not cheered on, but jeered and laughed at, by snobbish students this time. Great, therefore, was my satisfaction when I heard someone behind me whisper reverently to his partner, as I strode by with large paces, stoically braving the high winds, dressed in my Sandeman-outfit: "That man is everywhere, he's always there - he's got class, don't you think?"  This joy, however, was swiftly and efficiently suppressed by van Zijntergen. Well, it had been long in coming. The man had never run up a blister or muscle ache, all the time he'd been with us, and so this is where it finally went wrong. With a small blister and a fiery tendon inflammation in the right shin, he disappeared, just before the middle of The Hook, into a KPN-First-Aid-station. Now, I truly detest KPN, as a company - so they ought to be happy to have that excellent a team, for the Four Day March. You see, they received us hospitably and spared cost nor effort in professionally assisting Marco. We will not easily forget that: higher wages for those workers!
And that they took a long time did no harm either. Better good than half, you see, plus it gave me a chance to enjoy a splendid rendition of the Four Day March Song by an adjacent fanfare (the horns joined in the singing, anytime they were temporarily without work). And so Marco learned what it means to fight off pain. High time, and he withstood it with flying colours, as it turned out. 1 paracetamol and some bandages richer, he tramped through The Hook effortlessly, and at great speed, thereby recucing the arrears arisen between us and the pack to zero. This was a good thing, since it meant that, by Grafwegen, at the foot of the Jansberg, the Victory-March-of-the-Wandelsoc. could begin. Here is where the benefit of our visits to Diekirch and MESA became obvious. At relative breakneck speed therefore, heads raised high, we ascended the first of the Seven Hills in the pouring rain. That is truthful, since, although the Jansberg is still quite a ways from the Seven Hills Road (Zevenheuvelenweg), there are only five hills along it. "He's on doping", I heard somebody say behind me. "Nah, he's on Isostar, if you consider that doping...", was the answer. The happy grin would not leave my face, and only got worse when I met the same ATC-squadrion that had sung so hair-raisingly beautifully the day before. One good conversation later, we arrived at Bar Breedeweg in Bredeweg, the Quality Rest where Ted Snodendroom always goes to lie down on the ground. As he did this time. 
From there it went to Groesbeek, where Jochem Prakke reacquired us at the resting spot of the Ex-Commandos' Walking Society (which was on the left, past the burgomaster, Mr. G.E.W. Prick M.A., as Schelden had explained to us so strikingly - and Mr. Prick's hand was obviously shaken, by Snodendroom, van Prijzen, van der Schelden and myself). The KCT supplied us with soup and fine sausages, I had a pleasant conversation with an unearthly beautiful female officer of the law, and then we finally marched towards Berg en Dal, across the real Zevenheuvelenweg. Muhaha, what triumph, on my part.  Marco went and lay down in a First Aid Station here, Jochem disappeared as soon as he could, on his mountainbike, towards Astrid, who was fourtying along somewhere ahead of us, and I shut up all my critics in a murderous stiffstomp to Thai restaurant Baan Isaan on the outskirts of Nijmegen. There, contentedly sat down on its terrace, 1 kilometre from the finish, I quietly awaited the coming of my fellows... ...and of Louis, who, likewise contentedly, set out to drink his jenever (as didn't Ted and Bert, who felt this was not a Quality Rest and therefore walked on).
 Prakke, not trodtired at all after all, logically left no opportunity unused to invitingly ask all four waitresses all questions he could think of pertaining to randy screwsex. This was followed by an awe-inspiring last kilometre, because, on this bit, we ran into Annie Berkhout, record holder and in the process of walking her 65th Four Day March. Hats off and reverent shaking of hands, therefore.
Nighttime brought a pleasant get-together with Prakke and Schelden, on the terrace of Mexican restaurant Trocadero in the Molenstraat, after which Schelden and I experienced a short outing to the Valckhof, where my good cousin and his buddies were roaming the festival. A waitingbar, taxi and meeting with some ex-Haarlemmers in a bar along the van Welderenstraat later, we contentedly fell down on our mattresses around 2 AM. The day of Cuijk  Heavily hangovered, logically, we set out again the next day, past Heijendaal, towards the circustent, having had the white-with-ham and coffee (but without Wey sailing past, this time). From there we rapidly passed through the suburbs by the Hatertse Vennen. Here the honking moment of the second day, that I described in my introduction, repeated itself, although this time, after the overpass, we didn't turn right, but left. In the direction of Gilwell St. Walrick, legendary scouts' accommodation, by now, sourly, more or less disposed of by Scouting Netherlands because of financial troubles.
 Fortunately, Lord and Lady Baden Powell still grace its wall. And in all other aspects too, this is a Quality Rest (although I did have to wait for a long time before I could finally use that much needed watercloset). All the more a big scandal... ...that Marco completely missed this entire rest. Had I explained to him so clearly where it was, beforehand ("at the first T-crossing on the track it's on your right hand side just before it"), when he called me and said "I now see the first official First Aid sign, so I'm going to pay them a visit", and I, mindful of his wounds, said "Of course, I'll wait for you", he was walking past me unbeknownst. And so he walked on into Overasselt. Where he had been for some time by the time he called me, thus making me, totally stiffened up by now, find out.
 This led to a Scheldenmatic bout of cursing, which started as I raided the corner bar in Overasselt following an incensed stretch of speedstriding, and only ended by the time I'd, in murderous mood and at killing speed, driven Marco to the bridge at Grave. Now, I finally understood why Schelden's the prick he is: you become one almost naturally, on a fourth day of the Four Day March, for its sheer nastiness. I didn't just start to curse just like he did, I even pulled the same faces, without intending to. Most disquieting, all of that. Thankfully, after that bridge clad in happy Four Day March-colours, there was the man with the banner 'There is hope' (an awful flag in itself, but for some reason or other I could appreciate it today and had a really nice conversation with that guy).
In Grave vice-burgomaster P.J. Vollenberg (a very friendly man, I really must say so) corrected my shameful error of judgement about the character of this city, which, namely, isn't a village ("Thank you very much for your hospitality, what beautiful village you have here" - that kind of stuff), and we rested our bones in the Oranje Hotel. This did not last long, because supplies here by now had run out almost entirely. That's what you get, van Zijntergen. Grmbl.  Through Gassel, then (where I had a mar-vel-lous SMS-conversation with my cousin - by now it was 11 AM and he was still making the rounds around Nijmegen's bars with his friends, so at that moment SMS-ed me: 'Where are you - we have reached the end of our Odyssey here', whereupon I typed in return 'I am suffering in Gassel. Schelden wants you to know you're a bunch of fucking bastards, and I, too, hope your livers will rot - in short, we're having a great time here', and loudly recited this for Schelden, to the great amusement of our fellow walkers), along a seemingly end-less rural road, upon which we sang 'Jerusalem' with an ATC team, to The Beers Arms, a bar that, from the outside, looked like it was impassably crowded but which, once entered through the side door, turned out to be virtually empty, as far as its rear hall was concerned.
Lovely, lovely, lovely. All the more so since van Prijzen and Snodendroom, with whom we regained contact here, regaled us with great entertainment. Bert, for instance, unbended completely and played a great bit of airguitar to 'Born to be wild'. Of which, sadly, we do not have a photo, as Marco was still plodding along behind us.  And then the madness commenced. Because the next Quality Rest was only an hour further up (this is because the KNBLO cut an old bit of track out of it here, but Bert and Ted obstinately hang on to their Quality Resting Route) so that the stifness has only just disappeared when you can start regrowing it in Café de Bond (ridiculous, yes, but this place, named after the Farmer's Union, serves great croquette rolls, that's a fact, even when the lewdest Pseudo in Holland, Mr. Ben Jeursen (whose first name translates as 'Am' in 'I am'), wearing his T-shirt reading 'Am Fast' and carrying his umbrella reading 'Am Dry', tries to steal your hat there). And Schelden was given flowers in Cuijk, by the personal assistant to mayor L.M. Schoots. This should never have been allowed to happen, of course, since he didn't stop bragging about it for the rest of the march, the pompous bastard.
Moreover, from Cuijk to Mook, his face is traditionally marred by a humongous cigar, just like Bert's. By itself, a regal tradition, of course. And fun, no question about it: the pontoon bridge. The fact that Prakke thought he was on it and we were therefore put out when this turned out not to be the case, did not negate the wonderfulness of the crowd there, nor the grandeur of this crossing. Wings.  Somewhat later, as we passed through county Mook and Middelaar, where the hand of burgomaster A.H.M. Verhoeven was shaken, Jochem did appear, with daughter Lanca. And... ...Marco, who impressed us greatly by catching up with us here! Heroism his! Grounds for a photograph, before we faced the agony of the road through Malden and of, following a brief Qua-li-ty Rest at the McDonald's (where I went alone, as the rest was down the road a bit, in some place I'd already past by the time they got there), the Via Gladiola.
 Agony, since I had ceased liking the event at this stage. As nice as the audience had been to us all week, here they were irritating, to say the least. On that last day, you see, they're all one day flies. And they a. think they're highly original (but how original are you really when you call me 'Zorro' after I've heard that about 6000 times that week - how dare you be surprised that I do not lift my hat in this case, but instead pace on by with a taut face, moron?), and b. are not there to support you, as a marcher - you are there for them. Walking stock, i.e., just like in Bornem.
 As, for instance, was obvious in the behaviour of the broad who, using her umbrella handle as a fake microphone, constantly blocking my way whilst hanging against me in tilted fashion during a fake interview, that ended with: "You don't think this funny, do you?" "No, I do not find this funny at all" "Why not?" "Because, at this stage, the worst you can do to me is break my stride, because when it alters I find myself in great pain, that will not be there if I can continue to stride evenly, and breaking my stride is exactly what you're doing now", whereupon she slinked off, justly shamefaced.
Fortunately there was 1 more great crossroads, the one with that crazy Max-the-traffic-cop on it. This I cannot describe aptly, you have to have been there. Much like the van Welderenstraat, but more of a bullfighter's arena, and all the more funny since it is the Law raising hell here. And thankfully there were many wellmeant congratulations too, amongst which those of my cousin, Kirsten and Bert, at the end of the Via, where, furthermore, I finished without blisters, thus only suffering from muscle ache and burnt feet.  All the same, I was totally incensed when I found out that, at the Wedren, the presentation of the medals and the stamping of walking passports and the like was not separated from the party, the whole of it was split in two by a road that, although closed to normal traffic, was fenced off with roadbarriers, and it was totally unclear which stand was where. This then means that if you, like I did, want to procure an IML-stamp, you first have to go stand in line at the 'regular' stampstand in order to be able to inquire there where to find the IML one, then to have to cross the entire plaza and having to irritate two separate parties as you plough through them, in order to get there. An absolute scandal, which I emphatically urge the KNBLO not to repeat.
 All the same, I have underestimated the Four Days of Nijmegen as a whole. Not where it's hardness is concerned, because its severity lay within the line of expectations, but with regard to its atmosphere. Some small matters that could be improved aside, this is a march that I can recommend to anyone and will definitely do again, albeit not next year already, probably. Because it greatly pained me to have to miss the Summerfests this year. So it will probably be one up, one down, from here on out.
My compliments to Wim Th.J. Jansen (the man officially called 'general manager', but still referred to, thankfully, in all papers, as 'March leader', just like his predecessor Chris Bos). And the hand that Schelden gave vice burgomaster Joop Tettero of Nijmegen (mayoress Guusje ter Horst - bravo Guus, nice walking there by the way - was obliged to be elsewhere - would that have had anything to do with the presence of the crown prince, cursingly missed by me by the way?) was well earned. 
This was the factual close of a fine season. I have become an accomplished walker (Am Faster Than Jeursen), and van Zijntergen has finally reached his limit. Good grounds for partying. 
To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Nijmegen is ours. Bornem awaits Johan, us the Airborne. Photos of Annie Berkhout (except for the one featuring me), the leftmost of Max-the-traffic-cop and the Marchers-above-the-A73: the Gelderlander. |