| What are we doing?
July 20th, 2002 86th Nijmegen Four Day March  That ham sandwich may have tasted of eternity at the time, there are moments in life when reality forces you to adjust your experience of it. Last season I had gained twenty kilos through walking. I'd resolved not to blame myself for that for a full year, because it was partly caused by the fact that, after 21 years of chainsmoking, I had quit doing that. But that year had passed by now. So when, this time, I stepped onto the Wedren in the very early morning, there was no sandwich for me. But this was tuesday morning's reality.
My 86th Nijmegen Four Day March started on the preceding Saturday, when I travelled to and fro out of Haarlem, to make use of the late registration facility. Being a registered participant of yesteryear, I had duly received an entry form in advance, but hadn't used it in time, out of sheer laziness. In retrospect, that was handy. You see, if you do register in time, you have to appear on the Wedren on the Monday before the march, to collect your start- and your barcode-card. But on that Monday, the place is insanely crowded, and so you find yourself waiting in line for hours. People like Schelden do not mind this at all - Schelden thinks this is the best day of the year, since it gives him the opportunity to stand in that line with the Four Day Medal on his suit-jacket the entire time, saying things like "Oh, it's not all that bad, really" in friendly tones, to apprehensive, freshly frightened walkers. I myself would rather do without this waiting line fun, and so prefer the much faster late registration on the Saturday. Wonderful, to bluntly walk in to the Charlemagne College without having to wait in line, there to be received by ladies who mostly remind me of those of the Intree Committee of the University of Amsterdam: volunteers who have worked towards the moment for months and thus understand what goes through you as you hand them the form you just filled out in their presence, so they can check if you did so correctly. The late registration. It absolutely is a moment for cold shivers. I can explain that to noone. Colleague Jordy Querner recently asked me what it was that makes this thing appealing. I, who myself loudly claimed last year that, if nothing else was certain, I at least certainly would not participate in this Four Day March, cannot explain that. I can only dutifully report the trembling anticipation and hot and cold shivers I felt on the train down, approaching Nijmegen, the overwhelming feeling of triumph that overcame me as I slid that form across the table, the stinging of my eyes as, one corridor corner and table further up, I accepted start card and registration form, and the pride that I felt at the understanding nod of the man who handed me the bag-full-of-merchandise before I found myself outside again, with a grin on my mutt that just wouldn't leave it for the rest of the day. With a bouncing tread, bolt upright and broadly I strode down the Wedren and into Nijmegen, looking for a new hat. The Nijmegen Four Day March is a phenomenon that grabs and owns you. No, I cannot properly explain why, but it is an honour to take part in it, and the moment you hold that startcard for it actually emotionally is a lot more important than receiving the medal at the finish is. In itself, this did not detract from the triumph I felt when, in Jopie's Surplus, next to the Extase Dance Club, I found and bought exactly the same hat that I'd recently left behind on the train from Marche-en-Famenne to Liège Guillemins. Or from the contentedness that followed, when I received a round of applause from beerdrinkers on the terrace around the corner, who thought it a mighty fine stunt of mine, because it had started to rain torrentially while I was in the store. But fact is fact: the moment I first held that startcard in my hand the rush started, and it would continue for a while. The day of the flag parade. Traditionally, Schelden and I took a pass on the flag parade in the Goffert stadium. Schelden added to that, by also not attending the yearly plenary meeting of the Golden Cross Bearer's Society. And to think that this was the first time he was allowed to attend and that he'd been talking about it all year!  That Monday afternoon, following a smooth trainride from Haarlem, I did, however, find him in good spirits at the terrace of de Vereeniging, where he was feasting alongside Astrid, a few fellow walkers and a KNBLO inspector.
Unfortunately, his absence from the plenary meeting wasn't the only shocker of the day. Schelden reported that Bert van Prijzen, First Friend Of The Wandelsoc. and hardened Four Day Marcher, would not be present this year because, some 48 hours before the start, his father had died, following a heart attack. Because of this passing Ted Snodendroom, too, had, quite understandably, decided not to be there during the Four Day March, since he wished to attend the funeral and, justly of course, deemed it indelicate to stay at the van Prijzens' home during this week, as he normally would. In view of all this Schelden proposed to march somewhat faster on the second day, the Wednesday, so that we might be able to attend at least part of the funeral proceedings, which were to take place close to Arnhem. And of course we decided it would be so. We are, after all, one for all, and all for one. With Astrid we did enjoy a fine supper on the terrace of pub restaurant the Spil along the van Welderenstraat, and this was a pleasant affair - but I must say that there were long silences during which we, each to one's own, stared into the distance, lost in thought, contemplating this loss. Not just because of this we called it a night after that, since because it had been quite sociable last year, on that first night, all three of us could exactly not remember why we had had so much trouble marching the next day. The day of Elst.  And it probably wasn't only due to Bert's loss (I do believe the fact that this was my second Four Day March and that I therefore knew what it was that awaited me played a certain part in it as well), but this first day of marching was a bit of a blur.
This was also because of the harassment. I hadn't expected it, but this year, much more so than the year before, I had to endure an enormous amount of pestering about my looks. Okay, from day 1 I wore not short, but long trousers and my regular long coat. This was different last year, I'll admit. But I still find the reactions that I got during this Four Day March to be of such an unthinkable degree of intolerance that I am baffled by it. In times of LPF the walking is bad for the open-minded, I would almost have to conclude. I'll explain this. You see, with a long black coat like that, the long black pants and the black hat I admittedly don't look like people normally do during marches like this one. The usual attire consists of a flower pot hat, pittbullsmoking-jacket, zip off pants, Meindls and banana. The fact that I have excellent arguments for my dress (the coat is thinner than coats like this one usually are and thus works as a leveller in all temperatures - when it's hot I am less warm and when it's cold I freeze more slowly, when it rains my coat takes longer to become soaked and when skies clear it dries up very quickly; moreover I can carry in it all the things other people carry in a pack, and I can sleep below it too, should I have to) does not alter that. And so I consider it normal that I receive the craziest nicknames. And usually I react to them benignly, sometimes even thankfully. But on the first day of this Four Day March I really was treated with the utmost contempt by a team of firemen. Mind you, they weren't friendly types anyhow. Since they interfered with everyone who did not fit their own idea of 'Four Day March Sociability', by loudly making offensive remarks. For instance, they invariably urged resting marchers to walk on: "You tired or sumfin'?". Having had their opinion about everyone else at the ready for some time, they loudly branded me 'goofball', evidently because of my clothing, as I walked by. Also, the lady in that company clearly wasn't about to let me pass the group. Mindful of the marching regulations, I always try not to hinder my fellow marcher in passing. So, I do not push my way by them, do not ask them to move aside, but instead wait for a natural gap to appear, then to calmly step through it. Moreover, my aim is not to competitively push past the other, but to maintain my steady pace, and so I only desire to pass someone if that steady pace happens to be faster than that of the other. Apparently this bird didn't dig this, or refused to. Since, every time I neared her, she increased her speed, eventually even going so far as to lean back into me in order to block my path. At least just as irritating was that one of them, orbiting just behind my right shoulder, started to pant down my neck, and to very loudly sing a western tune into my ear. After 500 metres uphill, on the entrance road to a higher dyke, he gave this up, because I stoically kept on pacing, but my blood did boil, naturally. It was a good thing I ran into Ben Jeursen a little further up, who was also able to inform me that, way up ahead, Marco van Zijntergen was marching with Albert van Geyningen. Good news, absolutely. But this hassle with the firemen nonetheless proved to not be a good beginning for what was to follow later on. Just before Elst I finally exploded in anger. As I and a multitude of other 50 km-marchers opted for the bicycle path to the left as an alternative route to the overcrowded road to Elst that lay to its right (and on which all walkers' cards were being marked), because it was easier to maintain one's steady pace there (30 km-marchers do not have to worry about this, since they can afford to walk at a changing pace), I was belled at by a dude on a moped. I, naturally, kept my pace. Since just as the Four Day March regulations state that, being a marcher, you can only pass fellow walkers so long as they are not hindered by your passing, one would expect this to apply to support riders. There are many of those: they cycle around their marching teams, carrying refreshments and words of encouragement. Nothing wrong with that. But the last thing one should ask of a long distance marcher is to move aside. That, namely, breaks that steady pace. Which did not mean that I, or any of my fellow marchers, had any problem with a timely deviation from our course so we could make room for oncoming cyclists, since we saw them coming from afar. But this particular asshole came from behind and proceeded to use his cycle bell to get us to move aside. That's a definite no-no. You wait for the natural gap to appear, just like you do when marching. This is the Four Day March, and it is about the marchers, not the support riders. It's a marching event, okay? And so I remarked: "Looks like you're eager to die swiftly, on that moped of yours". Whereupon he blocked my way in order to get his own. Did I realize he'd done the March 25 times himself? No, but I found it astonishing that he still hadn't developed common courtesy in all that time. Acridly, I told him I'd seen people get whacked for less. I asked him if he'd ever been to Bornem. No, and if this meant he should be afraid of me, he asked aggressively. "Oh", I said, "I've much better things to do than whacking you, I've got some distance to walk yet. But uhm... ... you might want to be afraid of the rest of us, maybe?", as I indicated the grimly nodding legion. He disappeared in the distance, muttering that I was the crazy one. Fortunately, Elst was the expected relief (although, as said, Ted and Bert were lacking, in Café Fortuyn, where we did run into Vandy van H.). And luckily, we were spared this kind of unpleasantness for the remainder of the day. Once back, via Slijk and Lent, we therefore collapsed contentedly. The day of Wijchen.  On day 2 the weather appeared to be even better than on day 1, if such a thing was possible. Again we had a slight cloud cover, but the temperature and humidity level were a bit lower. Nice, since we had to make haste today, because of the funeral we had to attend.
Which gave me a fine chance to shut up the intolerant-who-commented-on-my-outfit. I could namely now say myself what they often launched as a joke, that I had "a funeral to attend". And this time over I could make them be silent by explaining it. Revenge of the sweet kind, but a sad chance in its arising. Thankfully, there was more good like that. In the early hours I paced by Marco van Zijntergen, without noticing, who then called out himself and proceeded to march along with us for the remainder of the day. This was not just pleasant (even he and Henk got along fine, this time over!) but an enormous relief too, because of Diekirch. By the way, this fast walking is a real bad experience. Since it puts you among walkers who, thruth be told, march faster than most, but only just not fast enough for yourself. This leads to a lot of mutual irritation which, it must be said, is unintentional, from both sides, in this case. But this didn't, on the whole, mean we had a bad day. In Wijchen (where, this time, Hilda van Prijzen did explicably not wait for us at the local EDAH, with the coffee, and which otherwise is a most unpleasant village to walk through, about which you can read more in The Four Day March-Community-Test 2002) I found march leader Wim Janssen, moving by the fences trying not to be seen, two bobos in his wake, whom I brutally halted, then to, honestly honoured and to his great joy, shake his hand and thank him for the beautiful experience. And in Beuningen there was the won-der-ful scoreboard of the local FC. It's the usual 'home-and-away'-sign. On top it reads 'Beuningse Boys', in the middle it reads 'AGAINST', and at the bottom, normally, would be the name of the opposing and visiting football club. But this was summer, the Beuningse Boys were on holidays and so this spot read 'Happy Holidays'. In days of LPF the Beuningse Boys seem to excellently fit the bill of our hardening times, so to speak. Of those, we were blissfully unaware, seated behind the traditional fries-and-gin. What we were aware of was the high-speed passing by of Peter Weij, standard bearer of the Ex-Commandoes' Marching Society. His speed was almost as high as ours was for the rest of the day, marching through Weurt, hospitable an heartwarming as ever, on our way to Nijmegen, where at the city's edge, to our great joy, we ran into both Albert van Geyningen and Flip Koster, and where the prize for audience of the week this year did not, like last year, go to the Van Welderenstraat, but to the In de Betouwstraat, which had clearly taken over that Rio-role. In the Van Welderenstraat, however, I did meet Mister Nales, an acquaintance from Diekirch days, who provided me with a swig of ex-cel-lent whisky from his hipflask. Very pleasant action. After that I took my fresh-startcard-for-the-morrow and sped to the shower, after which Schelden and I sped towards Dieren by train. Having arrived there we tried, limpingly, to locate a taxi, which turned out not to be easy. A passing young lady: "No sir, Dieren is too small for a taxi". "Miss, if Dieren is five metres long that would warrant five taxis to me." Four Day March-humour. That I had any by this time was nothing short of a miracle, in view of our journey's destination and the fact that I'd just left my sunglasses on the intercity train. But, taking a bus, we arrived at venue De Peerdestal in Ellecom without much further ado, there to join Ted Snodendroom, in the line of people waiting to make their condolences. And we felt it had been a good idea to do this, were very happy to see Bert and Hilda, even under these circumstances, and had good conversations with Ted and fellows (all Four Day Marchers of old) too. Back in Nijmegen we turned in early again, which was nothing but smart, since the murderous speed we had kept today (we were at today's finish at three pm) came back to haunt us during the remaining two days, in stiffness and blisters incurred because of it. But this, of course, went with the exceptional circumstances. The day of Groesbeek. The day of Groesbeek was, as always, memorable. Not because of Groesbeek, since that is a bad place (see, again, The Four Day March-Community-Test 2002), but because this is the third day, on which the suffering starts and wheat is separated from chaff as if the chaff was blown away by the wind of the steppes. Since this is the day of the Seven Hills and, better yet, The Milsbeek Hook. We passed through it without trouble, even though The Hook had almost entirely been brought back to its former glory: it was considerably longer than it was last year. Which was a victory particularly for Marco, who marched with us again today and had suffered so much on this stretch the year before. We made friends in The Hook, with Mark of the Dynabyte-team, and in Café de Brede Weg we honoured the absent Ted Snodendroom (whose Gospel-Of-Quality-Rests, which he had chiseled out with Bert van Prijzen, we followed dutifully), by lying on the ground in his place, in the exact spot where he usually does so. In similar fashion, by the way, we continuously attempted to make sure that Ted and Bert were there even if they weren't. By loudly exclaiming, in places like Partyhall Fortuyn in Elst on day 1 as we entered the premises: "This is where Ted and Bert should be sitting right now", but also by sending text messages to Bert's unsuspecting Rover: 'Greetings from the Malderburch', 'I'm on the floor in Breedeweg Cafe, in Bredeweg' and, on day 4, 'Greetings from Beers'. But today my finest moment undoubtedly was the one in Groesbeek, of all places, where I was stamping my way up a hill, in the direction of the Seven Hills Road, when all of a sudden a rather distinguished-looking gentleman-with-a-small-grey-beard in his late forties appeared beside me and asked me: "Good Sir, how was Martelange, for you?". Whereupon I, eyes stinging, smiling for the emotion brought on by his question and the memory of pain past it evoked, and utterly truthful, answered: "It was hell Sir, sheer hell". THOSE... ...are the moments you do it all for. The secret you share, being Sandeman. The fishcakes at Restaurant Baan Isaan, at the end of the Seven Hills Road, therefore had seldom tasted better. Even Schelden thought so, to my great amusement. "You effing sod, you always know where to find the good stuff" - you see, if Schelden starts addressing you like that, you know you are doing something right. The day of Cuijk. Not that everyone immediately catches on to that. Ralph Tip, for instance, who on behalf of TV Gelderland took part with a camera in his hand, and delivered a daily report for the Four Day March News broadcast, was definitely confounded by it. He filmed Schelden, just as he was being called by me, while I was pacing out of Overasselt with Marco (this time we had rested in Gilwell St. Walrick together, where we had failed to do so the last time over). A short rendition (naturally only remarks made by Schelden and Tip were audible, on TV Gelderland):
Fun, fun, fun. Mind you, we had to make do with that for quite a while. Because the road via Grave (where, by the way, I did contentedly put to right my mistake of the previous year - when, while speaking to the mayor, I'd called his city a village - by thanking him profusely for the hospitality of his beautiful city, this year) to Beers was a long one. And it got a lot longer when, by the time we reached Cuijk, and the next checkpoint, it turned out that Marco and I should have taken a turn back in Beers and were therefore now accidentally walking down the 40km-route. And so we had to walk all the way back and, in the end, a full 6 kilometres extra. It was a good thing that, on the 3km to the checkpoint, we'd had so much fun with the Danish soldiers who, every time they saw someone in front of them answering a mobile phone call, ceased singing with a lot of ssshhhttt-noise, then proceeded to run on their toes to that person, surround the person and then all of a sudden, all pointing at the person, very loudly sing "TE-LE-FOON, TE-LE-FOON, TE-LE-FOON; TE-LE-FOON, TE-LE-FOON, TE-LE-FO-HOON", to run away after that, cackling. Yes, very amusing. But that didn't diminish the fact that we arrived at the croquette rolls of De Bond Cafe a lot stiffer than we strictly might have needed to be. Those rolls nonetheless tasted good, and so we eventually did happily cross the pontoon bridge at Cuijk and enter the Via Gladiola through Mook and Malden. In Malden, too, Ted and Bert awaited us, who today, in order not to have to miss it all, had marched the 30km, but had found this to be an utmostly weird experience, because it means you cross directly, from Gilwell to the Via. Yes but guys, that 30km's meant for pensioners and kids. Of whom, by the way, I will hear no bad. Let it not be said, of 50km-walkers like us, that we deem 30km-walkers sissies. None of it, like the passing by of 30km-ers at higher speed has nothing to do with competitiveness, but everything with fighting pain. Anyway, so with Ted and Bert, through heartfelt and warm meetings with Marco's mother and Henk's, by March Leader Janssen (to whom I complained about the turnoff in Beers and found a listening ear) and mayor Guusje ter Horst of Nijmegen (so i finally got to shake her hand, enjoyable, absolutely), past former Intree-leader Maureen Beer, living alongside this route by now who, to my own amazement, saw me marching past, but without my respected colleague Rinske Willemsen (who by a quarter to five had called it a day, after a long bout of waiting along the Via) we passed the finish line at ten to six. And so I was one unforgettable Four Day March and a Four Day March Cross-with-crown the richer. Despite the mass production of Van Veluw I cannot help but to be utterly proud of it. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. |