What are we doing? August 10th, 2002 I had, at the time, resolved to never do this again. I would maybe, just maybe, return to support others, and/or spend a long time getting drunk at the terrace of the Land of Bornem (a fine establishment). I should have known. Naturally, nothing came of this intention. In 2001 I had decently passed on it all. But when, at the beginning of this season, Marco van Zijntergen announced that his desire was to take part in this monstrous thing, there were no holds to bar, and I immediately agreed to accompany him, 'for support'. And I, of course, am such a twotone, rectilinear thinking person, that, having once said "aye", there was no way back - not even when Marco, in the end, had to cancel his participation, due to impossibilities in the planning at his job. I had already stated I would do this march, and so I would march it. The consideration that I wished to prove to myself that I am able to do MESA, Nijmegen and Death March in 1 season did also play a secret part in it all, I must admit. And I would almost have had to go it alone. Since even Henk bugged out, not because he didn't want to be there (much to the contrary, in fact), but because his MESA-finishfest-ankle-injury played up (again). Thankfully, however, I was not alone; after a selfsame one year absence Death March-Grandmaster (within the Wandelsoc. that is, since this would be his seventh participation) Johan van Dijk joined the fray once more. And so this not only became a pleasant, but also quiet edition of the Death March. Just like me, Johan namely isn't known to be talkative, whilst marching and, also, the absence of van der Schelden MA naturally works miracles for the general level of peace and quiet. Moreover, Henk has a bizarre quality, during these occurrances: he likes to be on the track as long as possible (I shall refrain from commenting on the things this does or does not tell us about the quality of his life outside it), takes many and long (smoking) rests, enjoys walking at the back of the pack, amidst the clubfeet, in alternately triumphant and paternalistic ("Oh, well...") manner, and therefore likes to arrive at the finish just before it closes. Which means that, when he's not there, it all goes a lot faster. Countering all these benefits, however, is the fact that, in his absence, his priceless silliness, which definitely makes these walks more memorable and easier to stomach, is lacking too. But it wasn't just because of the walking with Johan that this Death March was a pleasant one: this was also due to the organizing body, the Kadee. Over the past two years, it had clearly consulted both itself and others, and many matters had greatly improved therefore. This became apparent right from the start, where we were guided to a new, larger startlocation. This meant it was lay further away from the town centre than before, but it offered a lot more breathing space to the more than 8000 walkers attending this edition. Nonetheless the waiting in the starting fyke was an ominous affair: the air was pregnant with the forthcoming drama. This impression was reinforced by the screaming of the rotors, above our heads, of the ginormous gendarmerie chopper which, like mixerhooks, drove whirlpools of sultry wind through the tensely expectant crowd. And once en route, it turned out that the track, too, had here and there been altered to better accommodate the larger number of participants and the circumstances of the particular moment. A regular resting spot, for instance, had been passed upon because of the sogginess of the soil there. It had, namely, rained quite a bit over the past few days. Luckily, during this Death March itself there was no sign of that: not a drop fell. And in all other aspects too, the weather was perfect for walking: almost exactly room temperature, sunny, but not overly hot, because there was a thin cloud cover, and a light breeze to boot. This remained so throughout the march, from Friday night until the finish, late on the Saturday. And this was a good thing too. Had it rained, I would most certainly not have been able to keep up with the deadly pace Johan kept during the first ten kilometres. Although, maybe, he would not have maintained it in that case. Anyway, he set off energetically, and wormed his way through the uneven berms, past the pile-up of populace along the narrow country roads, at 7 km an hour, like a runaway freight train. This almost cost me my ankles, and delivered me some blisters (two busted, smaller ones on a toe and the heel of my left foot, and a large bloodblister that was still intact by the time I got home) that, during this Death March, I shouldn't have had to incur at all. After all, I was walking in the same shoes with which I had completed the same march without blisters in 2000, when it did rain, and it was much hotter during the day and, by now, I was much better trained, as a marcher, than I was back then. And also, I learned, while marching, that the secret to success in long distance walking lies in the maintaining of a steady pace. Meaning that, if people in front of you move slower than you do, and there is no room to pass them, you take the same number of steps a minute, but shorten them, until a natural gap falls in front of you and you take bigger steps again, in order to step through it and past those people. This method avoids an awful lot of trouble, especially if you combine it with the decrease of speed, in exactly the same way, every time you notice painful stress to the tendons. Wasted on Mr. van Dijk, Monsterstamper from IJmuiden. And of course, you don't allow a dude like that to disappear over the horizon, since that would mean you'd have to go it alone for an endless number of kilometres, through the one-horse towns around Bornem. The advantage to all of this, of course, was that we found ourselves amongst the better trained walkers, who therefore were in much better a mood and therefore less likely to jump the queue at rests and checkpoints, and that we made better time in passing the latter. This was already the case during the night (we were having hot food, rice, chicken and veggies for Johan, lasagna for me, in the Palm brewery, as early as four thirty - that was the same spot where, in 2000, we had only arrived by seven am), and got worse during the day, because I was suddenly inspired and picked up some speed at that time. Of course, by that time, I didn't get close to 7 km an hour anymore, but I did stick close enough to 5 km an hour for us to contentedly collapse into the grass next to the sports hall in St. Amands (1900 hrs., in 2000!), having trod down 90 kilometres with our weary legs. Shortly thereafter, by the way, it became conclusively evident that the organizers, if not mindful of my own tirade, had at the very least listened to the complaints of my fellow marchers: because that dreadful dyke leading to Branst, where the year before last we had been treated so discourteously by rudely ringing cyclists unaware of our suffering, was now closed off by friendly gendarmes, who did let all cyclists pass, but not until they had carefully instructed them to respect the speed and pace of the marchers. Really! I heard them explain to a female cyclist they had stopped, as I was walking past! I must admit it, I was truly touched. My thanks to the Flemish police, which showed us its finest side anyway, since earlier on, at a quarter to eight in the morning in Merchtem, they had stopped an impatiently honking driver without further ado, in order to present him with a hefty ticket and, as he then sped off, had grimly taken up pursuit. See, that is when one feels cherished, as a walker, which is a very pleasant experience, being on a track that, on one's first pass, one labelled monstrous and horrible. So, most definitely: hats off to the Kadee and all its assistants. One would almost consider this a pleasant walk and advise everyone else to undergo it. In fact the only reasons that I don't are that too much depends on the weather and, no matter how you look at it, it is an aw-ful-ly long distance to march! Yes, ALL parts of my body were on seething fire again, during those endless last four kilometres through Branst and Bornem, and again I received the medal, handed to me by a young female volunteer (who, thankfully, greatly appreciated this, I do believe), in tears. In fact, I was so wasted that, later on, on the train back to Holland, I didn't even protest when van der Schelden MA joined us to loudly misappropriate both our personal victories and our gladiolusses. Which wasn't so bad an experience at all since, after all, one knows better. The night was thereafter contentedly concluded with a beerbash on the terrace of Café de Roemer at the Botermarkt in Haarlem. And it was a successful endeavour. To your health, Johan - excellent walking there.