What are we doing? September 8th, 2002 We drive south, to where all bells should toll - since this is the end of the marching season, and it has been a good year. Sportpark Hartenstein begets, in me, a winner: apart from a beautiful Haarlem-Noordwijk, with Larisa, I did a repeat of the grandest stage of Crossing Borders from Border to Border, took part in all three existing stages of Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe, and completed Bern, Diekirch, the MESA, Nijmegen, the Death March and the Yser - and yes, I'm proud of it all. Sportpark Hartenstein is a place for winners. And they were there in abundance once more. But this we only found out after the trip down, which lasted some. See, Jochem Prakke had made a plan, to spend the night at his Holy Mother's, the day prior to. No sooner said than motored, and thus Prakke, mother Lydia and daughter Lanca, and a Larisa too, arrived at my humble abode, on the Fridaynight of September sixth. And so, once my gear was packed, we headed southward at the same speed Prakke practices for walking: an insane one. Via Utrecht in the direction of Oberhausen this speedily took us to the Prakke home in Arnhem, there where we had previously already enjoyed unprecedented hospitality before. Not less so this time over, and the house itself, apart from being magnificent, continues to exude incredible peace, more than just partly because of the inhabitant herself. Who, by the by, wasn't there yet herself, at the time. So, first, in the kitchen, we set upon a pasta salad concocted by Lydia in no time, of tortellini and avocado, amongst other things, and Jochem fed daughter Lanca. All very homely and cosy, this effect being intensified when, after Lanca went to bed, Jochem lighted the fire and uncorked the wine. Before long our merry company was expanded still, with Loes Prakke, willing victim for the Nikon-lens of my brand new Coolpix 4500 (which just like my new pentium 4 came out of a taxfree share in profits of the Wegener-concern, thank you kindly boss-of-my-boss). Yes, all very homely, cosy, merry and calming at the same time. But then all quiet suddenly ended. It was to be expected and had been announced beforehand, but it remains a disconcerting affair: enter van der Schelden MA, thankfully not alone but in the company of Securicor-superior Marco Neumann (who leads the officers at location Interpay in the more human way, while Schelden is allowed to move them to and fro as pawns across his festively coloured rosters for him, so that he, in a disquietingly direct, but to himself greatly pleasing way, has influence upon their lives). And all this would not be so bad if he hadn't still been wearing that dreadful monkey suit (it's a merge between the uniform of a German policeman from the Weimar-era, and the one worn by German policemen today, and we all know what lay in between), in which he had also marched for an entire day during the Four Day Marches of Nijmegen: unlike Neumann (to whom I will refer in this way from now on, because I can otherwise see a confusion of biblical proportions arising with respect to Marco van Zijntergen) he namely came straight out of a shift. Matters did of course continue to be merry, for it naturally is jolly to be drinking with a copper from the Weimar-era in the garden of the Prakke mansion, and Neumann also proved to be a fine feller with a great sense of humor and a sturdy set of belly muscles. Which were admittedly heavily tested as Schelden narrated, first his legendary bicycle ride in Swiss student outfit of years ago, that ended with him, covered in mud, in a police car, then the capers he went through once to get his parachute wing in Lelystad (where they eventually sent him away because he 'had a relationship with the trees around the dropzone that was way too intimate'), but passed the test with flying colours. All reason for a well earnt and fine night's rest. Which was followed by a hilarious wake-up round (Henk: "Larisa, you're go-ing to help me!"; Larisa: "Oh do sod off!") and a murderous breakfast from Ye Olde Dutch Cookbook (eggs and bacon, strong black coffee and sour bread with, amongst other things, cheese) as befits a setting like that. And after that the fun was finally over. Profusely thanking the Holy Mother Prakke for yet another excellent enjoyable stay, we made great speed to Sportpark Hartenstein, in a switching game that bedazzled even Schelden (who first had to drive down to Arnhem railway station with Neumann, in order to pick up their colleague Raymond de Gisser, arriving from Zoetermeer, since he too, and not even by way of false promises, had succesfully been press-ganged by our outcast paternalist). Sportpark Hartenstein, then again, did turn out to be what was to be expected: a pleasant experience, a great sense of homecoming. The Airborne is that, not only because of it being the season's closure, but also because you meet so many acquaintances from other marches here. As, for instance, Albert van Geyningen, whom we hadn't seen since Nijmegen, and fellow-ex-commando Mack Bouman (whom we had not seen since the year before) and Geert, a incredibly vital man who at seventytwo years of age (I do believe) still happily marches an Airborne like this. And like the Blarentrapper with the Davy Crockett-plume on his hat, who explained to us, in Bern last year, that he refrained from acquiring ribbons to match his marching history, because it would disable him from walking for the sheer weight of them all. He remains an impressive character, no matter how you look at it. Moreover: the Blarentrappers have, this year, in Nijmegen, or more precisely in the Beatrix hall in Slijk-Ewijk, taken revenge, in an admirable way, for a bad impression left earlier. Hats off to the hat, therefore. And we set out most merrily, since despite dejected forecasts it still wasn't raining. Where in life do you still find plusses like that, in times of inundation? Well? I hardly dare say it, because it is so much like Henk to go and say it, but I'm still saying it: with the Wandelsoc., right! It's really starting to be worrying, that ever since the first leg of Crossing Borders from Border to Border we have marched in the rain for an exact total of only a day and a half. So anyway, the cheer was present and grew by the second. Ab, for instance, had a grand time checking, on a list he brought along, true to his reputation, whether passersby claiming to be (ex)-commandoes really were that, or imitating pseudos instead (Ab's list features all members of all drafts of the KCT ever, including best men, and matching names and numbers). He identified at least 1 genuine pseudo. Now that's bureaucracy that I call useful. And the pace was briskly kept. Not just by Ab, Mack and Geert, but also within the rest of the team, even despite the fact that there were three newcomers (Neumann, de Gisser and Larisa) among them: a speed between 6 and 7 km an hour was constantly kept. Which would continue for the remainder of the day. That we nonetheless did not pass the finish line until just before closing time, had reasons that I will not describe in their entirety, not even afterwards - let's just say there was a lot of resting, en route. Oh, and that silly things occurred, of course. For instance this time over it was Ab's turn to be photographed as a dog, Mack Bouman having instigated the tradition in the previous year. It was a great sight, and he didn't even fall apart from dysentery in the next fifteen metres. That made a difference from the last MESA, when he hadn't even been able to start walking due to a case of belly flu. Just before the housing estate-that-looks-so-much-like-psychiatric-hospital-Vogelenzang we then passed the shady bicycle- and weird paraphernalia-shop-with-the-dolls-in-original-WWII-uniforms-in-front-of-it (Schelden: "Hey! I remember those guys, we marched with them last year!") into which Vandy disappeared the year before (I can't recall for the life of me what for, although I remember some story about parts for his Puch moped) and where I was now put alongside the puppets by his father Ab, so he could take my picture. Shortly after we finally hit the heath, and continued along the picturesque forest rim to the first rest. This had been moved, it turned out, from the farmyard where Schelden had misbehaved so terribly the year before (it was probably because of this that the rest had been moved and suddenly sported toilets), to a field some hundred metres further up. Apparently they had counted on, apart from Schelden, a considerable growth of the number of participants in the 40 km distance, since the seating was ample, as were the culinary and sanitary arrangements. This growth, sadly, did not materialize, an astonishing fact in itself which, I learned at a later stage in conversation with some card controllers at the Heideplein, greatly dismayed the organizing Police Sports Club Renkum as well. But not us. Of course it's a sad thing that the lack of growth in the number of participants endangers the further existence of the 40 km Airborne, but apart from that we're very happy with our little secret. And we had great fun at this rest, not in the least because of the feeble attempt Prakke and Schelden made to push over the Dixi while I was taking a piss in it. Once on the road again we came by the vision that last year too, for the first time then, had been a joy to behold for kilometres on end: the jumpwinch for non-parachutists, in busy use as ever. Not just a pretty sight, and not just cold shivers for someone like me, freshly become wingbearer after all, but so apt as well, considering the nature of this march. And it wasn't even the only thing that really was airborne: a little further up, just past the path where Mack had once complained so bitterly about the lack of coffee at Peter Weij's wedding, Schelden caught a bird, just like that, from the air. The crippled animal was looked at lovingly by him. "What should we do with it? Should we kill it?" Following deliberations between Prakke and Schelden it was decided to just leave this to martens and cats and to leave the bird in the verge. The craziest things. Like, for instance, the half hour that followed a pleasant bit of walking through the forest, a half hour of which I have no recollection that is viable to be repeated in public. Fact is that Larisa and I fell behind somewhat, and arrived at the Heideplein a little later than the rest, at the fine rest at the inn halfway, where the others were therefore waiting for us, but did leave when we arrived. It was because of this that we proceeded at great speed after this rest, across the Ginkel heath and back into the forest, following the pack. This wrecked us, on the uglier stretch through the housing estates, where we did have a funny run-in with a group of Yorkshire Tykes, who would have become hopelessly lost at that precise moment, had we not showed them the right way. Together with them, we fell into chairs on the terrace of an Italian restaurant in Renkum, where we drank coffee and orange juice and were buried in footcream by a friendly lady from the DA drugstore across the road. Here too, in a bicycle shop, I found excellent new sunglasses, and Larisa located a beautifully bright orange raincoat for Fien, in the same store, where by the by there was personnel present that astonished me with its frienliness, which wasn't even entirely professional by nature. On the stretch that followed, that horrendous bit along the freeway, just before the tall-tree-lane, this march started to become the necessarily obnoxious affair that every good march is. We don't like wal-king, we think it's a big bore. The cathedral-like beauty of this lane does nothing to detriment that. Despite its beauty it remains a dreadful thing, purely because of the point in the course that it's at. The rest that follows it (this is a beautiful aspect of the Airborne: the route is so well-planned that the rests materialize at natural, logical moments, even though they haven't been installed by the organisation), on the terrace of the restaurant by the tennis court, was therefore dearly needed. And it became a long one, not in the least because of a highly necessary sanitary stop and... ...the fact that we caught up with Neumann (totally wrecked), de Gisser (hyperactive and jolly due to fatigue coupled with the contents of a can of Xi) and Schelden (unbearably satisfied, with a half litre of beer in his hand) here! Because of this the walk uphill became less of a burden. It led back to habitation and the gorgeous rest that reminds me so much of the MESA because of the large army tents, one of which holds a field hospital, and the smoking barbecue (which however was almost completely cleared away by the time we passed it, this year, whereupon Schelden proceeded to scold the boyscouts responsible for it over this, and that while he himself never stops at this rest at all), and where the view of the Rhine is so breathtaking (we had the good fortune to be able to see this from the other side during the first stage of Crossing Borders from Border to Border, and this was the reason that Schelden stopped here and had himself eternified by me as a conqueror-of-old in front of the course he had cooked up for that march). Stage two of that same march had by the by been by as well, with the turnoff to Parenco and the Sancta Maria-monastery, that Schelden and I would so much like to confiscate as clubhouse for the Wandelsoc. And this first part of the course that holds so much history for us continued to be in beautiful view for the remainder of the march, along the Westerbouwing (ominous place, we learned during that earlier endeavour, from the plaque placed by the monument at the far bank) back to Oosterbeek. And Oosterbeek shouldn't have arrived much later, for Marco Neumann by now was no longer the only one who was totally knackered. Larisa too had completely had it, and I myself had to admit that, trained for it or not, 40 km always leads to pain and trouble. And that wasn't even the only reason that this, despite its wooded, hilly but also stately beauty, was an irritating part of the course. On this last bit Larisa namely learned what I had learned in Nijmegen: that at the finish of marches like these you are marching cattle to the lesser minds of our society, who believe that you are there to enrich their day off, and don't give a flying fuck about your weariness and pain, thus stupidly block your path and proceed to look at you angrily too, when you almost run into them. Effin' morons. Moreover, some totally plastered neonazis joined the fray here, stepping out from amidst the spectators and into the marching pack, shouting "Sieg Heil!" at the top of their voice and raising their arms in nazi salutes to eachother, then to march to the finish as if they were really capable of lifting a well-thinking foot. Stupid motherfuckers. The only reason I did not immediately press charges against them with the police officers on the kerb was that I'd have had to spend another three quarters of an hour there at least because of the necessary paperwork, and I wasn't up to that at all at the time. All the more enjoyable, therefore, was the sight of Loes Prakke, Lydia Smith and Aunt Tiny (am I spelling this correctly?), come from overseas, who were waiting to hail our arrival on the seats of honour by the Airborne monument, which were almost completely deserted by now. I must say, there are much worse things to see, at the finish of an Airborne. Brilliant, thank you all very much. I do believe even Larisa enjoyed this. And that while she was in a mood so bad by this time that she didn't even want to retrieve her medal and solemnly resolved never to do 40 km again because "it's no fun after 35 km". No, duh. That's what marching is all about. "Yes, but it gets so bad I don't even enjoy the finish anymore." Strange. I do, if I get there after conquering myself by marching on through the nastiness of the last bit. Must be a masochist thing then. But you will not hear me complain about Larisa, since she hadn't previously walked any further than 35 km, so this blisterless 40 is an impressive feat, all the more if you look at her average tempo. Congratulations on the completion of your first official march. Those congratulations more strongly concerned the totally knackered Neumann and de Gisser. Who namely had every right to be that, since they hadn't ever practiced before and were therefore marching this first 40 straight out of the blue. Hats off, gentlemen. De Gisser, by the way, had enjoyed himself so much that he expects to see himself Wandelsoccing some more in future, and Neumann too we shall regreet, somewhere in Holland, on some godforsaken day. Speaking about godforsakenness and masochism, by the by. Someone who naturally knows all bout this is the incredible Ben Jeursen, legendary hatthief and Death March-veteran, but also twotime participant of the Omloop of Goeree-Overflakkee (a thing that surpasses my intellect, inclination and power). Ben mainly marches insanely large distances anyway, these days, so to him this Airborne must have been a joke. Would this be the reason for the broadness of his grin, there at the Sportpark? I don't even think so. Ben just is a happy character, by nature. And Ben of course also is the horniest pseudo of the Netherlands. As Larisa too found out. "Larisa, have you met Ben yet?" "Yes, and he's touched me already." De-cent. This at least reaffirms our view of the world. Always nice, that. And nice it was anyway, there on the field. While the stands were being taken down around us, we made it a merry affair, with the Prakkes, Aunt Tiny, Ben and the ex-commandoes. Viable, for a later repeat. And later it became as well. Since after Neumann and Prakke had left, Larisa, Raymond and I travelled in Schelden's wake, to Haarlem. I shall spare you the egocentric cajolery Schelden pulled on us by phone, on the way there. Fact is that, having said goodbye to Larisa on arrival, we enjoyed a fine meal in Haarlem's Café de Roemer (where Merel Brons, one of my colleagues at Wegener eMedia, came by and took our photograph), and following that, over mojítos in Fidél and gins with chasers in the Bakenes Arms, we concluded this beautiful marching season with a great sense of satisfaction. To your health gentlemen, lady - Excellent walking there.