| What are we doing?
July 19th, 2003 87th Nijmegen Four Day March  "Goodday Madam." "Goodday sir. I see this isn't the first time you participate?" "No." "Things are a little bit different again, this time over." "I know. You wouldn't be here, otherwise." "Pardon?" "I always go for the late registration. As I recall, it was in the Charlemagne, last year." "Yes, that's correct! Have you never felt the urge to just fill out the form?" "No. This is much more relaxed." "Well, you are lucky though. Up to a quarter of an hour ago there were long rows here." "I know. I always show up around five."
Leaving two dumbfounded female volunteers in my wake, I then stepped past Miel Termont, chairman of the Royal Dutch Society for Corporal Education (KNBLO). "And by the by, thank you very much." "Our pleasure, sir." He would repeat it four days later, at the head of the Via Gladiola. But that was later. First, I accepted the obligatory plastic bag with merchandise and almanak from another two dumbfounded female volunteers, and then, grinning broadly, stepped out of the Opus-building, back onto the Wedren, where Jasper Nales was just returning. He had, when, on pilgrimage to Nijmegen this Saturday, I arrived at Arnhem railway station, offered to drive me to the Wedren in his car from there, an offer I gladly accepted (which pleased him greatly, since he really needed a break; his girlfriend had girlfriends over for a visit, and they dared to ask Jasper if he would care for some tea). And so we drove, windows open and marching songs, diligently collected by Jasper (only politically correct ones these days, so there were Africa Corps and Legionnairs, but no Horst Wessel) loudly sounding from them, through a stiflingly hot Nijmegen, before we sat down on stools outside Irish pub 'The Shamrock'. Where Jasper happily hit the beer, and I was still teetotalling, with bitter lemon brrr. I had namely ordered myself to, following the Danish drama, during which Weij had told me I am an alcoholic. Whoah. I will be the judge of that. Good reason to determine this then, and so therefore the teetotalling, intending to make it last until I reacquainted Weij. This would expectedly be Fourdaytuesday, and since it began on the morning he dropped me off at my home after Viborg, it would then last for two weeks. Never a bad idea, of course. And so I let Nales happily drink the two half litres of beer he got us on his own, as I gulped down five bitter lemons. To the great amusement of a gorgeous waitress, for the Shamrock is a definite tip. Day 0  But on Monday, the 14th of July 2003, I returned, with bag and baggage, to Nijmegen. And once I had been billeted, at Groesbeek, whence my cousin Hindrik-Jan had moved this year, with his girlfriend Kirsten and daughter Inge, from the van Welderenstraat, and had enjoyed the evening meal in the garden there, with Inge and Kirsten (cousin was still in a faraway meeting, with the Forestry Commission, on behalf of Das & Boom), I felt it was all quite enough, with this Weij character. So when, shortly afterward, following a daredevil descent from Groesbeek to Nijmegen, on an ancient bycicle with a steeringpen quite reluctant to move, downward along the Groesbeekseweg, I arrived at the Danish teaparty in the Kolpinghuis, having been invited to it by the selfsame Jasper Nales, who together with Ralfie had sort of melted into one with that team, over the past few years (much like I had with the Herts and Bucks of the ATC), I went for that tea. It is, after all, only tea, you know.
 Never realized teadrinking could be such merry matter. As Ralfie ("There should be more fucking going on!") tried out my hat and Nales vividly described how he had been anally examined by a British lady, present here, of the medical troops, I ran into the bearded Dane who had laughed at me so much in Viborg, because I'd thought Denmark was flat. He was here to partake in The Four Day March for the tenth time. A crown year of stature.
 In much higher spirits because of the tea, we also left for the Shamrock, where this time I quenched my thirst with Guinness, and left Jasper around twelve (he was just beginning to have a good time, and stormed the seething dancefloor), then to set out, a lot less sober, on the way back to Groesbeek, on that very same rickety bicycle. This, by the way, was much more of a pleasant affair than it was on the way in. Due to habituation, intoxication, or both, who knows. In any case I decided to make my way to the start the next morning on that bike, and contentedly laid myself to rest.
Day 1  Some three hours later my third Four Day March started with, Maglite in mouth, tripping over children's fences, at the top and foot of the staircase of Heidebloemstraat 13. Once dressed (in shorts, for I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks, and the forecast for both today and the day after was for ludicrously hot weather - this would, had this been any other march, not have kept me from wearing my regular long black, but you don't fuck around, with the Nijmegen Four Day March) I drove downward at breakneck speed and, at the Wedren, met Marco van Zijntergen, who'd just come from his room in Jachtslot De Mookerheide, and with whom I had some coffee and Bertolli-rolls. Those rolls, by the way, were inedible, and would give rise to much annoyance yet. But that was later.
 First we now went, with the legion, past noisy Fourdayravers, across the Waalbridge, to Lent. There, the organizers had, for want of a freer flow, rerouted the course somewhat, and we did not hang a right, through the tunnel, but went straight on along the road, because of which we approached the Via Begonia from a wholly different direction than before. It remains quite an experience, however. And just as I feared that I would, this year, have to go without the official song of the Four Day Marches blaring from the Tannoys, it came around after all. Cold shivers, in the early morning.
 In Bemmel, then, we all came together: van der Schelden MA (just finished conducting the Swiss band playing here, through a rendition of 'By Prunterut im Jura', also known as 'La petite Gilberte'), van Zijntergen and myself, Jochem Prakke, Raymond de Gisser, and Harm Swarts. Who by the by showed up in camouflage t-shirt and original real Mao-cap this time. He could have passed for Chinese just like that. One monster order further, and having shaken the hand of Persoon MA, the burgomaster, we then set off for the godawful stretch leading to Elst. And here I first noticed what would plague me many times yet, during this Four Day March: the fact that I was to have the biggest trouble with the ennui, on a track I know and of which I continuously know how far it's yet going to be, to where I have to go.
 This is good, of course, it's how it should be, the third time over. And the advantage then is that, provided training has continued (and I had, during this year, already done 4 official marches and 4 stages of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', so there was no problem there), the profit of that training makes itself felt, in a repeated noticing, when reaching marker points along the route, that getting there was easier than it was before.
Nevertheless, it's a bloody long way to Elst, and so I was very happy that, just past Egyptian restaurant 'De Drie Pyramiden' (The Three Pyramids) we finally reached the second of our schedule of Quality Rests (two chairs a person, so that the feet can go on one of them, cover over top, good toilets, ample supply of food and drink, bearable music): Café Billiard 't Fortuyn, where by the by that music left a lot to be desired (loudly played sentimental songs, namely). This could, however, do no detriment to our happiness. Which was not just due to our finally getting there. No, it was particularly due to the fact that Ted Snodendroom and Bert van Prijzen (in a Belgian soccersquad-shirt of the SPAR, division of his employer Colruyt) finally appeared here, entering the premises shortly after ourselves. And the reunion was a cordial one. Moreover, they were not alone: they brought along deacon Nico Geelen, who was starting in the Mother Of All Marches without any training whatsoever. Hats off, for what character.  This was therefore to be a long rest, for, apart from much drinking, there was a lot of verbal catching up to be done. Not just with Ted and Bert, by the by, but also with newly arrived Jasper Nales (who hadn't slept, but had captured a Hawaiian garland) and the Prakkes, namely The Holy Mother Lous, Lanca & Lydia and a friend Lous had brought along. The Holy Mother did have reason to check things out, for she supplied the overhead roof, this week, to Jochem, Henk and Raymond, and son Jochem was marching this thing for the first time since he was seventeen. Bert, by the way, turned out to be best, in sussing out things: he flawlessly spotted Nales trying to make off with Ted's shoes. Nales' commentary: "I never leave without good shoes". Great joke, unless you pursue it and so ruin someone's Four Day March, of course. And so Bert again turned out to be a succesfull catcher of thieves, like he was two years earlier in Café De Bond in Cuijk, when he stopped Ben Jeursen from snatching my hat.
 That hat had by now gone missing several times already again, of course, lately in Viborg, so I was more than happy to find that Nijmeegse Jopie had a few more of them in stock. And so, paltry as my costume was, due to the shorts, I could at least shove my trademark hat atop it. Headgear, by the by, was in hot demand in today's defoliating heat anyway, for besides Harm's Mao-cap, Marco, once past Elst, was decked out with a snappy biller too. Whether it really made him more aerodynamic or not, I still do not know - but it's certain, in any case, that we reached the Beatrix, in Slijk-Ewijk, the most carefully hidden village in Holland, before we really realized it. By now, mind you, it had, since it was past noon, become so unmercifully hot that we were ready for it nonetheless.
 And copious amounts of fluid accompanied the croquette rolls, on their way to our innards. This took some doing, before it arrived, since although the Beatrix hall in Slijk-Ewijk meets all other criteria of a Quality Rest, it is a good thing that we have no such criterion for competence of personnel. My goodness. One would almost contemplate renting the premises during the Four Day March, and filling it with well-motivated Haarlem turnover-twisters oneself. Fortunes, to be made, as compared, to now. A good thing that de Blarentrappers (the word means 'blisterkickers') were on time this year, and amused us greatly, so that we forgot these things quickly. One of them was having her birthday, and so a merry singing melee ensued, after Schelden had played the national anthem on their harmonica.
One cheerful cornetto further too (available at stand outside), van Zijntergen and I then stamped onwards in good spirits, towards Oosterhout, in the footsteps of Swarts and Prakke, busy engaging the dike, with de Gisser, by now. As the latter informed us, by telephone, adding that we should not bother making haste, because there was "slow to halting traffic" on that dike.  Some time later, this turned out to be true, but, following a short experiment, we took no notice of it, because there is no end to that. Dogged gaze up, then, we went through the verge with springing tread, like so many times today, past the astonished, but unhindered pack. For noblesse oblige, and a Wandelsoc. does not bowl people over. One would rather waste one's own ankles. And damned if isn't the same every time. When things start to become to easy, for me, on a Four Day March like this one, I'll raise the stakes for myself, with this kind of idiocy. So while the ambulances drove on and off, across that narrow dike (many people fainted, now, under the nastily glittering scorcher), I vexed myself a way into Lent, self-inflicting a pain in the hamstrings I would still feel while writing this.
 But the reward was sweet: at the stiflingly hot terrace of De Vereeniging, besides Brechtje, we ran into the incredible Jan Middelkoop, in the company of the unsurpassed Albert van Geyningen. This went some way to lessen the anxiety. This had namely risen to great heights, because, on the dike to Lent, the rumour had started to buzz around that the Marchleader was of a mind to shorten next day's leg with 10 kilometres, because of the heat.
 Initially, we didn't believe that at all, for stupid stories like that rear their ugly heads now and again every year. But when, as we stood in line for the exchanging of starting cards on the Wedren, it was officially announced to us by the KNBLO, our anger was intense. Look. It's entirely possible it had almost never yet been so hot, during a Four Day March. But that's what - dammit - can come with it. In Diekirch, for that reason, people get killed for real (and it regularly is MUCH hotter there than it has yet to be in Nijmegen) - but they will never shorten that march for it. Cut the fucking bullshit. You either march the fucker, or you don't. People who need to be protected against themselves, you remove from the course, being the organizers, and the rest you offer, if you really must, to march one of the shorter distances while maintaining eligibility for gratification.
 But you don't, like now, create inequality by ordering everyone to march the shorter route, unjustly affecting the marchers of the 30 because there is no shorter distance, and the marchers of the 50 because they cannot decide to march the regular distance anyway, like the 40-ers can. Being the Wandelsoc., we felt doubly fucked over: for we train for this all year long, are perfectly capable of doing this, and live towards the 'hard' parts like the dike to Niftrik all year. That's not bragging, but an observation of fact. And besides that, where that being fucked over doubly is concerned: if, like us, you neatly do exactly what the organizers tell you to do in the rule book (namely wear headgear, keep the upper torso covered and drink _lots_ of non-alcoholic beverages), you do not fall over.
 In short, it's a load of bullshit I can in no reasonable or unreasonable circumstance whatsoever say anything good about, and it evokes in me a chilling fury, of the magnitude of which the KNBLO and the organizers of the Four Day Marches can impossibly ever form a fitting impression in their minds. And so I absolutely meant to show up, the next morning, of a day which after all was declared 'Wednesday Wandelsoc.-day' by Schelden, in full dress uniform, ribbons and all, at the stand of Provincial TV Gelderland, in order to state there that "The Academic Walking Society of Haarlem sharply condemns and deeply regrets the decision taken by the Marchleader" and to add on a personal note that I feel "both those gentlemen, Termont and Jansen, should immediately be shot". And again, _of course_ I don't really want to see that happen. I am a law-abiding citizen of this country, a pacifist moreover. But I am at least this angry, and that's what this is about. I demand the freedom to express that anger verbally and in writing, because the alternative is unthinkable. Cocksuckers, is what they are. Sis-sies, sis-sies, sis-sies!!! I want my dike!
Day 2  And so, the next morning, having cycled down again, I put my actions where my mouth was and, on the Wedren, went to the tent, of TV Gelderland. Of imagining and surprise: as the whole Wedren stood at the ready, for the start, there was noone to be found, at the tent, of TV Gelderland. They, apparently, were still asleep. Fuckers! But alright, so back to waiting, at the picknick table: time for a roll. A roll? A ROLL? NO ROLL! For those Bertolli rolls, of which I spoke before, remember, not only were inedible: they weren't, at all! 44.812 marchers (-827 dropouts on the 1st day), and not a roll to be had (except for oldfashioned, hot sausage ones)! What the hell kind of catering is that? Well, that is what we, of the Wandelsoc., call a MOCKERY. Mock mock mock mock!!!!!!!! Inwardly cursing and raging, I therefore waited for van Zijntergen. And when at last he arrived, the stare became empty, and thoughts ran rampant, moving past the Radboud hospital towards dawn, to be enjoyed over hot sausage, on bread by the white marquee-tent (the tent, where people work, for lack of personnel) that, as always, supplies the remaining three days of marching with a touch of continuity.
There, we met Jasper ("There should be more fucking going on!"), Jochem, Henk and Raymond, and occupied, as of old, the circle of folding chairs in front of the rose bushes. After Schelden had delivered a bellowing speech tot the gathered fellow marchers, offering them all a drink, that afternoon, during the Wandelsoc.-function he had planned at De Vereeniging, we set off again, refreshed, and befittingly topped off with food, and drink to boot.  Thus, we thumped through Hatert, across the Maas-Waal-channel, and through Weezenhof to the A73, where Raymond now too could experience the unadulterated cold shivers-fest of truckhonking. Once across and paced past the enormous army rest, we reached the apocryphal RET-rest, a little earlier than we had ourselves expected, because, after all, it did not rain here, like it did last year. Raymond and Jochem hadn't the stomach for it, and so marched on. Stupid of them, for at this rest, it turned out once we'd turned the corner, Ted, Bert, Nico and Harm were present. A happy reunion therefore.
 Moreover, a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. And because it was great, we were glad to have eachother's support, as, having moved through Wijchen for the first time, we entered it again, not past Balgoij, over the dike to Niftrik and past the Hoogeerd Hotel and Restaurant, the place that will go down in history as "that joint that went without its yearly turnover, in 2003, thanks to the KNBLO", but obligatorily by way of Klispoel, within sight of that dike and that restaurant, whilst shaking our heads, sniffing slightly and being generally confounded. Tuberculosis, to Wim Jansen, if he doesn't already have it. Resign, in shame, is what he should do.
 As felt Bert, and Ted, planning to write to him, stating this would never have occurred, under Marchleader Chris Bos. Meanwhile, we photographed Nico Geelen under a sign reading 'Not 50, but 30', and asked him to look as disgruntledly as possible whilst we did. "My fow Nico, you're quite good at looking disgruntledly, I must say." "I get taught this, by my parochians. They all do that too, whenever I pay them a visit." Things were heating up swiftly now, not just because of the Niftrikmissing. Although we did only just reach the EDAH in Wijchen (where sweet Hilda, Bert van Prijzen's wife, like in old days, was waiting for us with coffee and other refreshments - wonderful, not least because, on account of Bert's father's passing away, we had had to go without this last year; where Elisabeth Marquart Scholtz paced past and sent my heart in to greater disarray because, not having responded to the invitation to dinner I had extended to her by email, she did smile and wave at me in friendly manner here, looking back at me twice; and where Bert had Hilda take our picture, all clad in the Red Devils-shirts of the SPAR, so we could feature in the september-issue of 'Kook' ('Cook'), the glossy that Bert has cooked up for SPAR Belgium) without too much trouble, directly after it came the murderously hot bit from Wijchen to Beuningen, and on it, we had a hard time.
 And not even just because it was hot - Bert, for instance, was much plagued here by his newly bought, but dissatisfying New Balance-shoes, and solemnly resolved to burn them in the fireplace at home, together with his, also newly bought and displeasing, new underwear. On the way to Beuningen I furthermore ran into Vandy van Geyningen ("Shouldn't you be at the finish by long now?") and was called a show-off by a dumb-broad-who-didn't-get-it-at-all, as I explained to Vandy's detachment (among which was the lovely woman who recognized me as Wandelsoc. in Bern, at the beginning of the year, and showed up at the Wellingborough as well) why and that I was so angry about the shortening of the track.
In Beuningen, then, oldfashioned Hell broke loose. See, in and by itself we very much enjoyed the chips- and gin-rest here, experienced elaborately as always. Also, the chips this year were fetched by Marco Neumann, who came and joined us here together with Max, Lydia and Lanca, and that was more than pleasant too, of course. But then Schelden showed reprehensible behaviour of a level that outranked even his usual assholicness. He had namely forced on eveyone, not just Wandelsoc. but Friends Of included, by way of a long-winded email, that from this chipsrest, the rest of the march would be a groupwise affair, in uniform, this in serried ranks, under the leadership of Peter Weij, who'd been consulted about this only after that email was sent.  And although Peter Weij naturally didn't feel like doing this just like that, and was therefore already in Nijmegen when Schelden called him from the chipsrest, and although Schelden was angry about this relatively justly, because Weij hadn't just told him he didn't feel like it, but had been reasonably indulgent, and this creates expectations, this could easily have been quite nice such an entry into town, because there were enough people with a Wandelsoc.-uniform on, even without Weij. All it takes is normal behaviour! Which he didn't display. For if you do, then, from such a gathering rest, the slowest one dictates the speed. And the slowest one was Raymond de Gisser, who had totally had it at this rest, and contemplated dropping out. This did not register with Schelden, seasoned marching coach (he should have known without looking, because Ray marched here for the first time, and the fact that Nico was having less of a hard time does credit to Nico, but is totally abnormal), so he suddenly left in a rush, with everyone but de Gisser, van Zijntergen and myself.
 "Not a problem", I remember thinking. "I'll just call him and ask him to hold back a bit." Schelden's answer: "Look here, I've had enough of this. If people don't want this, they can send me a bloody letter. Dammit, you even had to ask de Gisser to put on his tunic!" So? As if I mind, and as if de Gisser didn't wear it. No, that's real social behaviour. To let one's colleague, one that one has talked into the Wandelsoc. oneself, down like this during his first Four Day March, in the middle of a thing cooked up by oneself. Well done kiddo.
Not. As I thereupon proceeded to loudly and clearly tell him, at the home of the Holy Mother, in Arnhem (having arrived there in Lydia's car, after she'd sped to Nijmegen to come and save us, when we had found out that nothing at all had come of that whole Wandelsoc.-function at De Vereeniging, because there was no fellow Soc. to be discerned, when we arrived there; Schelden's mobile commentary, when I angrily called him: "We have left" and "I can barely hear you"), where I then enjoyed a bath (having been directed into such by Lous Prakke), Lydia's pasta, and the knowledge that, in that last bit before entering Nijmegen, I had managed to corner Pascal Kamperman, of TV Gelderland, after all (and had thus been able to make the complaint I described above, about the shortening of the course, albeit off-camera), before panting regurgitating ensued, with Jochem, Max and Henk, in the built-on arbour in which we do so like to inform eachother about how nice the surrounding house actually is. And then came adventure. For Lydia went to drive me to Arnhem railway station, but once on the way there decided to add to her own goodness by taking me to Groesbeek. This had consequences. Once motored across the Keizer Karel-square and onto the Groesbeekseweg, we suddenly smelled strange things... ...and white smoke emanated, from the engine. It turned out to have dumped its cooling fluid on the street, and so it was time for the AA. 
Which, thankfully, arrived uncannily speedily. And determined, that the vent that ought to cool the engine as it heats up, did not start up. Later, Prakke turned out to know this already, but to not have briefed his woman about this. And it is possible to drive the car nonetheless, until the engine overheats. Which it does, if you don't experience cooling by the windspeeds incurred when tearing down motorways at 120 kilometres an hour, but are touring around a windy and hilly Nijmegen on a day on which the Four Day March course is shortened because of the heat. And so I was more than happy, that Max got into his car and picked me up right there, before he took me to Groesbeek. Good night, friends. Day 3  The next morning when, due to fatigue, I no longer arrived at the Wedren by bike, but by taxicab, the supply of rolls had still not been repleted. Useful, then, the coupon in the almanak, with which, on purchase of a roll, you get your coffee for free. There's a guaranteed people-pleaser! Not. Pleased very much, however: Marco. He had, namely, after stuffing Raymond and myself into Lydia's car, on the Keizer Karel square, been bored and taken a seat at a terrace in the center of town - and discovered a very nice woman there! A Marjon of about 44 years old, whom he then abducted to his castle, there to have her experience the meal of many courses. It did not end, that night, between the two of them, and so Marco was very pleased, as was I, because I could now announce to Nales and Ralfie that "Fucking has been going on!", without explaining any further.
We therefore moved on contentedly, via the tent-where-people-work, past Haagsch Schutterskorps 'Pro Libertate' and the Blarentrappers, with Jochem Prakke and Raymond de Gisser, to the boardroom of old pensioners' home 'De Maldenburch'. There we bathed, in the peace and quiet that as always was uncannily great and refreshing, and readied ourselves for what was to come now: the endless bit, through Mook to Plasmolen. I efficiently prepared de Gisser for this by announcing to him that it would all be bad bollocks from here, and this worked. Always better not to raise false expectations eh.  De Gisser therefore triumphed, and therefore we ultimately happily collapsed, into chairs on the terrace of Restaurant The Pancake Baker, in Plasmolen. A place that's bursting with tranquility anyway (with the kind of terrace where birds whistle happy tunes, whilst the Four Day Marches' Song sounds in the distance and the murmur of the Marchers glides past in a lovely faraway manner), this restaurant moreover sports a wonderful menu and absolutely lovely waiting staff. The latter not just (but most definitely also!) because of the way in which they go about their job.
No, it was a bit rude on our part, that we had been unfriendly enough to already have procured foodstuffs, at someone-else's-stand, even before The Pancake Baker opened. A good thing that we got the chance to put this to right by ordering as extensively as possible, from the waitress I want to have for breakfast, months on end. For she is Sweet, and nastily goodlooking too. One would definitely wish to taste the difference, as opposed to the pancakes-on-the-menu, some time. Go there, everyone! But not all at once, and preferrably on a different day than Fourdaythursday, because it's all so tiresome otherwise, you know.  Tiresome, that's what it became from here on too, for Raymond P. de Gisser. For here came the Highpoint, of my marching season: the thing you do it all for. The place where men become men, and mediocre fellow man fails: welcome, de Gisser, to The Milsbeek Hook. Vaster than ever, namely expanded with a kilometre or one and a half, two and a half, The Hook, a horseshoe shape in which, first, the civilian 40, then the military 40 pull off, while as a 50-er, you just have to carry on, into the windridden free space of The Hook, is an amazing thing. There, one experiences something utterly rare during the Four Day March: the chance, wind playing around one's head, alone and with all the space one needs around oneself, to really discover one's own limitations for kilometres on end. Won-der-ful, and reason for me to, at the checkpoint in it, thank the collector for "the best ticketpunch of my marching season" - which led her to thanking me in turn, because I was "the best dressed man on the course". See, now there's a pleasant thing to hear.
 In my trustworthy long black, wearable again today, thank God, because of lowered temparature, I therefore strode through The Hook deeply contented, to the military rest in Milsbeek. There, I waited for de Gisser, who turned out to only barely have survived The Hook. Totally emptied, done for, over, finished and gone, he reported for treatment of blisters, to a First Aid-post of the VGZ at the foot of the hill by the ominously named Grafwegen (Graveroads). This took a long time, and even after it it was difficult to get de Gisser to move ahead. That the waiting made me stiff myself, I didn't much care about. But we were now making so little speed, that I was beginning to fear for the feasibility of this, our Four Day March.
 And that is why I confronted De Gisser, as following much tiresome tugging at him, we had arrived in Cafe De Breedeweg in Bredeweg, with the choice that remained for him, supported in my plea by a First Aid Worker who came to tell him he should get himself "into the sweeper van now" or it would leave without him: he would either drop out here, or do his best to march like a madman, behind Marco and myself. Because there is, during a Four Day March like this one, a limit, to the help one can offer others: and it is in the feasibility of one's own achievement.
 De Gisser chose the latter, and so he bumped behind us while Marco and I tore towards and through Groesbeek at an utterly murderous speed of around 8 km an hour, until we reached the Canadian cemetery along Seven Hills' Road. This had not only happened so swiftly that I arrived there soaked with sweat, but I also had stamped away Groesbeek so fast that Kirsten, living there after all, hadn't even had the chance to welcome me there, and it thus remains a question whether or not Groesbeek deserves to rise any higher in my Four Day March-Community-Test, now that my cousin has come to live there.
 But: the trick turned out to have worked. Raymond paced past the cemetery at sprightly speed, and as we tagged along immediately, he even tried to incite bystanders by the track's side to make more noise. A masterful feat, and by the time Raymond P. de Gisser arrived at Thai Restaurant Baan Isaan in Nijmegen he could, as far as I was concerned, call himself a chastened Hero (which, by the by, turned out not to only apply to him: we later heard that Nico Geelen, on the morning of the Fourth Day, had behaved likewise, after Ted and Bert had told him that "when maintaining current speed all further walking" would have "to be done without rests"). Splendid, splendid, splen-did.
Yup, those are the things that make the third Fourdaymarchesday the most beautiful marching day of the year. Real drama, and real achievements, from real Heroes, on a really heavy, royal and internationally recognized marching course. Watching our fellow marchers move past contentedly, we bought and consumed the entire available stock of Thai fishcookies at Restaurant Baan Isaan, a fact confirmed to us by the ostentatious strike-through of its mention on the menu, with a marker. 
And so we ended another succesful day, with (on my part) a litre of vodka-orange-and-ice, in De Vereeniging, before I had myself removed to Groesbeek with a taxi (cousin namely was absent today, due to work, and so it was impossible for me to have myself picked up by him like I was on the first marching day). Burp. Day 4  And other things. For those fishcookies taste ginormously good, there's a fact. But I'd forgotten that, because of them, and of the accompanying, equally incredibly tasty sauce, one gets an acute case of fireass to come to terms with - the next morning. And so by the time Marco, who for understandable reasons had only slept for 20 minutes, thus had overslept royally, arrived on the Wedren around 10 to 4, I had only just exited the emergency loo. Well, nothing to be sad about. As opposed to the rolls, missing again, naturally. Aware, however, that this was going to be the last day, and in the pleasant company of Albert van Geyningen and, suddenly popped up in his retinue, Peter Weij, Fred Regts and another 2 ex-commandoes of whom I so far have only remembered (phoey Chielie!!!) that the one's name is Ton, we stamped towards the tent, where people work, cracking jokes abundle.
 Witticisms of priceless class, by the by, like this one from Peter Weij, suddenly finding himself in the wake of a general: "Look, there's 1 of our 111 generals!". At which the man's back, expectantly, straightened. "Kamp says he's gonna sack 'em all." And, after a few seconds' silence: "My man, Kamp". Then to snort loudly while pacing past that general. Weehee (Kamp is our current Minister of Defence). Or the one from Albert, who quite far-reachingly seriously went into the stories-about-marching-classes by one of those professional marching mongols who, banana strapped on and distances past at the ready, legs off as soon as the conversation has ended. "Those lessons are useful, they teach you how it should be done." Yeah, right. Hilarious.
 Having inadvertently lost the commandoes by stopping at the tent, where people work, and we found Henk, Jochem, Raymond and Jasper again, and following a few more conversations with fellow marchers along the route, we then were also reunited with Ted, Bert and Nico, in Gilwell St. Walrick. So that, together, we could set off on the path towards victory, on that beautiful stretch, via Overasselt to Grave.
Where, of course, we arrived totally knackered, knowing that from here on, as yet, it would only get worse. Because in Grave, the worst part of the whole Four Day March starts: the bit from Grave, via Gassel, to Beers. This, although Gassel does not emerge from the Four Day March-Community-Test all that positively, is not because of the locals (on the edge of Grave, there even was a lady who fell to her knees before me, applauding, apparently under the assumption that I was the prince royal, incognito) but because of the nature of the course. Endless dike-and-countryroad, which throughout the year, in dreams regularly, plague me. All the greater the reward when, in The Beers Arms cafe in Beers then, not just the wonderful tranquility, and the lovely mince rolls (although they're distributed in ridiculously slow fashion because of the incompetence of the personnel and the queue-jumping by fellow marchers), but also a pleasant reunion with Jan Plasmeijer, hero from the Bernensian, follow. 
Moreover, Schelden here discovered an utterly rare blister on his left large toe, reason for a ghastly treatment of it, on his part. Fun fun fun fun. And there was more fun to follow. Like our revisit of the unsurpassed De Bond (The Union) cafe in Cuijk, where we again enjoyed the so qualitatively outstanding service and foodstuffs, the croquette rolls as primi inter pares. Or like Cuijk where, apart from a warm reception, better cigars than ever awaited us (well, just about everybody but me, and Jochem and Raymond, who'd already stamped on), and... ...the crowning of my marching season, the pontoon bridge across the river Meuse. Which I therefore crossed with arms uplifted high, and kissed in its middle, before I went to await my companions on the far side. 
Whereupon we steamed towards Mook, where the Via Gladiola commences on the St. Annastreet. Just before it, Bert chucked his fine cigar into the water, to the sorrow of mother duck and offspring, who expected bread, and only just into it, Schelden stole a violin, to play the Four Day Marches' Song on it. At the last Quality Rest, hall 'bowling-around-the-corner' in Malden (the thing is actually called 'De Molen', or 'The Mill', but is much more recognizable by a sign on its outer wall, with the former on it), I had the pleasure of again catching Ted Snodendroom in the act of mobile telephoning, notwithstanding attempts to hide himself behind curtains, on his part (and again because, being a selfdeclared hater of mobile telephones, he had done the same thing who years ago, in the Milsbeek Hook; by now, I'm in the progress of collecting a rather nice series which, deo volente, I intend to put on display, as 'Calling Teddy', name for a humorous collection of photographs, in the Catharine Convent in Utrecht) - and we made friends with a monster broad, who by her own account and by her own accord, marched the 50 for the first time, following countless times at the 40, but would never do it again, according to her own statement. 
At the end of the Via Gladiola I then shook hands with, one after the other, Mrs. van der Schelden, Miel Termont (for, course deduction or not, he remains the chairman of the national marching club, and the Four Day March, even when shortened, remains a beautiful march), Guusje ter Horst (who, as Nijmegen's mayor, marched along for one day again this year, and can do no wrong where I'm concerned), Astrid van Loon and Hilda van Prijzen. The ensuing quenching at De Vereeniging then passed in utterly chaotic, but nonetheless festive manner - I congratulated Nico Geelen and Raymond de Gisser with their heroic achievements, met almost everyone else, Ted's father-with-friends and Marjon, Marco's new flame, included, but, alas, failed to see Bert van Prijzen there again, for he'd most likely already gone home. 
Day 5 That Schelden had played piano there with Thijs van Leer I only learned at a much later stage - myself, I was, one litre of vodka-orange and ice further, none too unaware of things, mainly because of the fatigue, by the time cousin collected me and returned me to Groesbeek. 
There, I awoke so relaxed the next morning, with only 1, already broken blister atop my right forefoot as a woundshaped memento of it all, that, once on a train back towards Haarlem, I discovered I'd not only left my Wandelsoc.-shirt, but my bicycle keys behind as well. Oh well. It's been worse before and I am, after all, one thumbtack the richer. Once home I also found out, by way of mail, and to my great shock and dismay, that Jan Middelkoop had had to give up after the day of Wijchen, because of backache. Our sympathy is his. Let's hope he'll make it next time over. To and for him too, therefore: to your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Bornem awaits. |