| What are we doing?
September 7th, 2003 Sportpark Hartenstein is a place for winners - but I wasn't one, this year. At the most, I gained a Pyrrhic victory. Prior to our appearance at the Airborne Marches 2003, namely, an unsavoury discussion had arisen, because, through Schelden, I had learned that Peter Weij intended to show up in Society dress, with a flag of Flanders.  I was against that, and insensitive to his argument that he wanted to carry the thing along because of his emotional solidarity with the recently walked Death March. Because quite apart from the fact that Bornem is not in Flanders, that that Flemish lion gets carried around by some very nasty types these days too, and none of us are Belgians, to me the thing that mattered was that carrying whatever flag around, associates that flag with the Society garb, to outsiders. And I think that, quite apart from the fact that Peter had not discussed this with all of us, this should not happen.
 His clownish (but partly patently incorrect, because he alleged that I had expanded a personal fight between the two of us across the entire Soc., while I had, in fact, as first member of the Soc., only spoken in general terms, about something that concerns all of us by its nature, until Peter himself sent an angry mail on his part to everyone) speech before the start in Oosterbeek, with which he replaced the Flemish lion with a Dutch flag, therefore did not take away my objections against his behaviour. But I did, having stated this, keep them to myself, because I had to admit that he had done a step back, and had no mind to let it ruin my day of walking. Of course, I did resolve to produce a Society flag as soon as possible, then to send Peter across the whole of Europe with it.
 Poetic justice struck immediately, by the by, because the group that, led by van der Schelden MA, followed that flag, went the wrong way straight after the start, namely straight on, passing under the finish gate, while Albert van Geyningen, Raymond de Gisser and I neatly turned left, with the course. Shortly past the corner we closed ranks again, and began, with a larger group than ever, since it otherwise consisted of Marco Neumann, Harm Swarts, Jan Middelkoop, Fred Regts, Lourens Dinger and former legionair Ronald Fischer, recruited by Albert van Geyningen (not all green berets are the same, we had already learned, but obesity lurks for all of them, past service, and so they march gladly), our fourth annual Society march.
This, as said and mindful of our traditions, we did in full Society uniform, expanded for the first time, this year, with that confounded bright blue UN-choker that Schelden had managed, to my annoyance, to introduce succesfully by forcing it around everyone's neck. I've got to admit, though, that, when worn by the whole group, it looks less homosexual than solo, and even that it's quite handy, against necksweat (to which, moreover and naturally, I wish to add that some of my best friends are homosexuals, even if they don't know, because of latency).  The usual pious visit to the gravestone of the first Dutch commando killed in action, August Bakhuis Roozeboom, member of No. 2 (Dutch) troop (see a previous report for more explanation about the history surrounding it) past, by the parking lot with Fred's enormous Chevy, we marched, at spright speed, to the first rest: the one by the winched-up parachutist, floating above the fields on the left, as always at this point in the track. There, we made a group portrait that would have suited Rembrandt, as Daywatch, and enjoyed the bittersweet taste of coffee and our large number. Bittersweet, because, to be sure, there were enough of us to somewhat surprise even monstermarcher Ben Jeursen, naturally present again in Oosterbeek with girlfriend Marion, but we appeared totally womenless this year. Where last year Larisa was present, and the year before Astrid, this year the first one probably was lacking because she's no longer romantically liaised with me, and the second because she bluntly failed to keep her appointment (for she had announced, by mail to me, that she would be there).
And because we still also have to go without the excuse-negro-with-round-afro-and-purple-high-heels, we remained the familiar paramilitary looking motley crew. Good thing that we intend to do something about this shortly, by buying a general's hat for all of us, which however is not going to be that, but the Wandelsoc.-cap, because the band around it will show a significant colour difference when compared to the one around the real general's hat of the Dutch army - when laid side by side, that difference will be as clear as it is between KL-beret and green one. But for now we went without them, and with two different berets, and the two KNIL-hats of Peter and myself. 
The headwear, by the way, was hardly necessary. There was no fierce sunlight, but no rain either: ideal walking weather therefore, this at a time of year when, as the past has proven, things can still go awry either way. That I was sweating profusely nonetheless, had more to do with the fact that this was the first march I ever undertook with a pack: for I carried a bergen with a complete black outfit in it, that I'd taken along so as not to have had to march in Society outfit, should Peter have decided to march with his Flemish lion. Shut up and carry the burden, my motto therefore. To Zuid-Ginkel Inn, the beautifully situated resting spot that exists ever since the course was expanded from 25 to 40 kilometres. On the terrace of which, we then took up residence for some thirty to forty-five minutes, loudly bragging. To both the horror and the amusement of multiple fellow marchers, amongst whom, again, Ben and Marion. 
Once finished talking rot out there, on it went in cheerful and boisterous mood, alongside the Ginkel heath towards Renkum, leaving astounded and defeated fellow marchers in our wake. In Renkum, then, a happy tiding befell us: from Erik Kuijken, namely, who announced he was waiting for us by the village border with his blue LandRover. This could have become a splendid reunion, but for the fact that it never occurred. Much later, it namely turned out that Erik had been working on his LandRover, lying below it in a driveway off a sidestreet off the course, as we passed by, and had checked his phone again only by the time evening had come, to find my voicemail on it. That we did miss the usual rest-at-the-pizzeria because of this, got me into such a foul mood that, on the way to the next rest by the tennis court, I speedwalked like an idiot, arrived there steaming and collapsed into a chair, while former commandoes Swarts, Middelkoop and Regts, who had naturally stomped along effortlessly, cheerfully trod onward, in an attempt to lose untrained former legionair Fischer, which was ultimately successful, just before the finish. 
He, though, put up some stiff resistance, like he should, although it made him arrive totally wrecked. That method is not advisable for untrained marchers, but green berets do have something to uphold, of course, so long as the KL-beret is still olive-coloured, no matter how green green is. And for myself, I was utterly happy to by now be well-trained, as on that last bit, from tenniscourt to finish, I laid down a muderous pace, singing loudly at times. This finally brought me, as I clawed my way up the last hill in a grim state, to Oosterbeek, in that street where, last year, young neonazis had so distastefully manifested themselves - but where this year, thank God, they were absent, replaced moreover by a group of utterly friendly and movingly supportive locals. Who halted me with a well-meant "Hey firebrand" and engaged in a, for me, utterly uplifting conversation with me, this close to the finish. They could only have been fellow marchers, and indeed, they too wore the flying horse. 
Having taken their picture and having supplied them with a Wandelsoc.-card with the site-address on it, I was therefore utterly contented as I paced through Oosterbeek, to the finish at Sportpark Hartenstein, along the official route, not leftward before the corner therefore, but straight on towards the monument, then to pass through the finish gate, between stand and seats of honour. Which got me a surprised "Hey, you still remember how the course runs!", from a passing official. Yes Sir, for I am Wandelsoc., so I not know the right way to do it, I also do it the right way. Though this does not apply if your name is Prakke. He was waiting for us, with fellow-bartender Jelle (who had sadly just been expelled from the Elementary Commando-Training because of an ankle injury incurred during martial arts training), at Sportpark Hartenstein, where he immediately indulged in falsely wearing the green beret, grinning broadly.  He wasn't the only one doing that though, for Fred, Jelle and Jan also gladly had themselves portrayed in false headwear, namely Ronald's legionair's beret. Hilarious though, of course, and well-earned enjoyment for the winners that invariably fill Sportpark Hartenstein this one moment of the marching year. And as I said before I wasn't particularly one of them, for although I had had a fine marching season (6 official and 4 of our own marches, 5 practice marches and 1 round of support at the Death March), I was so well-trained by now that that was to be expected. No, the winners, this year, irrefutably were Lourens Dinger, having completed the Airborne in bad training condition after he dropped out halfway through Diekirch, Ronald Fischer as said, and most of all Raymond de Gisser and Marco Neumann. Raymond because he is this season's winner anyway, as pertaining to victories on himself (he concludes a ridiculously fine season in which he jumps from 1 to 6 ribbons), and Marco because, having dropped out in Diekirch this year at 12 km, and having crossed the finishline of this same march ashen grey and limping, last year, he completed this thing without noteworthy trouble today. Congratulations, gentlemen.
We don't like walking, but to have walked remains a blissful thing: and so we spent an hour or so congratulating and drinking beer (no better pastime). Also, I complimented Peter with his gorgeous flag-with-Flemish-lion, which he after all now carried around without a Wandelsoc.-uniform below it. And then... ...Jochem did something we will remain deeply grateful to him for, for years to come. He namely arranged a barbecue in the home of the Holy, his Mother Lous Prakke. At which we then sat back in overpowering warmth (not exclusively physical) and luxury, under the contented watchful eyes of Jochem, Lydia, who was pregnant of daughter Coco at the time, oldest daughter Lanca, Jelle and Lous herself. What beautiful end to a long day. That arbour should not get much more filled up with Wandelsoc., or we'll no longer fit in there, but by God, we enjoyed it.  So much in fact that most of us stayed the night, only to say goodbye to Lous after an elaborate breakfast, the next morning. Great ending to a wonderful march and a fine marching season. Now let's quickly move on to that blasted Ribbon Shower, but first we must visit van Wielik, of course. Not to mention Seefeld. Seefeld? Yes, Seefeld. Because this year we add the Austrian Einhornmarsch to our curriculum for the first time, and our marching season therefore begins even before the Ribbon Shower of the previous one has come to pass. A somewhat curious situation, but one can, at least, not accuse us of being stuck in rigid patterns. And so. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Seefeld awaits. |