| What are we doing?
July 24th, 2004 88th Nijmegen Four Day March Nijmegen was a dramatic affair this year, even before we'd lifted a foot. This wasn't due to the Four Day Marches, but to the wedding of Rijkman & Derkman. Of, more precisely and better, to what followed it. The fights about it had not yet been resolved, namely. And I had, twice over, tried to convene the meeting, loudly demanded by some, but had to conclude, both times, that ultimately, there was not enough interest in it. So when that meeting didn't take place for the second time in a row, and I had, from that, concluded it would not take place at all, I decided that, because I had hitherto, being the chairman of the Wandelsoc., kept my personal opinion about the whole affair to myself (I was to organize that meeting after all, so I thought it wise to save my personal opinion for that meeting), now I could no longer do so at that meeting, I should give it now, and did so by way of an email, in which I not only called Ronald Fischer, but Henk van der Schelden, Peter Weij and Fred Regts too, everything under the sun. 
Day 0 This created a lot of bad blood on, particularly, the latter two's part. Not entirely unjustly so, I found after some contemplation, and so, as we met eachother at the Vereeniging on Monday afternoon, I offered them my apologies for calling them names in that mail, and for forgetting to stipulate that Fred was one of those who had been willing to have that meeting. Those apologies set the tone of that afternoon. Because as Theodoor Snodendroom and Bert van Prijzen, Second and First Friend of the Wandelsoc., looked at it all amused and approvingly, with Jasper Nales (who did not march along this year, because he was to late to enroll, but could not escape the Four Day Marches' Fever, and thus did come around to piss up at the Vereeniging, with Ralfie, who did march along), today became the Day of Atonement, and all infighting disappeared under the beered-out afternoon sun (not in the least because Ronald Fischer exerted himself in getting beer for everyone, and did not contradict Barend's remark that this was Fischer's way of apologizing). 
Apparently, the Four Day Marches, in all their horrific beauty, exact this respect for them: that all energy is needed for them, and there is therefore neither time, nor place for distracting argument. That won't be the case for long then, anymore. Since if it is up to people like Taeke van der Meer (Taeke is the unbelievable asshole who arranged that, come next year, men between 15 and 50 years of age no longer have to march 50 km for their cross, but only 40, and who dared to have the judge substantiate this with equality between men and women - and I am all for emancipation, but they should have made those women march the 50; enough of them do anyway, and toning down the distance for men devaluates the achievement of the brave who have, in decades past, proven to be better men than Taeke van der Meer, whom I find a shootable bastard, and with that I do NOT mean that I think he should be shot, because I OPPOSE violence, but that that 'shootable' is the sentiment that rushes through me when I hear his name because I am correspondingly angry, but nevertheless I am, in Holland, no longer allowed, since Fortuyn, to say that Taeke van der Meer, who is a shootable bastard, is a shootable bastard, one gets fired for this nowadays, in this blasted country that goes to the dogs thanks to the right-wing mob, is my personal opinion, but all that aside) the Four Day Marches will shortly be a festive parade for sissies. Good. Then at least we can turn our minds to more serious matters, like bashing eachother's heads in over a lack of beertent. 
Where was I? Oh yes, the Friday night. Utterly sociable, therefore. And not just at the Vereeniging. Because even at the Holy Mother Prakke's home, on the van Heemstralaan in Arnhem, where Jochem, Max, Henk, Raymond, Lourens and I stayed for the duration of the Four Day Marches, it was a pleasant and sociable reunion. To which splendour was added by a gift on behalf of us all, Jochem's brother Mark included, to Lous Prakke: a new cast-iron grid, for her fireplace. 
And then we had a great time, I myself partly because a booklet appeared on the table, about our Royal House, once glued together and written by Jochem - who definitely did not want its existence to be made public, whereupon I decided to photograph all its pages and put them on the Internet. It's cute, namely. Day 1  The next morning, very early on it, Lous treated us to eggs and bacon, in the kitchen. Won-der-ful. I was so taken aback by it, that I forgot to take my camera along. But this was a good thing, for it might otherwise not have survived. It was raining cats and dogs, namely, at the beginning of this Day Of Lent. There was therefore much complaining about this, nineteen to the dozen, by the legion-of-sissies, but I found it a pleasant vexation, that distracted me somewhat from what I knew was awaiting me: trouble, given my not fully healed blisters and skinscrapes.
No, the rain was not my problem, and wouldn't get me any bigger blisters than I had already anyway, left over from the MESA. The problem, and it would continue to be that for the full four marching days, and be so increasingly, was in the alterations to the course.  They began sneakingly. For originally, I wasn't at all aware that the bit from Bemmel to Elst, via Huissen, had become much longer. But where, in Bemmel, everything still seemed normal, and our part of the Wandelsoc.-delegation was expanded, in the Bemmel Arms, with Ronald Fischer, Barend Rijkman, Marco van Zijntergen and Albert van Geyningen, I arrived in Feestzaal Fortuyn in Elst, with Marco, Raymond and Henk, completely wasted.
Satisfied though, because, along the bit in between, I had run into German-reservist-of-Dutch-descent Jansen (acquaintance from Bern and Diekirch), who'd offered me a sip of 'Speziellthee', that was gladly accepted, and Schelden had, en route, entertained a platoon from the Haguelands Police with a faked Flemish telephone conversation between him, Berry and Harry (this, I later learned from Ted and Bert, turned out to be a joke cooked up during earlier editions of the Four Day Marches, which he kept up, this time over, for days, for every time he ran into that police platoon) - and they appreciated it as much as we did them, because, at Albert's instigation (who was friends with a former commando in their midst), they supplied us with hot broth just before Valburg. And just after Valburg, I also ran into Grietje Vissers and Janny Beishuizen, with whom it was pleasant talking, about Ireland and the march in Japan, amongst other things. And also, I had, on that stretch in between had some useful experiences, for my Four Day March Communities test of this year. Elden, for instance, is going to get it badly, because of irratingly obstructing youthful stickerbeggars (utterly distasteful development, which turns a once well-meant gesture of the passing detachments into a commercial circus for the underaged). And Elst triumphs again. On a traffic island, just before the town's centre, there were two boys, in the rain, singing: "We remain here, for you! We remain here, for you!" - absolutely touching, just like the sincere and heartwarming reception by the rest of the village, reason for me to compliment the mayoress with her inhabitants (although she herself, as Ted rightly noted, dropped a PR-bollock by not going to stand out in the rain herself, but staying under her lean-to shelter). In the overcrowded Feestzaal Fortuyn (this partly due to the alteration of the course, but also, and more so, because of the rain), thank God, Ted and Bert did join our party as usual (a prior sighting of both, en route to Bemmel, I had flatly repressed, because it is not supposed to be, although, at that occasion, I did almost murder Schelden because he called me 'Stalinist' again, whilst singing), and we contentedly mulled over the hideous nature of the change.  This turned out to be an omen, because Slijk-Ewijk, Beatrix hall included, was removed from the course in its entirety, most probably because of the wetness in the Disenchanting Forest, just before it. Apparently, these days, it's a problem, for folk who dare to call themselves walker, if they incur wet feet on a marching course. Un-be-lie-va-ble. Only happens in Holland. In Belgium you're expected to, broadly grinning, love the mud of the Ardennes, in Luxembourg sweltering heat leads to contented beertapping, in Ireland everything's as wet as the whiskey in your hipflask, in Denmark they send you straight into the marsh, in Switzerland the slopes are actually meant to give you heart attacks - but in Holland, as a man, you no longer have to walk the full distance because women also exist, they deduct 10 kilometres from the march when it gets hot, and they reroute the course when it rains. We're made to look like fools, on a global scale.
 And so, eventually, grumbling about this ugly example of marchmismanagement, we found ourselves in a snackbar to the right of the course in Oosterhout, hidden in a suburb, but packed nonetheless, because the owner failed to open his spacious rear hall. Obvious, laid-up opportunity, missed with an empty goal. But, it must be said, fine croquette rolls. And thankfully, the dyke to Lent, thereafter, was still the dyke to Lent as we know it, although, this time, there were disappointingly less ambulances driving up and down it, than there were in previous years. It shall probably have pleased the march leadership.
 I am, it seems, by the by, surrounded, lately, by morons who believe walking to be a sinecure for Sunday steppers. Did Max, in Diekirch, already complain about the severity of the 20 k distance (this from the mouth of someone who, I'll have you believe, has a Deathmarch to his name), here Lourens Dinger ran the first day like there would be no following three. He was down that dyke by long, by the time that I stepped onto it, and reached the finish at half past two that afternoon, on his first Four Day March. In front of him, of ours, only Swarts, Middelkoop, Regts, Weij and van Ravensteijn walked (and all of them are former commandoes). And to then keep saying you're keeping up "a normal tempo" and "there's nothing wrong". Nonono, of course not.
I believe everyone behind him warned him to take it easier, that day - but Lourens knew better, and finished a long way before the combined Four Day Marches' experience of Albert van Geyningen (22x), Ted Snodendroom (15x), Bert van Prijzen (13x), Henk van der Schelden (12x), Marco van Zijntergen (3x), Jochem Prakke (2x), Raymond de Gisser (1x), and myself (3x). An impressive feat, I cannot put it any other way. Day 2 The next day (following another eggs-and-bacon breakfast in Arnhem, but this time I didn't forget my camera) I rode to the start with Max again. He'd set himself the goal of completing two days of 40 km, and was therefore nicely on the way to achieving that target. Myself, I hoped, of course, that he'd turn out to be able to do more, and would manage to pin his first Four Day Marches' cross on by the end of this week, but most of all, I was glad he was there at all anyway. The day of Wijchen began better than the previous one, because it largely remained dry (it was raining profusely before we left Arnhem, but of that, only a diminishing drop remained by the time we were in Nijmegen). But that was about all, where 'good' was concerned. Because shortly after the start, The Tent, Where People Work (for years, there was a sign in it reading 'For lack of personnel, people work here') was missing, this year. And so we were forced to, for coffee, soup and rolls, divert, for the first time in our Four Day Marches' history, to Cafe-Restaurant ''t Mirakel' (which, by the way, did a fine job, as a Quality Rest, since it also offered an inside, with spacious and clean sanitary facilities). Once we'd gotten over the astonishment caused by this discourteous disappearance, we rounded the field by 'Hart van Hatert', which, during a recent practice march, we had so wickedly crossed, and made our way to the overpass across the A73. We remembered Ome Jan, evilly leaded for his wasteworthy coffee, who no longer offered rest here, and stamped on to the RET-rest before Alverna. 
Completely lost in thought, I unfortunately missed it, so I had to make do with a low garden wall in Alverna (where I was accosted, by the by, in an extremely friendly way, by the garden owner, who supplied me with cushions and liquorice) upon which I then waited for the rest. This was pleasant, because it enabled me to greet a lot of acquaintances. Liz Marquart-Scholtz, for instance, passed here (my kind of luck), I saw Pieter Spaan and Henk Bakx striding by, and (shortly after I'd let Peter, Henk, Jochem, Raymond, Fred, Toon, Albert and Marco walk on, so I could wait for Ted and Bert for a moment) my gaze fell upon Henk Warring, whom I hadn't seen since Viborg last year (and that was just before his posting to Al-Muthanna in Iraq)! Joyful reunion, albeit short. He was doing well, although he was still busy processing his experiences in Iraq. "It was a good mission, but much went wrong", was his befittingly guarded observation. As I waited for Ted and Bert, I then had a great time, on the one hand because of the rivalry between a group of homosexuals marching along (who were resting behind me) and passing military ("Bunch of fags!" "Heeeyyy, helloooooowww, shall I give you a good fuck up the ass, darling boy?" - quickly disappearing soldiers, you can imagine), and on the other hand because of the misplaced respect a Wandelsoc.-uniform full of ribbons produces. Chest forward, chin up, and every passing detachment thinks, in reaction to your nod, to be facing a high-ranking soldier, and so straightens into parade pace, head proudly turned right. Not always hilarious, for gripping at times, as in the case of, for instance, the so much maligned Americans, marching along here nonetheless. Great value, for your "Good morning America". That I waited for Ted and Bert, had a real reason too, by the way. For me, it was important to join them for the bit of course that was to come now, and that we had had to wait for for two years: the Maasbandijk, from Balgoij to Niftrik, namely. Cursed stretch along which, in 2002, I almost fainted, and would therefore have wanted to have my revanche in 2003, when it was removed from the course by the March Leadership on account of the heat, bunch of sis-sies, sis-sies, sis-sies! 
This time, there was none of that: I got my dyke, to our threefold pleasure. And not only to ours. For at Hotel Restaurant Hoogeerd, the place that in 2003, despite the March Management, had not had to forego its yearly earnings (as owner Jo Lepoutre explained to us recently) we not only found Raymond, Barend, Ronald, Albert, Jochem, Henk and Marco, but also German reservist Marc Poelen, with whom I had done the Castlebar two weeks before, and owner Jo Lepoutre, who stated he found it an honour to be able to greet us once more. Entirely likewise, good Sir, entirely likewise. His personnel, too, remembered us joyfully, so it was a pleasant ado, there behind the tomato soup. 
Moreover, the First Aiders at Hotel Restaurant Hoogeerd this year had had some serious work: they had namely just looked at Lourens E. Dinger ankle, who proceeded to inform me by telephone, that he was in Niftrik by now, but would drop out on account of tendon troubles, today. Well. Nothing wrong, eh? By the time that, in Niftrik, we did indeed run into him, he still denied having walked too fast on the first day. Sure, kiddo. 71 Years of Four Day Marches' experience carefully takes things slower than you do, but you don't walk too fast. No, kiddo. As Chairman of the Wandelsoc., I then say this: we, as a Society, guarantee a Four Day Marches' cross, provided we are listened to, and our WHOLE curriculum is completed. Lourens E. Dinger did neither. Lourens E. Dinger concludes his first Four Day March, the 2004 one, without a Four Day Marches' cross. I. Rest. My. Fucking. Case. Having therefore given him a hiding ("You're a disgrace to our Society!", because this kind of running is exactly that, to my opinion, just as bad as the 'walking alternate speeds' of Harm Swarts, and the forcing of distances way too large down the throats of newbies, by Schelden, although they themselves are off their rocker, of course, for buying into it) we then cheerfully, and by Progomm Ltd. (remains a ridiculous name, for a selfrespecting company) continued on our way to Wijchen (with Lourens, because he had, and I found that doubly insane, decided to first complete today's course, and then to drop out - I mean, get your ass into a First Aid jeep then, straight away, and go hit the beer at the Vereeniging, or better yet: drop dead, because that actually is the only acceptable way of dropping out of the Four Day Marches, of course). 
There, we had to forego another traditional quality rest, for Hilde van Prijzen had dropped out. Hilda is Bert's wife, and she normally waits for us at the EDAH supermarket in Wijchen, with coffee. Bert didn't tell me why she dropped out, but among gentlemen we presume she had a damned good reason for it. 
So instead of the EDAH, our resting place became Bistro 'Den Soete Inval' around the corner, where I once saw Marchleader Janssen sneaking by. A good thing that didn't happen today, I couldn't after all have answered for the consequences. Whom we did find there, apart from Laura, the friendly waitress ("But Miss! What beau-ti-ful breasts you have!"), was Max, dropped out, like Dinger, by now. But not like Dinger, because Max had simply made a valiant attempt, shown courage and vision, and had really bad blisters. That Max, despite his having really bad blisters, had once completed a Death March, but not, this time, the Four Day Marches, whilst he was seldomly better trained than after the previous few months now, remains a thorn in my eye, but, given his age and overweight, it is im-pos-sib-ble for me to hold this against him.  We therefore left Max behind in Wijchen (having first taken a picture of Schelden with the waitress, and after I'd asked Jochem what it was he said to her, when she blushed so much - "What did YOU say to her, then?" "That she had nice tits. And you?" "Something similar"), but walked on with Lourens, to Beuningen. There, on my part, all hell broke loose. For after, in good spirits, I'd shaken the burgomaster's hand, and stamped past the paddock of the Beuningse Boys, the ground suddenly fell, from beneath my feet. And I didn't hack that. At sports canteen 'De Snor' (The Moustache), normally the rest where we enjoy chips and gin, starting point for our Wandelsoc.-day-row last year, it turned out that that canteen was closed today. Terrace included. And in front of it stood a puny bar, the customers of which were tucked away into the hedge. I slumped and completely lost my self-control. I screamed, cried and threw things. "WHAT THE HELL KIND OF BULL-SHIT IS THIS?!?"
Thankfully, there was a calm female fellow walker of wiser age than mine, who managed to quieten me (and in so doing, bought me a beer, gesture that I naturally reciprocated): she did not, like me, only come to this canteen for three years yet, on the second day of the Four Day Marches, but for twelve years already. I couldn't but acknowledge that she therefore factually was hit much harder than myself, and so respectfully shut up. 
After I'd briefly positioned myself on the far side of the road, beside Schelden, who'd by then had struck up a conversation with two locals, father and daughter, they told us, moreover, how it had all come to be: the owner of the Moustache had been shot, in a family drama, along with his whole family (and the bar that stood there right now was from a cafe in the village, bravely trying to make up for the loss). The exploitation of resting areas during the Four Day Marches turns out to be a life-threatening pursuit. All the more we will therefore, in future, treat those who take the chance and risk their own lives to alleviate our need, with respect and gratitude. 
Yes. Well. But now first, onward, through Weurt, back to the Wedren. This all went well, with the festive gay-parade in the In de Betouw- and van Welderen-streets for finale (the Rio-feel was oldfashioned again, although I couldn't escape the impression that the great humidity tempered the fury somewhat). And at the terrace of the Vereeniging an utterly contiguous party was celebrated, with the Hague Cabaret, and two fellow marcherettes, Anita en Elvira, clad in pink wigs, who got to enjoy quite some attention from the Soc.. 
Back at the van Heemstralaan in Arnhem, the afterdinner was a pleasant one. Lous, together with Lydia and Lanca, supplied us with soup and toast, and Max showed off his t-shirt ('Solidary with Israel, against terror, for peace'), which he'd brought along in case Al Qaeda would make good on its threat against the military partaking in the Four Day Marches, which thankfully hadn't happened yet - an of extra security measures we had, during these first two days, experienced little: it could have been a great deal worse. Day 3 On the day of Groesbeek (following a renewed eggs-and-bacon breakfast in Arnhem, supplied by Lydia, this time, and a ride with her to Nijmegen, because Max was still asleep, this despite his promise to drive me to the start, made the previous day - but I didn't mind so much, since Lydia was driving the rest anyway, and had one place to spare) we were finally compensated for what had been done to us. For although the Tent, Where People Work, was missing again - so that, in the morning, I had to go without my mates, and take up station on a cold traffic island, with my Red Bull - today, thankfully, there turned out to be 1 quality rest in the Four Day Marches' course that was not only preserved, but plainly improved: Old Pensioners' Home the Maldenburch, in Malden. The newly developed part of the building, which is beautiful, had done no harm to the immense friendliness and warmth with which the nursing staff receives one there, not to mention the prices, of food and drink (1 euro per coffee). And the peaceful quiet! I swear to you: the Maldenburch is the best kept secret of the Four Day Marches, and we may be thankful for its undiscovery, for as long as it takes. I'd like to pension myself off there. With one's Four Day Marches' cross on, sit on that terrace during the day of Groesbeek, making sarcastic remarks about 'my day and age'. Won-der-ful. Bert apparently had even once experienced it there, such an old inhabitant with heavily laden cross-on-the-chest. The new development had by the way also produced a neat display case, inside, with paraphernalia from the Four Day Marches' history (very old crosses, for instance, although Ted noted that there sneakily was an Apeldoorn amongst them, whereupon he explained to Barend Rijkman that it's not done to wear that thing, among the Soc., because it is a decoration of a schismatic organization that has dissociated itself from the Mother of all Marches in a sordid manner). 
On the dyke, from there to Molenhoek, Bert proceeded to expound his fascist sympathies. I didn't believe a word of it, and called him a wouldbe-general with a little tank for wet dream. Nonsense abounded, and it swiftly gained weight. By Mook, namely, I was taken for a long ride by Mr. Fischer, R.. He called me and spoke: "I have dropped out". Great was my fury. I believe I loudly shouted for two-and-a-half-minutes on end, to the joy of Bert, Ted and a platoon of British police officers, passed while cursing. "Who's the one that fuc-king served in the Legion here?!? You, or what!?! And me, parking my lazy ass on an Amsterdam terrace for years, DO finish this march, but you don't?!? WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THIS?!!? Even if I'd have to crawl across that finishline bleeding from multiple wounds, this is the fucking Four Day March, get that?!?" I was so confounded that, for shock, I passed Mook without noticing - barring one streetcorner on which Huissen, renowned marching military man, lately from the Irish, supplied me with hipwhiskey once more; and shortly after that, en route to Plasmolen, even Ted and Bert decided to attempt to persuade Fischer to finish the march after all. "Mr. van Reenen says he was putting it mildly, just there, his criticism." You fucking bet, Teddie, you fucking well bet. Good thing that Bert reminded me that this was an exceptional moment for shooting a new picture for my collection 'Calling Teddy', a collection of photos begun in 2001, of Ted with the mobile phone he so despises - I would have forgotten, in all the excitement, otherwise. Ronald, meanwhile, was unyielding. It was too late already, because he was in the First Aid-car, en route to Nijmegen. Two minutes later, it turned out he was lying, because we overtook him as he calmly trod forward along the dyke. From which I then, by way of punishment, pushed him down. "Off! Off the dyke with you!" (He cooperated, for I wouldn't otherwise have managed it - you don't just push a legionair off the dyke.) Yes, but he had of course earned himself a load of beer, having succesfully completed this joke. Which by the way lasted a while yet, because Schelden c.s., walking way ahead of us, were still under the assumption that he had really dropped out. 
In Plasmolen, the pancake restaurant sadly proved to be closed (no delectable waitress therefore), and I therefore rejoined Ted and Bert, after a circumscription across the terrace, on the way to a newly instated quality rest, left of the road in Milsbeek. There, we let off some steam, replenished the fluid supply, shortly met Jan Middelkoop, watched Ronald Fischer unperturbedly stride past, wished the newly arrived delegation of the Hague Student Shooters' Association Pro Libertate an enjoyable march, and prepared ourselves for the Milsbeek Hook. We had hardly entered it, or Harm called me to announce he had completed it, and was making for Groesbeek. A splendid display of Harmhaste, although we were taking it exceptionally easy ourselves, since even de Gisser, in such bad shape at this point last year, was now somewhere ahead of me. I explained the Wandelsoc. to some fellow walkers, who knew me, as a phenomenon, from marches past, and guided Fischer to the rest in the Hook, located just beyond the prettiest punch-hole of my walking season. Fischer was having a hard time, but believed in a happy ending. I left him after the rest, and hurried back towards Ted and Bert - whom, in the scorching heat, steaming uphill at Grafwegen in full long black, I passed there without noticing - it turned out, when just after the hilltop I took a breather to let my coat dry up a bit, and was overtaken by them. 
Once in Breedeweg, our tribulations deepened. Breedeweg Cafe, for years a deeply beloved and much longed for quality rest, with space, calm and cold drinks, namely is no more: it has, bloody hell, become a SPAR-supermarket! Great was our indignation, especially Bert's. "I'm going to write such a sordid note about this..." We tried to enjoy, then, both tomato soup and milkshake, in the local snackbar, and tried, in vain, to direct Barend Rijkman into it - who marched straight past it. No worries, because he was doing reasonably well, although he too had by now been fully convinced of the arduousness of the Mother of all Marches. Ted, meanwhile, decided to not let his own traditions be disturbed by foul foodselling tricks, and to therefore, here in Breedeweg, lie down after all, like he does every year. Very good, that is how it should be. And thankfully, for the remainder of the day, everything else was how it should be too: in Groesbeek, I respectfully took off my hat for the guys of the Commando Corps, there as of old with their SWOC-rest (and they returned the salute by unanimously taking off their Green beret, a gesture I shall nog lightly forget), on the Seven Hills Road I did so again whilst walking past the honorary military graveyard (it got me a "Neatly done, sir!" from the crowd of spectators), I greatly amused Bert with a flood of abuse in Berg en Dal (directed at a lady who felt I should take off my coat, I believe I called her "fucking bitch", but Bert disputes this), there too Marjon-of-Marco joined us to walk along for the last 10 kilometres, very sociable, and then ...we were at Thai Restaurant Baan Isaan at last.  Lovely, lovely, lovely. Prakke, base as ever, had tried to talk me out of it ("You MUST come to the Vereeniging now! Max is here too, and he says you MUST come, NOW! Don't stop at Baan Isaan! The fish cookies have run out!"), but we would never fall for that, of course (and Max, having dropped out, should shut up about our tempo, to boot).
The fish cookies had not run out at all, by the way, because Baan Isaan's staff is smart, and had therefore taken precautionary measures after we'd managed, last year, to conjure the sign 'Out of fish cookies' onto the window. We grinningly ate our way through some six portions of them, and I drank one-and-a-half litres of beer there. 
At five to five, Marco, Marjon, Henk, Ronald, Barend and I finished contentedly, and hit the beer at the terrace of the Vereeniging. Back in Arnhem, besides a footbath-with-BioTex, soup, toast and crackers from Lous, an ex-cel-lent lasagna-by-Lydia followed. Unfortunately, she then had an argument with Jochem. No idea about what, but it meant, in any case, that we had to go almost an entire day without knowing that she'd made that lasagna so wonderfully spicy with cayenne- and regular pepper. Moreover, it made her leave for Haarlem, with Lanca and Coco. A pity for Jochem in particular, of course, but it saddened us greatly too. Day 4  The next morning, therefore, we were presented with the eggs and bacon at breakfast, by Jochem. This, I then again found an enjoyable gesture. As I found today, as a whole, enjoyable anyway. Logically too, because it was the fourth day, the one of the finish. And I needed it badly, because I had six blisters by now (of which two, very nastily, were atop both my large toes) and bad skinscrapes. Different than yesterday, I nonetheless decided not to tape everything up today, but to give it as much air as possible, partly because my feet and ankles had swollen by now, and plaster stuck onto it wouldn't therefore have enough room, and would sooner create new blisters than prevent them. This would turn out, by the end of the day, to not be a bad strategy, although today naturally was hard enough to make matters worse.
And today wasn't only hard, but very humid too. And this, coupled with the warmth, which was less heavy than last year, but nevertheless not small, played major tricks on us: we were sweating like pigs, today, and kept on doing so, via Gilwell St. Walrick, Overasselt and Grave (just before it, I went into another raging fit, because the organisers had, because of the rainpuddles on it, decided to remove the concrete road-through-the-corn, which I always greatly look forward to, from the course, and to send us along the Maasdyke instead), until, at Schelden's instigation, we inserted an extra rest, without Ted and Bert (who already were completely bodily muddled by the interruptions of their regular schedule of quality rests, the poor lads), in the garden of Dick van Kuppevelt, dentist in Grave (but garden in Gassel), friend of Jan Middelkoop's, for former commando too. 
And just like they did only recently, he and his wife welcomed us extremely warmly, and did everything to replenish our heavily drained reserves of fluids. Won-der-ful people, and because they did so without us having Jan with us (who was after all doing the 40 k, and therefore walking to Beers not via Gassel, but through Linden) made it all the more wonderful yet. 
Very wonderful too, was the arrival of Ronald Fischer here. He had by now decked himself out with a do-it-yourself kepi, making him look like the legionair he never was: the North-African variety, namely. Fitting, though, for by now it no longer only was humid, but blastedly hot too, because the sun had broken through. A kind of pressure cooker, to walk through, and so Fischer was having a hard time because of it, on this, his first Four Day March. All of us were having a hard time, by the by. For sheer folly I went and sang some, ont hte long road to Beers. I worked my way through the traditional Jerusalem (I always sing that at this point, namely, for the everpresent British teams), and Kodachrome/Maybellene, the latter to the amusement of a platoon of Americans. Thank God, we did get to Beers, where I stormed into the Arms furious, discerned Ted and Bert, and flung my waterproof bag-with-belongings on the table before their amused eyes. Out of me then came, by and large, the fourth alinea of this report: an elongated stream of curses, directed at sissies in general, and Taeke van der Meer in particular. There. That was a relief. Ted and Bert had been here longer of course, so they already left again, but I could not go another pace without fluid replenishment, so I drank four orange juices in single gulps. This to the amusement of a small kid at the bar. "You must be very thirsty." Too damn right. Had I not had that juice, I would probably have fallen over. For which Bert was hoping, who by now predicted I would not make it to the finish line if I kept my coat on. Taking it off was not an option in any case, of course, that is, not before I'd have passed the pontoon bridge in Cuijk (which I look upon as the finish of my Four Day March, after all, because it is the last distinguished feature in the landscape before the real finish, and I find that whole Via Gladiola an irritating aberration). And we weren't there yet. Since we were, as said, in Beers. And like I already said in the report of the practice march which recently took us along the same bit: the road to Café De Bond, in Cuijk, is short, but always seems long, because of its monotonousness. And so it again was today, after, in Beers, I'd passed a tired, but still smiling Bernd (the reservist I'd met in Ireland) sitting by the roadside, as well as the spot where, in 2002, I'd taken a wrong turn with Marco van Zijntergen and had thus unwillingly lengthened the march with the 10 k that was deducted from the course the year after, and so Café De Bond didn't come a second too soon for me. 
There, we had the traditional croquette rolls, battled the wasps, and I took a wise decision: because this Four Day Marches' edition, due to the rain on day 1 and, in particular, the level of humidity thereafter, was now on record as the hardest since 1927, I felt I had an excuse to, after the pontoon bridge in Cuijk, take off my coat. And so I did, after I'd walked through the centre of Cuijk, and across that pontoon bridge (and had kissed the pontoon bridge midway, because I always do that too, it is the grandest moment in my marching year).  What followed was the long trek to 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). We arrived there as a group, and tiredly fell into the waiting chairs in the back room. I drank seven orange juices there, and then prepared myself for the finish. On that last stretch, in keeping with tradition, I lost sight of the group and, just so much in keeping with tradition, my self-control. I can't stand it at all, having to, while your stiff legs are on fire, diverge for morons who think the party is more important than the march, and who dance the sirtaki jigging about squarely in the middle of the street you have to walk down - so you're forced to divert or hold back and the razor-sharp stabs of pain remorselessly whack through your limbs.
 And the worst thing is that they expect you to smile, as well. Well, my ass! Over-my-dead-body! There's absolutely nothing to laugh about, out there, for it is hell! HELL! If there's anything in this sublunary that resembles it, it MUST be the Via Gladiola! Eat your heart out, Dante! It always makes me angrily march eight kilometres an hour. And so I did so now, cursingly zigzagging through the crowd. Unfortunately I had to, whilst doing so, make way for 1 woman walker so suddenly, jumping over her ankles (she suddenly jigged sideways to the left), that I hit another walker on the heels. That's exactly the kind of stupid shit that comes from it all. Fucking Via.
 Not to mention the hassle with the gladiolas. It was a wonder I came away alive, with my refusal to accept 1 from whomever. They try to force them down your throat as if their life depends on it. Have you any idea what that WEIGHS, a gladiolus? But the fun thing, of course, is that because of all this grouching you forget the pain for a while. And so I eventually did arrive contentedly, on the St. Annastreet, where I put my coat back on. Back on? Yes, back on. Because I will not be caught shaking a burgomaster's hand, during the Four Day Marches, without my Sunday suit on.
And especially not if that burgomaster is Guusje ter Horst. That, namely, is the most important handsake of the marching annum, because it means your Four Day March is complete. And so it was now, but more so: for those words, "Thank you, Guusje", the most beautiful ones of my walking season, were hard-won this year. I kissed her hand crying. That hand, by the way, the March Management did not get from me, this time over, because they hadn't earned it. Disgusting bunch of mismanagers. Immediately afterwards, I was accosted from the right by what turned out to be Fischer. Bravo! He'd stepped on very calmly, had taken shorter rests than we had, and finished here, in a way that would have become Lourens Dinger. And boy, were we exhausted, the both of us. 
It was a fucking awful Four Day March, this year. And the hardest I've walked so far (not strange, when you realize that this one was dubbed the hardest since 1927 - but can someone explain to me why, if this Four Day March was the hardest since 1927, they deducted 10 k from it last year?). With bleeding feet, but one pathetic thumbtack with a '4' on it the richer, I therefore fell into Bert's arms crying, at the Vereeniging. This to the astonishment of Marjon (the darling got me my first half litre of beer, I shall never be able to repay her), who as a native to Nijmegen had after all never been so close to a group of Four Day Marchers. And so Bert explained it to her: "He only does that when he's happy, you know". 
And that, by itself, was true too. Because as we congratulated eachother on the victory gained, and the debeering commenced in the front garden of the Vereeniging, we had to conclude that, although this was a hard and nasty Four Day March, walkingwise, we could, other than that, as Society and Friends Of, look back at a very successful week.  This was certainly true for Ronald Fischer, who with his gaining of the Four Day Marches' cross rehabilitated himself in the eyes of many, with respect to his misconduct, whether alleged or not, and for Barend Rijkman, who was wasted, but happy. That his freshly wed wife Annelies appeared here will certainly have contributed to that (and I thought it was a class act of hers).
There were more who did that, by the by: there was Marjan, for instance, the operation chamber assistant we knew from the MESA - and the mothers of Marco van Zijntergen, Henk van der Schelden and Raymond de Gisser (who could therefore be there to experience his triumph - for where Raymond had just about finished crawlingly last year, having almost dropped out on the third day, he now stood at the finish reasonably fit). This also went for Jan Middelkoop, who so tragically dropped out only last year, on account of back injury, convinced this year that he will do the fifty next year, because "that 40 was easy". 
It was, and became, a pleasant party (because the Vereeniging afterwards, THAT's a place where there's everything to laugh about), and remained so until I took off for Arnhem in a taxi. Because after three litres of beer, I completely collapsed. So I called that taxi from the hallway of the Vereeniging. But because it didn't appear to show up any time soon, I decided to recruit my good cousin, for an evil trick. And so I rang him, with the request to call me a second cab. Interesting which one would be there first.  This turned out to be a fine plan, for my cousin's one was there within two minutes. And that driver not only was very happy with the ride (because he hadn't been informed yet, that the ride would not go to Nijmegen railway station, but to the van Heemstralaan in Arnhem), but also pleasantly surprised by my ten euro tip. "Are you sure?" "Yes. I only do this once a year, and you've just made me very happy." I could bloody well kiss Lous, when I fell over her doorstep limping, at last. What a relief. A footbath and shower later I went to lie down for a bit, on the bed, to recuperate from Lydia's lasagna (the row with Jochem had been settled, so that we gladly learned that she'd made that lasagna so wonderfully spicy with cayenne- and regular pepper).
Day 5 I awoke the following afternoon. Considerably damaged (the total amounted to eight blisters, and I haven't had swellings so bad since my second MESA), but quite a bit refreshed. Today was a beautiful day. Not just because it was wonderfully warm summer weather, suddenly without the humidity of the bygone days, but also because of the past week. I therefore quite contentedly said goodbye to Lous and Jochem (expressing the wish to be able to meet Lous at the Airborne in Oosterbeek again), and drove to Groesbeek with Max, where we stopped to visit my cousin, his very pregnant girlfriend Kirsten, and their daughter Inge. 
Pleasant finale, to a week that went excellently. In Utrecht, we proceeded to deliver Schelden's luggage to Interpay, where he'd already gotten back to work, together with Raymond de Gisser, and then we finally made for home. Where my poor feet and ankles finally got the freedom they were promised, and so swelled to gargantuesque proportions. Whilst writing this it is twenty hours since that stopped - and we write, whilst writing this, August 8th, so two full weeks after the Four Day March (that I only write this report now, is because we've marched so much, in the previous months, that I had five reports to write in two weeks). Preliminary ending to the hardest marching season that I've yet had the pleasure to experience. These are great times. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Bornem, dammit, awaits. |