| What are we doing?
September 4th, 2004 Airborne Sportpark Hartenstein is a place for winners. Not for drunken losers. That message, this year over, hit hard. 
Not in the least because, on my part, everything hit hard, on account of sleep deprivation and slight hangover. I had, namely, run a bar shift, the night before, in Nieuwe Vide, temple of the arts, below my humble abode. That shift ended at four thirty, but I was standing in Sportpark Hartenstein at nine. Not alone, since Jeroen Zieleman, too, who had not run a bar shift beforehand, but had been a bar patron until a quarter to five, neatly gave presence, after I'd found him on the intercity train in Utrechts (we'd apparently missed one another in Haarlem). 
At Hartenstein we found Anne-Jan Telgen, Harm Swarts and Albert van Geyningen, some Friends Of The Wandelsoc. (scouting Lunteren and Anita Willemsen - and to my explicit joy our dear friend Theodoor Snodendroom trod by too), and some acquaintances (Ben Jeursen with friend Marion, Martine Segers, and Marjan Aldenzee). 
Then, we waited for Fred Regts and Peter Weij, and Marco Neumann, Raymond de Gisser and Henk van der Schelden. And they all arrived, but Marco and Raymond did so with a disquieting message. They namely should have stopped to pick up Henk, at Kanaleneiland (Channel Island) in Utrecht, and had done so. But Schelden had still lain in bed, catatonically, stupidly drunk because of the preceding night, and had slurrily hollered downwards: "Come up here for a moment". This offer, Neumann and de Gisser had declined. They had, instead, waited outside for ten minutes, and had then driven on to Oosterbeek. They had, namely, had it, with his boozing behaviour. Marco and Raymond, by the by, did bring along someone new: fellow security officer Ad Franken. When Schelden still hadn't arrived at ten, we decided to set off. This wasn't a second too early, because the organizers already had no longer reckoned with people doing the 40 k distance. We were, in short, the last ones on the course, and picked up considerable speed. This almost became my undoing. Because just past the grave of the first Dutch commando killed in action, August Bakhuis Roozeboom, member of No. 2 (Dutch) troop (see an earlier report for more explanation of the history surrounding this), because of sleep deprivation and hangover, I rapidly dehydrated. This remained within limits until we reached the forest before the Ginkel Heath, but once there I almost fell over for real. 
Thankfully, I was saved, by Anita and Ad, who supplied me with water and mandarins. They were astounded by the fact that I myself did not carry any fluids, but I myself was mostly astounded by the fact that I'd allowed myself to, sporting a slight hangover, start a 40 k march on two hours of sleep. Normally, I don't need to carry fluids on a march of this length, when it has two excellent resting areas, not even when it's a hot day, as it undeniably was, today. 
But so I was intensely grateful to them, for they made me escape by the skin of my teeth. Once at the first of those two excellent resting areas, the Zuid-Ginkel Inn, the suffering was past (although it took ri-di-cu-lous-ly long before we were served). That we then remained there for so long that the checkpoint had already been dismantled, luckily had no consequences. From there, through Renkum, to the finish, I was accompanied by Marco Neumann, who dragged me through by leading me to every watersource along this Via Dolorosa (which not only was that because I was so tired and dehydrated, but also because I couldn't stand it, today: I had, in this fifth year, com-ple-te-ly had it with this course, just then, and didn't feel like doing it right from the start), and created a unique thing therewith: this was the first march during which I didn't coach him, but he me. That we were so late did then produce fraternalizing with the fellow clubfeet, amongst whom a Dutch soldier-with-way-too-heavy-pack, and a group of girls from an institute for problem children, and who heroically exerted themselves, since, six minutes past the limit, they finished along with us, just in time to acquire the medal. Just before that finish, by the by, I also ran into Frans Gorissen, the Rotterdammer who'd supplied me with so many photoes of the MESA. Sociable, but I was nonetheless very happy when I could march unto the Sportpark to collect my butt-ugly, but hard-won first fiver, of a series to follow, which is going to last all the coming season (I'm going, God willing, to make fifth attempts at Bern, Diekirch, MESA and Nijmegen, this year). That I did so without the extra circle that should be, along monument and stands, was because of the hurry - we'll make good on that yet next year, as we will with that last extra round in Bern.  Back on the pitch, I was not only cheeringly welcomed by Scouting Lunteren (thank you people, that was heartwarming) but there was van der Schelden MA, to boot. Logical. When boozing's on the agenda, he's obviously there to partake. Scoundrel! He hung about slurringly, processing two drinks at a time, and as if nothing'd gone wrong. I sent him far from me, and sat myself down next to Dick van Kuppevelt, there with a larger contingent of former commandoes, in the grass, to enjoy one of his cigarillos (thank you, Dick).
And the plan had originally been to dine together in Bemmel, at the best establishment we'd had the honour of experiencing during stages of our own practice marches, Bistro 't Klokhuys, but nobody felt like that anymore, barring van der Schelden MA who had, during the weeks preceding today, besieged everyone with panickly frenetic emails, imploring us to show up, but who didn't appear himself, on account of excessive inebriety (while two persons who'd hardly slept and had been drinking too, were present and finished the march - at which I must, by the way, get off my chest that I am not surprised Jeroen Zieleman finished it: he, after all, is still young and indestructable, although it says a lot about his perseverance). One would almost go and mutter something about man, night and morning.  It all ended with Neumann, de Gisser and Ad Franken (who didn't complete his march, because he didn't reach the finish in time, but did go the entire way) leaving for Utrecht (Neumann and de Gisser justly infuriated because Schelden, as soon as he woke up and discovered he wasn't in Oosterbeek, had called them everything under the sun by telephone, because they "hadn't picked him up" - what on earth did that remind me of?), and I made for the Van der Valk-motel in Breukelen with Max (who, to my joy, had arrived to greet us at the finish-line, in Soc.-uniform with neat marine beret), where we had an excellent dinner.
Epilogue I rarely write them, but this one deserves one. During the week following the Airborne, Schelden was unmercifully chided by Max, and I ignored him completely and intentionally. All else I'd, in attempts to curb his alcohol abuse insofar that it would not hinder myself, already tried, in vain, after all. In the course of that week, he wrote me 10 mailmessages (which I didn't read) and gave me some six calls (which I didn't answer). Then, by registered mail, I sent him a letter, in which I expressed my great anger at his treatment of myself and other friends of his, as well as my urgent concern for his well-being. This, namely, and partly because he was undergoing training to be a bailiff, seemed to me to be a method he would take notice of. That we got through to him has been confirmed by now. Because he's spent entire nights on tonic, instead of alcohol, in the presence of Max and myself, since then. But if it will really help? Time will tell.  Bizarreté, finally: apart from dehydration and 1 blister, I had experienced little physical consequence of this Airborne, barring a curious wound. Because, namely, I'd carried my keyring in the trouser pocket of my uniform, I'd been left with a skinscrape on the thigh from this. Yes, dear people, all that's possible too. The dehydration, in any case, shall not plague me again: should I ever have to go a long way, in uniform, on little sleep (although I will, in future, first try to prevent that), I'll be wearing a nice S.W.A.T.-vest with contents.
To your health gentlemen, ladies, excellent walking there. Aken awaits. |