[1990 – Bornem, Belgium – 100 km – 1 day]
Dodentacht.
It means Death March in Dutch.
One must walk 100 km in twenty-four hours to successfully complete the event.
I attend with some Canadian military friends.
The year we attempt the walk, there are 4,366 participants, although we don’t know how many complete the walk.
We know that two Canadians who were with us dropped out, and I see many more limping to their parked vehicles at the halfway point.
The first fifty km goes swiftly and I am encouraged, gobbling down the bland pasta meal provided at the hall.
But after about the 70-km point, I hit the wall, and it’s just a long, wretched slog to the finish.
The front half of the walk is all enthusiasm.
The back half is all misery.
There are numerous checkpoints where participants have their Dodentocht passports stamped.
Alcohol, cola, juice, and water are offered at every stop.
There is a Swiss woman who looks to be in her thirties, someone I had seen at a previous 100-km march a year ago in France.
She wears a jacket with walking patches, much like other walkers who collect walking events for their hobby.
But this woman’s jacket is filled only with 100-km patches.
And the jacket is completely covered in them, front, back, all the way down her sleeves.
I notice her strategy is to complete the first 50 km, take a two-hour nap, and then finish the walk.
I see her at the half-way point, and although I carry on while she naps, she catches up and passes me with three km to go.
There is a checkpoint at a pub at the 98-km point, where I find my Swiss friend drinking schnapps with the proprietor.
She is laughing with him, drinking, seemingly not having a care in the world, certainly not looking like she had just walked 98 km in sixteen hours – fourteen hours if you don’t count her nap.
I am offered a schnapps as well, but I turn it down and try sips of water instead.
I feel sick.
I am too far gone to even attempt alcohol and don’t want to embarrass myself by throwing it up.
At the finish, I collect my badge and my medal and am greeted by Derrick, my Canadian friend and sometimes hiking partner, who has been napping in the back of his car.
He finished in a little over fourteen hours.
I finish in a little under 17 hours.
Derrick is fit to drive us the seven-hour route back to southern Germany.
I’m not even fit enough to think.
I hobble from the hall back to the car, passing the Swiss woman, who is gliding into the finish line, all smiles, and even with a lilt to her step.
As we drive away, I wonder where the woman will sew her newly-earned 100-km patch.
Perhaps she will need to buy a second walking jacket.