1999-English 1101
First Place
Folks-Marching
By Mary Thornton
My best friend, Lori, dragged me to my first Volksmarch. We were soldiers, stationed in Frankfurt, Germany. "Come on, Mary, there might be some cute guys there!" she begged.
"What's a Volksmarch?" I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know for sure…some kind of walking race, I think. But Mary…" Her eyes sparkled as if she had some delicious secret, and she continued in a whisper. "It's on the French/German border. Imagine! There will be real Frenchmen there!"
I laughed at her response; Lori's impetuous nature made her irresistible. My friend grinned naughtily as she awaited my answer. It was inevitable that I would give in. After all, I had a few fantasies of my own that featured tall dark Frenchmen.
We had allowed ourselves plenty of time to get to the Volksmarch site, but our planning was unnecessary; the train ride was remarkably short. Ask an American child what sound a train makes, and he will say, "chug a chug a.…choo choo!" Ask a European child; he will reply simply, "Whoosh!" Before we knew it, we had arrived at our destination. We were about to enter the world of Volksmarching.
A large sign at the starting point read, "Volkswanderung." We discovered later that this was the original German term for these events. Reportedly, this terminology was difficult for American military stationed in Germany to understand, so Americans started using the term 'Volksmarching.' As Volksmarching spread into other countries, the term just stuck. There are now even Volksmarching events and organizations in America.
At the registration area, there were several tables set up under a huge tent, or 'festhalle.' At each table, vendors sold French and German foodstuffs such as Bratwurst (a light-colored sausage cooked on an outdoor grill), erbensuppe (pea soup), kuchen (wonderful cakes prepared by the ladies of the town), croissants, and sandwiches. In many small towns, the annual Volksmarch is a major fund-raiser and social event. A town can expect to earn a tidy profit on food and various collectible sales. Displayed prominently on several tables were large casks of German beer. We grabbed a couple of bagels. We had been told the walk was ten kilometers, or about six miles in length, and alcohol would just slow us down. We were determined to make a good showing on behalf of the U.S.A.
We registered at a long, rectangular table in front of the tent. At one end of the table, we were given the choice of doing a 'Free Walk,' 'Credit Only,' or 'Award.' I looked at Lori in confusion. She shrugged. There were little green and blue books lying on the table. We assumed that the medallions lying next to them were the awards. Not wanting to show our ignorance, we did not ask any questions; we just asked for the 'Award.'
After paying roughly the equivalent of ten American dollars, we left the line with a small card called a 'control card.' We put our name and address on the card and moved to the other end of the table. At the other end, the club was numbering cards in order to keep track of the number of Volksmarchers out on the trail. They gave us a rough, hand-drawn map of the route and pointed us in the right direction.
Lori and I headed out to the starting post. A dense morning fog covered the dirt path in places, and the air was chilly. We set off briskly; after all, we didn't want to look like we had never done this before. It took about twenty minutes before we realized that we were passing enormous numbers of people. A low murmur of conversations accompanied the plodding sound of boots as the groups of Europeans talked and treaded along the path. They glanced at us indulgently and nodded greetings as we passed. "Americans," I thought I heard a woman say with a smile. We slowed down.
It grew warmer. Lori started shadowing some handsome German fellow that had passed us, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My mind seemed clearer, somehow. The trail was beautiful. Large, sheltering trees filtered the blazing light of the morning sun into a warm caress on the back of my neck. Without any effort, I relaxed into a pleasant introspection and breathed deeply of the fresh air.
Lori gave up on her flirtation and rejoined me with a regretful sigh. Soon after, we reached the first 'control point.' Control points are strategically-placed points along the route where you must pause and have your control card stamped, punched, or sometimes initialed. These cards were our proof that we had passed along the route. There was a selection of beer, soft drinks, tea, hot wine, schnaps, and sandwiches available at all three of the control points we encountered.
After passing the third control point, we found ourselves abreast of a group of German nationals. A dachsund accompanied them on a leash. The group drew us into their conversation, using broken English with welcoming smiles. We chatted, chuckling over language mishaps and miscommunications. They cleared up our confusion about the small books. Volksmarchers record the total number of kilometers they walk in the blue books and the number of events in which they participate in the green books. One woman had walked over 80,000 kilometers. She literally had thousands of these little books.
Our group consisted of people of all ages. An elderly man hobbled among them, using his cane to steady his footing on the uneven path. He had not spoken since we had joined the group. I thought that it must have been painful and uncomfortable for him to walk such a long way. I wondered why he was there at all. My German was beyond horrible, but I managed to greet him in his language without making a complete fool out of myself. "Guten morgen," I sputtered out.
"Good morning,' he acknowledged my greeting in English. I sighed in relief. I had already exhausted my German vocabulary.
"How are you this morning?" I asked politely, trying to draw him into the conversation.
"Oh, not so good," he groaned, "My legs, my back, my feet…they hurt me."
"Yes, it must be difficult to walk such long distances," I remarked with some concern.
"Ahhhh, but the legs and back would hurt even if I did not walk," he replied knowingly. "This way, I can share it with my friends."
A light dawned; suddenly I understood what this was all about. Volksmarching was about people, not about walking. It was about 'folks'. It was about sharing stories, recipes, and jokes with people you knew absolutely nothing about. I walked and listened….and learned.
When we arrived back at the tent, I was startled. "It's over already?" It had been about two hours. We collected our medals, had our newly acquired blue and green books stamped, and joined our new friends. At the far end of the festhalle, a portable stage had been set up. A band of horrible amateur musicians from the host town laughingly entertained the crowd. Volksmarchers had already started celebrating; it seemed the party afterward was as much an event as the march itself. Lori and I danced, chatted, ate, drank, and laughed, unaffected by any language barrier. We were reluctant to go home.
Rain or shine, walkers meet and march. The attraction? Certainly there are many great things about Volksmarching: beautiful landscapes, healthy exercise, fresh air, and peace, to name just a few. However, I don't think that any of these things are the primary reason that marchers keep coming back. I have long since filled up my little blue and green books. I have several medallions and other awards. However, these items are simply tangible evidence of the real fruit of my Volksmarching-my friends.
(Mary Thornton was a student of English 1101 at Armstrong Atlantic State University at the time this essay was submitted)