A story from the 1979 Haervejsmarch

There were 4 of us who followed. 1 debutant, 2 who were going for silver, and one who was going for a gold medal. 4 guys who, together with 10,779 other walkers, tried to take on the Jutland heath.

Like an endlessly long raincoat advertisement, we trudged out through the wet streets of Viborg on Saturday morning. No one knew that it would rain for 9 hours without stopping, but all 10,783 of us had a feeling that it would. The 45 km long day march ahead seemed eerily unmanageable.

Mud, mud, mud

No one sang. Everyone kept an eye on the wet cobblestones. Later, the wet streets were replaced by wet country roads. The wet country roads were replaced by wet field roads, and to top it off, the wet field roads were replaced by wet, soggy forest paths.

It had rained so much, and there was so much mud, that the paths could only be used at the very edges. We didn't see much of Jutland, but we did see mud. Varying from the usual dark mud to red, gray and yellow mud. Mud mixed with pebbles, spruce branches and worn-out blisters. Mud with spasmodic muscles and shattered hopes.

Mud, mud, mud. But woe to the one who didn't keep a close eye on the same mud. Personally, I saw three examples of happy hikers who had to get down and kiss Mother Earth.

Niels-Anker Hansen and Frode Albrechtsen on the very wet Haervejsmarch 1979.
Photo: John Thomsen

A single unplanned movement, a sliding sweep, an elongated slouch – and oh my, what did they look like. Those who claim that a mud bath makes you more handsome were not present at the 1979 Haervejsmarch 

Why continue?!

It was one of those trips where the neon sign: WHY? starts flashing in bigger and bigger letters. About half a meter in front of your wet, blue-frozen mouth. Everything drowned in the rain – even the rest areas, where you could stand and eat sandwiches with a straw. It didn't take much imagination to imagine what else you could have spent your Saturday doing. Many had so much imagination that they stopped and took it seriously.

Most of us have a pretty clear feeling that at a certain point, you can't get any wetter, but in Jutland around Viborg, you can. Gradually you become more humble. You learn to appreciate when the rain hits your neck, instead of straight in your face. You even enjoy a few cold notes from a fellow human being's harmonica - or water organ, as it was called. Even if he probably never gets into the Conservatory of Music, you automatically move a few meters forward. Forgetting for a while the pain in the sore muscles and the water damage in the feet.

Paradoxically, the rain stopped the moment we reached our destination, and even though we had had enough water, it was indescribably life-giving to stand under the hot shower and slowly return to civilization.

From rain and mud to mosquitoes and blisters

On Sunday it didn't rain at all. There was more room at the starting point in the morning. It was said that every fifth person had given up. It was a good thing there were only four of us following along.

Clearly marked by yesterday's hardships, we huddled like a long, motley ribbon into the landscape. A painful sight. Over-colored two-legged advertising columns with advertisements from everything between Viborg and Kansas City, in painful contrast to the magnificent nature, we hobbled out there. 'On the road to health', says the brochure. Still, most people had a hell of a desire to break off diplomatic contact with their feet. At the rest stops, socks were changed in the hope of relief.

The heat, in a double sense, had brought out armies of battle-ready mosquitoes. We were easy victims as they feasted on us. Drained us of the last of the blood we so abundantly needed. Now it wasn't just our feet that were sweating. Now we were sweating and sweating all over our bodies.

Still, it was nothing compared to what we had experienced on Saturday, and yet we will do it again next year, and the next and the next. Because despite the hardships, the Haervejsmarch is something special. With its sumptuous nature, the atmosphere and the camaraderie. And the compassionate city of Viborg shows the tired marchers when we steadfastly walk into the stadium after the orchestras, and with the applause still ringing in our ears, receive the well-deserved and coveted medals.

All this within the framework of a perfect and well-oiled arrangement, makes the Haervejsmarch an annual recurring experience. I guess I should know, because I was the one who was supposed to get the gold medal.