quaker fencer

kathz isn't quite my name. I may be a Quaker. If I'm a fencer I'm a bad one and I don't do sabre. If I'm a Quaker I'm a bad one - but you've worked that out already. Read on. Comment if you like. Don't expect a reply.

Location: United Kingdom

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

fencing nerves

The new kit still sits in its silver-grey bag. I haven't even transferred it to the old blue hold-all which carries most of my kit. (The foil, epee and body wires have a special Leon Paul bag. That helps when cycling but I bought it to conceal a weapon on the tube.)

It's more than a month since I fenced. I've walked and swum
a little in the sea. There's been no fencing at our local leisure centre.

Some fencers have practised elsewhere or competed in tournaments.

I know what it's like when I've missed just one week. There's a fast opponent, a blade that darts more swiftly than I see. I peer cautionsly through my mask, wade through jelly, hit air wildly and fall several steps behind.

I'm not ready for the warm-up.

At the end of the evening, I'll tired, aching, bruised. I want my meagre level of skill back. I want beginners to beat.

I can't wait to fence again.


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