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

Friday, October 06, 2006

fighting a virus, epee in hand

At the end of Cyrano de Bergerac - it gets me every time - the wounded Cyrano rises from his chair in the convent garden and takes his sword in hand for the last time. Death closes in; he brandishes his epee at all he saw as his enemies in life: lies, compromise, prejudice, cowardice, stupidity. Finally he collapses and, as Roxane kisses him (on the forehead) for the first time, his final words celebrate his "panache", the white plume in his hat that he takes as his symbol.

Fencing while suffering the after-effects of a virus doesn't have the same glamour, although Cyrano with a cold and hacking cough is an alarming thought. I couldn't do all the warm-up; running backwards and sit-ups defeated me. In footwork I fluffed a simple sequence ending with a balestra lunge.

I'd planned a little light foil at most, but the lure of epee training was too much. I recall it in a blur (my temperature's up again) but it was good to practise a lunge to the body which, with a quick turn of the wrist, hit neatly behind the opponent's pommel. In the end I got it working quite well in practice (I think) but I'm not so about a real bout.

I felt good about the training. Nonetheless, i had to sit out when it was over and chatted to resting fencers. Towards the end of the evening, I managed a short knock-about.

Now, with as the slight fever returns, it's hard to believe I fenced at all. Only the little purple circles on my wrist and right arm offer evidence that I did.

I must get better for next week.


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