continuing (with injuries)

The club competition was never going to be easy. If it hadn't been for a comment on this blog, I'd have given up. I had plenty of excuses: my calf hurt and my workload was huge. I took some with me on the Sunday - I wasn't the only one. It's sad to see how, in a time of high unemployment, those with jobs work absurdly long hours. It would be better to share the work around.

I registered for foil and epée, looked at the people in my poule and fenced without conviction. "Where's the aggression?" a fellow fencer asked and added, correctly, "You've lost it."

He was right. I wasn't expecting to win and I wasn't trying to win. I attempted to pull myself together. I still didn't win any bouts but began to perform a little better - at least, I began to feel more satisfied with the attempts I was making. But my footwork was more a shuffle than anything else - I didn't want to risk worse damage with the epée still to come.

Every so often I felt an urge to win but never for more than a point or two. Needless to say I was ranked low, fenced a strong fencer in the Direct Elimination, and was eliminated (15-5). Somehow I didn't come last overall - just bottom from last. But in the competition for the lower ranked fencers I did come last.

Still, I was fencing which seemed like some sort of achievement.

In the epée once again I made occasional attempts to win but didn't sustain them. My best poule bout went to 4-4 - I was briefly ahead before that. Then I looked at my opponent and my aggression ebbed away. She's a foilist who I can beat on occasion but I lost that last point before the ref. said "Fence."

All I had left was the D.E. I was against the fencer who had beaten me in foil. This time I had nothing to lose - there was no longer any point in trying to look after my injured calf. I attacked, parried and did my best. It wasn't that good but it felt more like fencing than anything I'd done before. We were at 14-6 (to him of course) when the ref. called for a minute's halt. I took off my mask and tried to muster my determination. I was going to go for that next point. As soon as the ref. said "Play," I attacked and drove my opponent back. He was disconcerted and in danger of going off piste when I took the point. And I took the next with similar tactics. It wasn't pretty but it was more like fencing than anything I'd done in the preceding six hours.

It couldn't last. My opponent took the next point and I was eliminated. But 15-8 seemed a respectable score. I still came last but didn't feel too bad about it.

I stayed to watch the final and applauded the victors. Then I headed home for more work.

My calf didn't seem any worse for the fencing so I was back for more after only three days. Early in the evening I found myself against a visiting 13-year-old, very highly ranked in his age group. He's a swift, elegant left-hander and much smaller than me. I watched him getting annoyed with himself as he failed to beat the club champion. He had an easier task fencing me.

We agreed to fence to 10. He took some points easily, I managed one and then he caught me from below in the ribcage. I must have advanced at speed onto his lunge. It hurt so much I cried out. The boy was devastated and apologetic. I insisted it wasn't that bad but it hurt enough to affect me for the rest of that bout (the boy won 10-2) and in the rest of my fencing that evening. I was glad I hadn't cycled and accepted a lift home. For a couple of weeks the pain didn't get better and even, on occasion, woke me at night.

It's a torn muscle, I think. I considered going to the doctor but work was too busy and, in any case, he wouldn't have been able to offer more than strong pain-killers. I fenced the following week but only against a couple of very experienced fencers who were unlikely to cause much pain. I was nervous, forcing myself to fence.

I departed early. But before I left people started to remind me, "One-hit epée next week."

"You're taking part, aren't you?" asked a coach.

"Yes," I replied.

Ouch!

I am getting old.

There's nothing exciting about that and most people reckon it's better than the alternative. However, I seem to be losing energy and enthusiasm.

There was a club message warning of less space than usual for fencing. It was the club's turn to play host to the local epée league and the beginners were taking part in their first match against a nearby club. Those of us not involved had the choice of queuing for the space not taken by the four electric pistes or watching the matches.

I walked to fencing. We've been lucky with weather compared to Cumbria but I felt too tired to cycle in the rain. I shouldered my backpack and sword bag and set out. I locked the house and turned the corner. Joe the cat emerged from the hedge and bounded hopefully beside me. I scooped him up and returned home. It's very hard to carry a cat as well as fencing kit but somehow I managed to lock him in. He wasn't pleased. Perhaps he'd overheard me talking about the mouse we saw the other week.

As I walked, I wondered whether I'd bother with the club championship this year. I may have been fencing a little better lately - with more desire to win - but the club championship is going to be a succession of defeats and I'm no longer sure I'll enjoy or learn from them. Besides, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm tired. d'Artagnan and Cyrano would have seen it differently but I've just started to read Les Miserables.

I determined to banish my autumnal gloom and, once in the leisure centre, started watching the first epée match. I arrived half way through and it wasn't going well. I joined the small group of spectators who clapped and called "good hit" encouragingly. I enjoyed watching the speed, accuracy and skill of the visiting fencers but could see that our team, while not doing badly, was not going to win. Every so often one of our fencers would win a few points in a row but the visiting fencers were far ahead and their progress was inexorable. They are top of the league and have won every match so far.

Before the second match, I managed some steam epée (not very well) but then returned to watch. The second team of opponents seemed less threatening, perhaps because of their youth and unconventional dress. One wore tracksuit bottom over his breeches while another wore jeans. Our team looked more cheerful - until the fencer in jeans gained a hit with a spectacular fleche. "That was a very fast fleche," someone said. Our team stayed ahead throughout but it never seemed easy. It looks as though the team will maintain its position at about the middle of the league.

Finally, as the visiting fencers packed their kit away, I had a chance to fence on the electric piste. I was uncomfortably aware of better fencers from another club watching curiously but I wanted to get in as much fencing as I could. My opponent had been away from fencing for a couple of months but he knew how to beat me. The few hits I landed tended to be doubles. I determined to try harder.

Suddenly I felt a pain in my left calf - not severe but more like a mild cramp. I tried to move forward with bent legs and it hurt more. I attempted another point. Then I stopped. I couldn't take up a fencing stance easily. Suddenly I was worried it would get worse. I ended the bout and walked away, hoping the sensation would vanish. It didn't. It was fine when I sat or stood but my calf ached when I moved.

I was glad I hadn't cycled - it meant I could accept a lift home.

Perhaps my calf will feel better tomorrow. Perhaps I'll fence in the club championship. I don't know.

neat hands

Like most fencers, I admire good qualities and skills that I lack. There are plenty of those. For instance, almost all fencers are faster and more accurate than me. I can usually beat beginners. Occasionally a better fencer will have an off day and I'm learning to take advantage. But that's about it. And my age is against me.

Still, there are fencers it is a pleasure to watch and fight. I like fencers who evidently enjoy the bout. Every so often I'll fence someone who is skilled at fencing but doesn't seem to enjoy it - or whose only interest is how many points he (it's usually a he) can score. I understand fencing to win. Even I want to win. But I can't understand people for whom their own progess on a score board is their only pleasure.

I fence because I love it and I enjoy people who share my delight in swordplay and the fun of it all. They often fell in love with fencing through watching the old, swashbuckling movies and enjoying the swordplay. Some even read forgotten authors like Stanley J. Weyman.

Happy fencers come alive with sword in hand. Their eyes glow and they laugh with pleasure at good hits or amusing errors. While TV audiences thrill to Strictly Come Dancing, I just know that Strictly Come Fencing would be ten times as much fun - so long as the fencers enjoyed it. (But there isn't going to be much fencing on TV. It sounds as thought British fencing has just lost all its support in the run up to the 2012 Olympics.)

Some fencers win through strength as well as speed. The Historian (who the chef calls, approvingly, the Curmudgeon) is like that. Lately he's been suffering from epeeist's elbow (as tennis elbow has been renamed) so he can't take control of my blade so convincingly. The Doc is neat and subtle. He's a great admirer of neat hands and deft parries.

One of the newer fencers is skilled in both. At the club championship I found myself in the same poule as her and another young fencer. She was the nervous one, worried that she would make a fool of herself, so I reassured her, telling her she could look for hits one at a time and not worry about the outcome of the bout. She didn't tell me she was a left-hander and I didn't realise, until I saw her fence, that she was a quick learner with a good eye and neat hands. She won her first bout, against another intermnediate, 5-0 and began to relax. I managed three hits to her five. Then she beat her coach 5-1 and her poule fight against the club's best sabreuse ended with a 4-3 to the sabreuse, thanks to a hit just before the call of "time." She was beaten easily by the best fencer in the poule but went into the D.E. ranked eighth out of eighteen - quite a feat for a 16-year-old who started fencing only last year. As for me, I was knocked out easily by one of the club's best fencers (I think the score was 15-1) and finished fourteenth overall - the highest I've ever finished. (Thank you, newish fencers, for joining in - you'll all be beating me this time next year.)

I think I am improving a little but I didn't do well in the epee poules. Fortunately the D.E. saw me fencing a veteran epeeist (who prefers sabre and rarely fences epee on her visit). She's a few years older than me but not easy competition - she fences internationally as a veteran and sometimes brings home medals. I was pleased that the final score - in her favour - was 15-10. I enjoyed the bout.

Last night was devoted to sabre (I know that fleches aren't allowed in sabre any more, but couldn't resist the picture.) A visiting team took on some of our sabreurs in a team competition. Our club was victorious - we have a number of excellent sabreurs - but it looked like a good match. There weren't many epeeists but we took turns on a spare piste, pausing from time to time to watch the excitement.

When the match was over, members of the visiting team joined in casual fencing. It was good to see one stripping off his lame and taking an epee in hand. He approached us and asked if he could join in.

He was a young Frenchman, spending a few months in England between school and university. Without thinking, I replied to him in French and found myself scraping around for words - it's too long since I've had to speak French. He fenced us all, although only the Doc was a good match for him. Learning my age and relatively recent involvement in fencing, he set out to encourage me, letting me win subtly, encouraging me to attack and enjoy the bout, I don't always like it when I'm allowed to win but he was so encouraging and so polite that I was charmed. However, I didn't accept his invitation to fleche him.

Fencing in French felt special. The young fencer didn't resemble d'Artagnan and was far too youthful and enthusiastic for the cynical Gil de Berault but the language was right. Besides, as the Doc pointed out, the young Frenchman had excellent parries and ever such neat hands.




Note: I've been absent from the blogosphere for a while. I've been busy with work and other matters. I'll try to find time to blog more often.