hits and misses

For two weeks the snow and ice meant I couldn't fence. After my fall on black ice last January, I've been more hesitant than ever about venturing on frozen surfaces and the compacted snow topped with a fine layer of frozen heavy frost made walking – or staggering – difficult. I certainly didn't plan a precarious bike-ride over icy roads and cycle paths. Briefly I thought of calling a taxi, which might have been fine, but I had visions of serious skids. Every so often, advice would be issued on TV and radio. It was along the lines of the World War II posters that inquired, “Is your journey really necessary?” I had to concede that my journey to fencing was not really necessary. Besides, I had a cold.

The one-hit epée contest approached. So did the club competition but, as soon as I saw the date, I knew I couldn't take part. For once I had a prior engagement. I hesitated about the one-hit epée too.

I've never done well at one-hit contests. Sometimes I get an unexpected victory. More often the best consolation I get is a run of “double defeats” when simultaneous scores count as losses rather than, as in normal epée, points for both fencers. I had never tried one-hit epée when quite so tired and out of practice.

Part of the tiredness was the chef's fault – but perhaps it would be fairer to blame the chaos on the railways. The chef and I planned to attend a poetry reading and she kindly invited me to a pre-poetry meal. There was no way I would refuse the opportunity to sample the products of the chef's culinary genius so I accepted, even though it meant I would have to leave work after a mere eight hours, instead of my usual ten or eleven. Of course, it didn't work out. Chaos on the railways – combined with lack of information – meant I had to phone the chef who kindly postponed the meal until after the poetry. So the words of the poets – including the excellent Alexander Hutchison – were followed rather than preceded by a meal which included chestnut roast, braised fennel, a creamy mash, cheese, biscuits, cake and mince pies. There was wine too – and conversation. I didn't get to bed till some time after midnight which was less than ideal when I planned to get up shortly after 5.

I think I overslept. I had to rush for the train – at least the ice had briefly melted so that it was once more safe to run – and bought a hot breakfast to eat at my desk, using plastic cutlery. It wasn't an ideal start to the day. I suppose the day itself went better than I had expected but, when I got home, I had to tell myself determinedly that I would do the one-hit epée, even if I never fenced again after that. I got ready in a state of grim resignation, slung my sword-bag over my shoulder and trudged to the leisure centre.

Usually a couple of beginners take part in the one-hit epée. This year all the competitors were reasonably experienced fencers, including a few sabreurs and a foilist. There were twelve of us – just enough to set up a poule unique. “Eleven bouts,” I thought. “If I can just win one – or even two – I'll be content.” But looking at the opposition it didn't seem likely.

No-one bothered to set up an order for fencing. We had two pistes and, when someone suggested we just fence one another, in any order, and hand our results in, we agreed that would be sensible. I watched for a while and then someone suggested I fence the boy. Once upon a time I could beat the boy but he's been training almost non-stop, competing and taking advantage of any opportunities that offer. My advantage of height and reach (and longer sword) is usually cancelled by his speedy reactions, cunning deceptions and accurate attacks.

We faced each other on the piste and moved up and down. Neither of us launched an attack. I could see that the boy's wrist was showing, just slightly, below his guard. His blade pointed toward me but, in theory, if I could hit that little patch of wrist from below, I could score a hit. It had to be a trick. We moved backwards and forwards some more. The boy's wrist was still showing. I felt as though I was moving in slow motion when I began my attack. It wasn't a deep lunge - I don't do deep lunges – but it was just sufficient to take me below the level of his blade with my point aiming to his wrist. The boy didn't seem to move. He looked startled as my hit landed and I scored the point. He couldn't have been as startled as I was. “One point,” I thought. “If I can get one more I'll be satisfied.”

My next bout was against a coach – the only competitor older than me but someone I could never dream of beating in competition. I tried to put up some resistance as our blades clashed but somehow he got past me and hit me on the back. I was sure it was a good hit but it didn't register. We continued fencing. I went for his foot, missed, and then – convinced my opponent had trouble with his blade – took the opportunity to hit the floor. This allowed him to check his blade, which definitely wasn't registering hits, and to borrow a replacement.

The uncertainty over the blade must have had an effect on the coach. I told him I reckoned it had been a good hit but of course a hit can't be allowed just because a fencer thinks it has registered. We had to start again. The coach came toward me and, as he began a lunge, my blade, almost of its own accord, went for his knee and scored a hit. I had the two hits I wanted – and now, I decided, I would quite like to score a few more.

It didn't happen quite as I would have wanted. I lost the next two bouts, both against sabreurs. One fleched me and I was cross with myself that I didn't react faster though, given his height, it probably wouldn't have helped. And while for a moment I thought I might catch the sabreuse with a quick counter-attack, her quick reactions and experience led her to victory. “That's it,” I thought. “Two hits. Not too bad.” But I caught the next sabreur on the mask, just as he launched a sabre-style attack.

That was three hits – as many as I'd ever scored in one-hit epée. Perhaps the tiredness was helping me – forcing me to rely on instinct and memory. Or perhaps the other fencers were tired too. In the end I won three more bouts, all against fencers who are much better than me and who have helped me with my fencing. I lost against the foilist, against a young epéeist and a fencer of foil and epée who I really should have beaten.

That's when the Spaniard turned up. She looked so disappointed at missing the one-hit epée that someone at once suggested that, if she wanted, she could occupy a piste and fence everyone in turn while the final bouts on the score-sheet took place on the other piste. It was her last chance to fence us – she's going back to Spain next week – and she was delighted to take up the offer.

I fenced her first. She beat me. She fenced the coach. She beat him. It was the beginning of a run in her favour. The boy, at the head of the poule sheet, determined to fence her last. He watched her overtake his total. I think she had achieved nine wins out of eleven when she fenced the boy. She picked up a small sword so that she would fence him with a weapon of the same length. It was a difficult and protracted bout, both fencing energetically and each trying to trick the other as the rest of us watched. The final hits seemed simultaneous but the light gave victory to the Spaniard, who instantly hugged the boy. He's still young enough to find hugs from a beautiful young woman embarrassing and squirmed away.

Then there were photos of the Spaniard with her trophy (the traditional chocolate Santa) and the rest of is clustered around her. Coming home, I wondered if I would ever fence again. Gloomy reflections seem appropriate to my age, the cold and the year's end. If that was the last time, it wouldn't be too bad. Six wins out of twelve is more than respectable and, given the double defeats others experienced, probably places me, for the first time ever, in the top half of the score-sheet.

fencing the air force

I wasn't sure there would be much chance of fencing this week as our club was hosting a couple of epée league matches. This can mean that all the good epéeists are tied up, leaving little chance for fencers of a lower standard to practice. However it does provide a good opportunity to watch epée so I went along.

I had a further incentive. The club president is now acting as armourer and had displayed a price list for weaponry repairs. Last week my best epée failed to register hits and was plainly in need of re-wiring.

I've watched instructions on how to rewire an epée and looked at the helpful advice on the Leon Paul website. It led to the inescapable conclusion that, even if I had all the necessary equipment, I lack the time and ability to do a good job. I was pleased to be reunited with my healthy and much-loved epée, although I suspect I was under-charged for the work.

Inspired by the reunion with my epée, I happily accepted a challenge from one of the intermediate fencers. He's a foilist really, and less experienced than me. However he was clearly the better fencer last week and I wanted to prove to myself (and him) that I could do better. Luckily I observed his habit of lifting his wrist, offering a target to my attack. I caught him on the hand twice before explaining what he was doing wrong. After that, his hand was protected but I was pleased to manage a few more hits on his arm. At least I could once more hit a moving target.

I'm still tiring easily so didn't fence for as long as I would have liked. Instead I started watching one of the epée league contests, between our club and a local university. One of the club fencers, who is a member of both, chose to fence for the university who won by two or three points in a close battle. Then my club took on the Royal Air Force.

I noticed the cold as I stood watching. There hasn't been any snow for a couple of weeks but most nights are frosty and it felt as though the frost had invaded the leisure centre. The parents sitting round the edge were hunched into scarves and warm jackets. I was surprised to be so aware of the cold, despite wearing fencing kit. I hoped I'd get another bout soon.

As a campaigning pacifist, I sometimes find myself handing out leaflets outside army bases. I've met a range of people from the armed forces in various circumstances. Usually I like them as people, and the soldiers I've met through fencing seem particularly kind and friendly. This doesn't stop me opposing their military activities and, of course, I hoped that the club would beat the RAF.

Of course, we weren't fencing the entire RAF - only their local representatives, including some who were relatively new to fencing. Still, it was good to see my club score an easy victory. As there was no-one around to fence, I watched the whole match, getting colder and colder, and some of the friendly bouts that followed.

Someone suggested I fence the woman from the RAF. I was a bit worried about this. She may have been in the losing team and less experienced but she was plainly physically fit and less than half my age. Still, it was a chance for a bout and I wouldn't get much fencing if I said no. I briefly reflected on the complex ethics of fencing against members of the armed forces, then concentrated on attaching my wire and saluting.

She was, of course, better than me. However the member of the RAF who was presided complimented me on a parry and praised my technique! I managed a couple of doubles and one neat hit and determined to keep fighting. I went for the lowest lunge I could manage and felt a muscle strain in my calf. It was a familiar sensation - the second time this year and the third time in five months. I was losing anyway so could say nothing. I limped through to the inevitable defeat and watched some more. Then I tried to fence a fellow club member. After three points I gave up.

My calf still hurts but is recovering. One fencer suggested muscles to strengthen my calf. I think I probably needed exercises to warm up but I'm not experienced enough to tell. This time no-one has started a sentence with the words, "At your age ..." - at least, not yet.

missing the moment

"It's - - - ," the coach said.

I didn't catch the word and wouldn't have understood it anyway.

"That's Polish," he explained. "In French it's 'a propos.' In English it's - something like - the moment. You have to find the moment and take it."

The coach was explaining the remise which was. he said, at the heart of epee. He'd already described epee as a real duelling weapon with such enthusiasm he warmed us all. We almost forgot that his chief loyalty was to sabre. We'd warmed up with hits to the forearm while moving, then practised taking the blade and binding in it in a counter-attack. (There's not much defence in epee. Even retreats are conducted with an arm outstretched, blade to lead ready for the slightest chance to dart forward for the hit.) But the remise is trickier. Instead of sticking close to the opponent's blade, it is, as our coach explained it, a matter of looking for the split second when an opening appears, changing the line of attack from a standing position, and going for the hit.

I couldn't get it. I was too slow. The moment was too brief - I needed closer to a minute. Finally I managed a couple of clumsy hits in a different line, well aware that the coach was in slow motion.

Worse followed. We were to attack, redouble, redouble and hit - at speed. This meant a succession of lunges - reprise after reprise - down the length of the piste. I don't achieve beautiful low lunges and I'm not fast at moving in and out of a lunge. There were four of us. Two have been fencing epee longer than I've been fencing any weapon and the third is a young, graceful, experienced foilist looking to add another weapon. They sped down the piste, moving in and out of lunges till, with the final stretch at the end of the piste, they landed their hits. Then it was my turn.

I lumbered up and down, with the shallowest lunges I dared, fearing my right knee would give way as I tried to recover.but determined, at least, to reach the end of the piste without falling over. It wasn't much of ambition but at least I stayed upright and hurled my blade roughly in the direction of my waiting coach. Not surprisingly, he hit me first.

And then the coaching session was near its end and the coach was promising more difficult tasks in the future. We ended with a quick round of one hit epee. To my surprise, I managed a single hit - on the Man man - and then it was over.

The foilist donned her lame and joined the historian on the piste. (His appearance as a foilist was startling but it's better for his injured elbow.) There was a queue for the electric pistes and the hall was still crowded. I invited the doc to a quick steam bout, assuring him it could end when the Man man secured a box. I just wanted some real fencing before going home. The bout was brief but pleasing.

Then, still tired, I left the hall. Long days at work are still exhausting me. The cold hit me as I mounted my bike. I ascribed it to the tiredness until I got home and tried to open the wheelie bin. The lid had frozen shut. The next day, it was warmer. It snowed again.

fencing, aggression and the endurance of epeeists

"Be more aggressive!"

I've been given that advice countless times - even more than "Keep your wrist up," "Don't drop your guard", "Move - faster - vary your speed," and "Lunge!" So I'm quite pleased to know that the Sunday Express, in a screaming front-page headline, wants me to be banned.

Well, the story doesn't actually mention me. It's about youths in hoodies terrorising neighbourhoods. But it calls for hoodies to be banned from shops, shopping centres, public transport, high streets and other public areas so that people can walk safely.

My fencing club has an elegant hoodie. It's black with gold lettering and logo - and I don't just wear it between bouts. I wear it when shopping and travelling - even when working. It's an easy garment to wear and much easier to wash than a cardigan or jumper. But hoodies have already been banned from one shopping centre and will probably be banned elsewhere. The danger is, apparently, that the hood can be pulled up and might even shield the face from CCTV cameras.

It's not a new problem. Fencers have worn some pretty elaborate headgear in the past. Judging from this statue of d'Artagnan (it's in Maastricht) concealing headgear and a propensity for violence go pretty well together. And, worse still, fencers have a tendency to face their opponents while masked.

I wonder how long till the Sunday Express calls for a ban on the fencing mask. Perhaps they will use their favourite phrases about a "nanny state" culture and bureaucracy gone mad and urge a return to the good old days when a duellist really risked death but could see the person who was about to kill him.

Lately I've been better at wearing a hoodie than fencing effectively. A bad cold tempted me to stay home last week, but I determined to fence anyway. A 25-minute walk - or rather limp - in heavy rain wasn't good for me, but I was more worried about my swords. At least I didn't need to rush. We now have the hall for an extra hour. There was even plenty of space and a shortage of foilists and sabreurs - some sabreurs had been persuaded to join the foilists in a friendly tournament against a neighbouring club.

I tried to take advantage of the extra space and time but it was one of those evenings when I felt the wrong size and shape for fencing. The chef is on holiday, so there was less chance for laughter. Instead the other epeeists - all men - handed out helpful advice which I couldn't follow. I felt woozy and my foot hurt. I picked up a fair number of bruises and landed few good hits.

I wasn't the only fencer who left early. The beginners, the foilists and sabreurs packed up early. I asked one of the coaches if he could give me a lift home. When we left, four epeeists remained. They had the hall to themselves and were fencing steadily. As I waved goodbye they looked as though they could continue for ever.

cats and swords

As you can see, he's a beautiful cat. I'm not sure if he's our cat yet, but if he's ours his name is Joe. He's lived with us for a week and a half. He came in quietly, as cats do, and lay down by the fire, indicating that this was his house and we were his people. There wasn't much we could do about it so we offered cat food. He's living with us now. And I think he's already had an impact on my fencing.

Last fencing night looked good. I was able to work from home so I reckoned on a leisurely stroll to to fencing - perhaps even time for some exercise at home. I should have known it wouldn't work like that.

I've told the full story elsewhere - and that's where I'll post feline follow-ups. It's enough to say that on the morning of my fencing day, I came downstairs to pools of blood - and no cat. A fox had been barking in the night but I don't know what was to blame. The cat came in briefly and left again - he may have overheard my daughter's phone-call to the vet or my call to a neighbouring sabreur who owned a cat basket. We finally got Joe to the vet in the evening. His wound opened again and he dripped blood over the vet's table.

(Note to North American readers: we Brits always call a veterinarian a "vet" - here the term has nothing to do with the military.)

A decision was made to keep Joe in overnight and operate in the morning - the only question was "Do you take credit cards?" Afterwards my son and I picked up pizzas and I wondered whether to head, late and shakily, to fencing. There was no time to walk. I rang the cab company, changed, grab my swords and backpack and headed into the cold.

The hall was warm. There must have been about 50 fencers in attendance, 20 of them beginners learning what a plastron was and how to wear a mask. I had no chance for a warm-up. Instead, I found myself telling anyone who would listen the story of the cat, and how I seemed to have a cat even though I didn't really want one. A critically ill cat seemed more than I could cope with in a world of responsibilities.

I tried to forget the cat and focus on fencing. "Let's impress the beginners," I said to a fellow epeeist. She suggested gently that we might not be very impressive. "We're rather slow," she said. I thought that the size of the swords might compensate. So for five minutes or so the beginners were treated to the sight of me being hit repreatedly - and fairly slowly - with a big sword while I went on thinking about the cat.

I might have been hit just as many times but I like to believe that, if I hadn't been thinking about the cat, I'd have put up more resistance. Eventually my blade found it's way to one or two hits - even on the arm - but it had little assistance from me.

My fencing didn't improve all evening - and an attempt at foil resulted in a run of bib hits, which aren't, I think, legal yet. Still, I was half distracted.

At the end of the evening I set out to walk home - given the vet's bill I plainly should avoid too much expenditure on taxis. It's only a mile and a half and an easy walk - or so I thought until I realised that I'd arrived in fencing clothes with no coat. It was the only day all week without rain. Instead, the night air was white with freezing fog. I gritted my teeth and strode out, shivering slightly.

At last luck and kindness were on my side. A fellow fencer - the victim of my wine the week before - pulled up beside me and offered a lift. I must have reinforced his impression of my clumsiness as, between cold and shakiness from worry, I dropped my swords on the road. But I clambered in and was soon home to discover a neighbour's cat had taken Joe's place and was fast asleep on my bed.


Note: In case you're concerned about the cat, he came through the operation and is now convalescent. He's got to go back to the vet a couple of times but he seems much happier and livelier. He's had a go at using the computer too.

Epee practice

Parts of Britain are succumbing to xenophobia at present and Eastern Europeans have become a particular target. Recently a number of Poles have arrived, mostly young people taking up jobs for a year or so. We Brits are equally entitled to move around the European community. It's a tempting idea, even at my age, but I'm not sure I'll find it so easy to get work abroad when the children have left home. My language skills don't match those of other Europeans. Halting conversational French and tourist Italian aren't good enough for an employer, though I'd be happy to work at improving them.

Perhaps I could take up Polish. That's suddenly become more feasible as a new, Polish epeeist has arrived at out club. She's young, small and slender - and very fast. She's pretty and friendly too - nobody could possibly be prejudiced against someone so open and out-going. "I'm out of practice," she told me. "I haven't fenced for ten years. And I've only done epee." She made reference to competitions and years of training. Ten years ago she was sixteen.

She was fun to fence, even though I was out-classed. I got the occasional lucky hit - probably because she was out of practice - and the worst bruises I've had in a while. I learnt very quickly which areas I was failing to defend. Her guard was excellent - her whole forearm out of sight - and her parries lightning fast. I think she's a little shocked about how infrequently the club meets - "only twice a week?" she asked, disbelieving. Of course, the keenest and best fencers join more than one club. But I think she's accpeted that I'm a once-a-week fencer. I must seem very old to her, and to many of the young fencers. And that, of course, is an advantage. I can get away with more.

I found another new opponent too - a foilist with a startling black beard and moustache. He would have looked like a model for a villain from in a child's dressing-up kit were it not for his friendly smile. He fenced like an eighteenth-century duelist, sideways on. At first I found him almost impossible to hit. Then I realised that, as he moved his sword arm, to attack me I could reach his back - not all the time, but I got three or four hits. He wasn't sure how to deal with that. Again, he's an out-of-practice fencer, which suits me fine.

It was a good evening without being a great one. I liked the mix of fencing familiar and unfamiliar opponents. There was time for conversation between bouts and knock-abouts. My son is over his virus (he gave it to his sister, who gave it to her boyfriend - and his mother) so he got some good fencing in too.

Next week it's the one-hit epee contest. The chocolate santa has already been bought as a prize - donated by the club president who remains the best bet to win it. I'm taking vitamin pills and drinking orange juice in the hope of fending off colds and flu. However low my ambitions, I want to compete. I managed three hits last time - I doubt I can do more. I probably shan't do as well. But I'll be there anyway, doing my best. If I have a few moments, I'll practise lunges, which may get me some odd looks at work.

No-one to stab ....

Summer hasn't exactly arrived. There are regular thunderstorms, torrential downpours and tales of flooding in parts of the country. However, according to institutions and travel agents, this is summer, and regular fencing has stopped.

It wouldn't be so bad if it was hot, or even warm. But I'm shivering slightly and huddled up in my club hoodie as I type this. I'd appreciate the opportunity of wearing a plastron and fencing jacket. Those white socks and knee breeches are ever so warm and the mask, once you get used to it, is pretty cosy. And there's nothing like a vigorous bout or two in cold weather.

But what I really miss is not the warmth of fencing but the activity. I want to try to break through someone's defence and make a quick, unexpected hit. I even want to marvel at my opponent's superior skill and puzzle about how to deal with a better, taller, stronger fencer. I miss group footwork practice and the games we play in warm-up. Of course, I also miss the friendship of fellow fencers. Facebook and the club website aren't much of a substitute.

I read on the website that our fencing club may move to another leisure centre - one that I'd find hard to reach by bus or train, esepcially after work. I hope that doesn't happen, though of course it might be best for the club. I've been fencing for nearly three years now. I may not be much good as a fencer but I really enjoy it. These days, it's part of who I am.