epeeists take on the dark side

I was quite cheerful on the way to fencing. I'd spent the day working from home, so that the youthful dentist could repair my tooth. The time spent in the dentist's chair was a pleasant rest, partly because work has been so hectic lately but also because the young dentist was remarkably gentle and skilful. There wasn't even any drilling involved. She and her assistant were quick, efficient and explained calmly what they were doing. At the end I checked my bike and decided to explore the university campus.

The exploration took longer than I'd planned. I'd tethered my bike at the Arts Centre so that I could buy tickets for a forthcoming concert (Bach - totally irresistible) when the rain shifted from a grey drizzle to a crashing downpour. The obvious decision was to buy a double espresso and watch the swan and ducks on the lake - so I did.

At fencing my optimism fell away. I was short on energy - this always shows when we're asked to jog up and down on the spot as fast as we can, raising out knees high. I didn't last long.

A rather good sabreur, who looks about 15 but is apparently a university student, has decided to take a rest from sabre and spend a month doing epee. I'm not sure this should be allowed as fencers from the "dark side" (as sabre is known in our club) have a habit of being snooty about sabre.

He began by fencing the doc and I watched attentively, realising that I would probably have to fence him at some point in the evening. While the main hall at the leisure centre is still being re-floored, the lack of space has put off a number of fencers so I tend to take what opponents I can.

Specialists who suddenly switch weapons are always unnerving at first because they do unexpected things. This can be useful. For instance, a sabreur who tried to hit with the side of the blade won't score while foilists tends to waste time trying to establish right of way.

At first the student didn't seem to be making any mistakes. He had a good epee stance with an excellent en garde. His rapid attacks and ripostes meant that he was scoring point after point. Even though he bounced up and down in the characteristic way of sabreurs, I couldn't see any way of beating him. And then I noticed the way his foot beat the ground in an appel just before attacking. He was still way too fast for me but, towards the end, the doc was beginning to break through. Unfortunately it was a little late but, towards the end, the balance of play was with the doc.

After that experience, the doc was in extra good form. So was the Man man, though I'm beginning to feel slightly more confident about fencing him. I tried to put into practice some of the things I'd tried out on Saturday. Occasionally I managed to take the blade but mostly he was too fast for me.

By the time I fenced the student the optimism of Saturday had evaporated. Although I knew in theory how to fight the student, I simply wasn't fast enough. Towards the end, I managed a couple of hits. He was thrilled with the evening and suggested it showed that sabreurs could always beat epeeists. I suggested that next time we would go for their feet, because they wouldn't be expecting it. "We'd bounce out of the way," said the sabreuse. "I don't know," I said."One good, hard toe-hit with an epee - that's stop the bouncing."

The sabreurs looked at me in surprise. Perhaps it's because of my reputation for non-violence - or perhaps because they know how difficult toe-hits are and how rarely I achieve them."

"Not a good evening's fencing," I reflected. "Perhaps improvement takes more than one Saturday session."

"the way to a man's heart ..."

One of the epeeists drew attention to last week's bruises. I don't know why. They weren't particularly bad - not bad enough to bother with arnica. But three greeny-yellow patches were visible on my right arm, before I donned plastron and jacket.

My first bout, against the doc, was fine. He hasn't been for a while and his hits were a little harder than usual but he remains a precise fencer who places his epee exactly. I enjoyed fencing him. It was just a kock-about - no-one was scoring. Then, after a pause for conversation with the women fencers, the youth suggested we fence.

I've mentioned before that the youth likes hits to the mask - and these don't always work. If you're fencing epee and go for mask hits, you miss all the target areas on hand, wrist and arm. This gives your opponent, even when it's someone as slow as me, a chance to get some hits as soon as the mask-hitter's arm comes within reach, The disadvantage is that, once the mask-hit is launched, it will probably land, even if it is too late to score.

The youth went for mask-hit after mask-hit. At first I was scoring some hits - some mine alone and some doubles. But we weren't fencing a bout with a cut-off point so it didn't stop. Had we fenced to 15, I wouldn't have had to take more than 29 mask-hits, but it went beyond that. The youth's mask-hits are hard and my head was ringing and beginning to ache. I began to wonder how long I could go on.

It became a question of endurance rather than trying to land a hit. Eventually I decided I would take five more mask-hits and then, if he didn't change target, I would stop. I was thinking of the kind of damage boxers suffer. I counted down, "5, 4, 3, 2, 1 (bash, bash, bash, bash, bash)." I took off my mask and held out my hand. "Why the mask hits?" I asked. (I think I may have used more expressive language.) "I was avoiding your arm," he responded and implied I had made a fuss about being bruised. But I never make a fuss about being bruised - bruises simply became a subject for discussion, as they often are among women fencers.

I mentioned to another fencer that I reckoned I'd taken about fifty hits to the mask. He dismissed it immediately saying he would have stopped fencing long before that. But I still reckon fifty is a modest estimate.

I had a headache for the rest of the evening.

I fenced the Man man, pretty badly, and then the intermediate woman who has seen the joy of epee. That was a gentle bout which, predictably, I won but not that well.

Then, as I was standing with the other woman, a coach caught me by the waist from behind and told me to practise my lunges. It's true I haven't been lunging properly. He insisted I push off my left foot. I tried to explain about the policeman's foot - and that my heel would hurt in the morning. He didn't pay much attention and I didn't want to seem feeble. I tried to lunge. I didn't succeed very well. It was plainly time to remove my fencing kit and cycle home.

As we stripped off jackets and plastrons, I caught sight of the T-shirt worn by my female opponent. Its slogan fitted my mood perfectly. "FENCING," it said, in large letters, and, below that, "The way to a man's heart is through his ribcage."



The following morning I tottered out of bed. I couldn't put weight on my left heel. I still had a headache. A little later, I discovered I'd chipped a tooth. It may not have been caused by the mask-hits. I'm not looking forward to the dentist.

pistes or penalties?

It was Chelsea versus Manchester United in Moscow. And it was fencing night at the leisure centre. It wasn't a tough decision for me. I was feeling fit after a small excursion by bike. Besides, I'd got it all worked out. Big football matches mean low attendance at fencing so there would be lots of space on the pistes. The only question troubling me, as I approached the leisure centre, was whether there would be enough people to fence.

It was as packed as usual. "I thought everyone would be at the football," said the first person I met ... and the second, and the third. It became clear that, while the football fans had stayed home, everyone else - regular attender or not - had picked up their kit and headed to the leisure centre. We worked that out as we stood in line, waiting for a piste or just space on the floor.

At the beginning I was filled with energy - faster than usual and even, occasionally, accurate. I was very proud of hitting the chef on the leg. She is probably proud of hitting me quite a lot. In the intervals of fencing we discussed men who had annoyed us recently and wondered whether fencing would be a good way to express our feelings. The chef thought not. She reckons that too much anger and aggression damages accuracy. I can see her point but I mostly lose control of my blade because I'm tired or because my arm aches, not because I'm cross.

There wasn't much aggression in our fencing. I spent a short time being beaten (only 5-4) in foil by a very small 12-year-old boy, who I remember as a babe in arms. His target area is tiny. I persuaded another fencer to take him on, put my foil away and picked up my epee again.

Mostly I fenced the chef. My determination continued but, by the time we reached the electric piste, I was flagging. She got a few more hits than me and lots of the points were doubles.

Towards the end of the evening I had the chance to fence the doc, who has a light, accurate touch. I didn't do well. It wasn't just that he's much better than me. He's such an encouraging opponent that I sometimes do best against him. He always pauses to congratulate me on good hits. There wasn't much to congratulate this time. I could feel tiredness from the cycle-ride stealing up on me and reflected that I hadn't yet recovered my stamina since the fall. It was getting late too. I signalled that I could manage only one more point and.somehow ended with a neat hit to the forearm. I apologised to the doc for my tiredness and incompetence. "You ended on a nice hit," he said, encouragingly.

I got ready to go as fast as I could as the chef was waiting for the regular comedy of my attempt to mount the bike and cycle away while carrying three swords. (I must lend her my collection of Charlie Chaplin films.) As I was struggling out of my plastron, my phone rang. "One all," my friend reported. "They're going into extra time. If you get home quickly, you'll see the end of the match."

The match was still on when I reached home. The radio news announced that Drogba had been sent off and the teams were preparing for a penalty shoot out. I wondered if I should stand up, turn on the TV and watch. But I was too tired.