winning a bout (an unusual event)

As readers of this blog will know, I don't expect to win. Occasionally I get a good hit or two but winning - except against beginners - is a pretty rare event. Of course, in my fantasies I could take on d'Artagnan or Cyrano, but in real life the clash of blades is usually followed by a point to my opponent.

Last week, however, I felt on good form. Physiotherapy and the use of a TENS machine had done wonders for the pain from my fractured vertebra. I headed to fencing feeling cheerful and unusually alert after several nights' sleep uninterrupted by pain. I'd forgotten how good that felt. Ignoring the twinges in my back from the weight of my backpack - I still can't risk cycling - I enjoyed the scent of flowers and mown grass in the light evening. Lilac blossoms stretched over the tarmac pavement and the path to the leisure centre was lined by cow parsley.

The fencing boys were away on half term but the fencer I think of as the Welshman was there. (He isn't actually Welsh.) More importantly, he was keen to fence epée. As usual, I didn't expect to win but I hoped I wouldn't too badly. Like me, the Welshman is a late starter but he's been fencing longer than I have and has entered competitions. He also takes part in other sports so is plainly more athletic.

Still, I was filled with enthusiasm, especially when I surprised myself and my opponent by scoring the first hit.

I was relaxed, which helped, and moving more freely than I have for months. This probably wasn't impressive but it gave me the confidence to think about strategy and vary my attacks. When we started to score doubles, and I was ahead, I realised that a run of doubles would be enough. But as we reached 9-8, my opponent was faster and the score went to 9-9. But somehow I'd achieved the sort of calmness I needed and went for the next hit. I scored. "10-9," said the Welshman, whipped off his mask and held out his hand.

I hadn't been sure whether we were fencing to 10 or 15 but I was certainly happy to stop with a victory at 10. Victories don't happen often.

Holding onto the epée piste, I persuaded an intermediate foilist less than half my age that he'd like to give epée a go. He has the height for it. He's fast, but he's not yet familiar enough with the weapon. His en garde was still based on foil and I even managed a wrist hit. I could also take advantage of that little pause that is characteristic of fencers used to establishing right of way. It wasn't easy to beat him 10-8 but it was easier than beating the Welshman. After we'd finished I explained about his en garde and the pause and suggested he ask one of the coaches for advice. I wonder if I'll ever beat him again.

It would be good to end this post with a victory but that isn't how the evening ended. I fenced steam against an experienced and younger foilist who has done quite enough epée to avoid the usual errors. I couldn't get to grips with her foil technique and found myself repeating errors. We weren't keeping score but it was easy enough to see that she smashed me. But I still got a few hits.

bullet-proof tyres

I forgot to take my bike to the repair shop until fencing day arrived and then the wonderful Mr PH was fully booked. He took my bike in but warned me it wouldn't be ready for two days. So I walked to fencing.

This was good for me, I decided. And as it was a warm Spring evening, I could enjoy the scent of flowers and grass which was so strong that it overcame the car-fumes from the busy road. By the time I turned into the long drive to the leisure centre and passed the water meadow, I was feeling calm, refreshed and ready to fence.

Of course, it wasn't quite as easy as that. First I had to scramble into my kit, remembering the string the body wires through my sleeve and slot the saucer-shaped breast protectors into the jacket's pouches. Then I had to find an opponent. To my surprise a teenager came up to me. We've had interesting discussions on pacifism - he favours bombing people and wants a career in the RAF while I go on demonstrations outside the local barracks. However, he wasn't looking for a discussion this time. Instead he suggested a bout at epee. We've fenced foil in the past and he's always claimed to despise the greater freedom of epee. Trying not to blink too much, I agreed and he went off to search the cupboard for one of the club's few epees.

I was waiting in the middle of the hall when another fencer came up to me and offered a coaching session. I wasn't sure whether I should accept, since I was waiting for the teenager, but I knew how much I wanted to be coached. The fencer offering to help me isn't one of the clubs coaches but he's an effective left-handed epeeist with immense patience and enthusiasm to improve the basic elements of my fencing which always need work. So I mentioned that I'd accepted the teenager's challenge and embarked on some intensive training. Then we began to work on my guard and my lunge.

It's particularly helpful to have a left-hander check my guard as against left-handers I'm much more vulnerable to attack on my right forearm. I began to work on getting my stance and the angle of my guard right. "That's it," my teacher enthused. "You need a good guard. I'm 6 foot 1 and that makes me work much harder to hit you." I didn't point out that, given his speed and accuracy, he would manage repeated hits in any case - I could see how much more effective my stance was. But every so often he would warn me, "It's drifting," and reminded me to raise my arm and look down the blade before lowering my elbow into the en garde position.

By this time the teenager had returned and was watching with interest. The lesson continued and we moved on to attacks and lunges. "You can lunge deeper than that - see how far you can reach!" I saw - it was further than I thought, even though my lunge isn't splendidly deep. We moved back and forth with me mirroring my teacher's steps until he lowered his left arm as a signal for me to hit. I was tiring a little which showed how unfit I was. But I worked on the hits. Finally we fenced to 5 - an easy win for my teacher but I managed one great hit - a circular parry followed by a neat hit to the top of his wrist. It surprised me and my teacher exploded with delight, thrilled at what I'd achieved. "That was a lovely hit," he told me. "Keep fencing like that. Be aggressive." So I tried and he won the rest of the points. But he congratulated me on my fencing. "Did you see how much better that was?" he asked. I had to acknowledge I did. "And it felt good too." He beamed as I freed myself from the ground wire.

The teenager still wanted to fence me. He asked about technique. I'm no expert but I tried to explain stance and guard, based on what I'd been practising. My tips for beginners are basic and mostly about keeping going, turning everything into an attack. But he still stood like a foilist and, for all his greater speed, which ensured he could land several good touches, I think I managed to surprise him with the number of hits I landed. As we stopped, another epeeist came over and I suggested he might show the teenager some further skills. It was a good chance to catch my breath, take a drink of water and chat to a colleague whose son is one of the intermediate foilists.

I managed one more bout and didn't do well. I remembered what my teacher had advised but only after my guard had drifted or I'd failed to secure a hit that could have been managed with a lunge. I picked up a bad bruise on my upper arm - a fair penalty for walking onto my opponent's blade. Still, it had been a good evening and I felt that my new regime of early nights and sufficient sleep was paying off. So I turned down invitations to the pub and walked home through the fragrant dark.

This morning I collected my bike. Mr PH hasn't merely replaced the inner tube. He's added a tyre lining which he assures me is also used to make bullet proof vests. So anyone who tries to shoot out my tyres is in for a shock. And I'm happily back on the roads (and cycle paths).

stabbing the ref.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" the chef asked, as we lined up for footwork practice. There wasn't really enough space. Yet again there were 40 or 50 fencers in the hall and most were lined up, trying to follow the coach's instructions without tripping over one another. Luckily it was a short practice just varying speed and length of step with the occasional lunge and recovery.

It probably wasn't wise, but I shan't feel the pain till tomorrow. My foot still hurts and the doctor did tell me to rest it. I have rested it. (When I sleep I rest it for hours at a time.) Fencing is a great deal better than not fencing. And fencing with lunging and movement is much better than standing still and trying to parry. Perhaps I say that because I'm not very good at parrying. Doubtless the practice has been good for me.

Yet again there were queues for pistes. After Easter we're to have the hall for longer which should resolve the situation. As it was, the chef and I spent most of the time fencing steam, though we took out turn on the electric piste for epeeists. For some reason, the chef insisted we do foil as well as epee, just so that we could remember how to do it. But I don't remember how to do it. I tried to recall how to parry a foil, how to get right of way, what the target area was.

The pistes seemed narrower, though perhaps my clumsiness was to blame. On the electric piste, I was too close to the sabreurs, who seemed even more exuberant than usual after their successes in the recent Open. I was trying to be exuberant too, I've worked out that if I take enough exercise, I can't feel the pain in my foot any more - and that must be a good thing, mustn't it? ("You mean it's numb," the chef said critically.) I wasnt very successful but I got some hits and at least I was moving backward and forward and managing some lunges, though they weren't very deep. I tried some tricks and actually got a couple of hits by coming en garde in the low line and then raising my blade ... until the chef worked out what I was doing and hit me on the wrist. I tried some energetic parries and a few more odd blade positions - that's when I hit the ref.

She wasn't our ref. - she was reffing the sabreurs on the next piste, and perhaps I did no more than catch the body wire which wasn't properly tucked in her breeches' back pocket. I don't know what the penalty is for stabbing the ref. - or whether a ref. on an adjacent piste can impose a penalty. It wasn't a proper bout anyway - just a knockabout.

I lost the only scored (steam) bout that I had, against one of the male epeeist. He won 15-8, which would be a good score for me if I didn't suspect that he was deliberately leaving his forearm open for me to hit. Sometimes I missed. The chef reffed and I didn't stab her, even when I wasn't sure about the point. When I reffed the short bout that followed (curtailed by closing time) I was too tired to see the blades clearly. They flashed and blurred and I wasn't sure where the hits had landed.

My foot suffered twinges and the last half-mile of the walk h ome made me wonder if I'd been wise to fence. But I don't regret it, even though there may be pain tomorrow.

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.