densitometry and fencing badly

My back is beginning to feel less painful - and I'm continuing to fence, although not well. I'm working on the assumption that if, once a week, I stand up and wave my epée around, I won't forget what I know about fencing. I'm not sure it's working.

I tend to arrive at the lesiure centre tired - that's not new. But when tiredness is allied to caution, it's hard to summon up the determination and concentration to land hits on my opponents. Even when the coach stands still, extends his arm and asks me to hit it, I have a tendency to miss. Last week he began, thoughtfully, to move his arm into the path of my blade to ensure I hit the target occasionally. I didn't find it very encouraging - I think I used to be better than that.

Meanwhile, I was referred to the more distant hospital in town for a bone densitometry scan. The staff were helpful and I didn't have to wait. However, once I'd clambered into my hospital gown and dressing gown, the process of weighing and measuring began. I seem to be more than an inch shorter, presumably as a result of the compression fracture. I had noticed that my skirts and coats seemed a little longer than before - but I hate the thought that I'm shrinking.

Then came the various scans where I lay on a couch in odd positions while the scanner moved up and down. I was reminded of trips to the shoe-shop when I was young, It was a great treat to see my footbones in the x-ray measuring machine. I couldn't interpret the scans as they appeared on the technician's computer but it was reassuring to see that, at least, none of my vertebrae had fallen out. Sometimes I feel they are on the point of detaching themselves from my spine but they all look fairly secure, so far as I can tell.

Perhaps that will give me the courage I need at fencing. A good night's sleep would help too. And I wouldn't mind finding a way to get that missing inch back - but I'm not sure that fencing in high heels is the best idea.

Meanwhile I'm glad to report that members of the club have scored a number of successes (and trophies) in tournaments - mostly in sabre, unfortunately. Perhaps some will see the light and switch to epée, even if it's just for a couple of bouts a week.

killer heels and the victory of ice

It's March tomorrow and the chef (still in Paris) reminds me that I haven't added to this blog all year. I blame the snow, the ice, demands of work and myself. England never expects real weather - that's why it's so often a subject of conversation.

But there was snow before Christmas, snow after Christmas, more snow, then more snow, and yet more snow may be on the way. I like snow but the cold and ice were wearing. I began to wish I hadn't put off the extravagance of double glazing and loft insulation, just because I had other bills to pay.

I was glad to be offered a lift to the fencing club dinner, especially since I wasn't sure about walking more than a few yards in my new (to me) shoes. The rules for the dinner said "cocktail dresses or dinner jackets." I possess neither. However one of the local charity shops had a dress that would do and I was glad to think of profits reaching the British Heart Foundation. The problem of matching shoes remained - until I remembered the elegant shoes my daughter bought on eBay which she'd attempted to sell me when she discovered they didn't fit. I decided to teeter elegantly - but the shoes didn't seem quite right for snow on ice.

Emerging tentatively from the car, I found the shoes more efficient than I'd expected. The sharp heels stabbed through the ice and I seemed surprisingly more secure than in the walking boots I'd been using for daytime excursions. Even at the end of the meal, after a glass or three of wine, I had few problems in crossing the icy pavement.

The following week, I left the house a little late on my way to work. I'd glanced out of the window on snowless roads and pavements but wore my walking boots just in case. Sturdy shoes are a wise precaution in these days. I took a few steps outdoors then slid, heavily, on my behind. A pain darted from my spine across my waist. The postman saw - or heard my scream - and came to help. "It's the black ice," he told me.

I looked again. Pavements and roads were shiny with a thin, lethal layer of ice.

Somehow I got up and, despite the pain, continued on my journey. After twenty minutes of careful sliding, I attempted to cross the railway bridge. The slope defeated me. Again I needed help. A couple of passers by attempted to aid my journey. The three of us linked arms, took a step, and slid backwards downhill together. The bridge was impossible and I worked out a detour involving departure from the nearer platform.

I fenced in the evening, despite the pain. I wasn't the only fencer to have slipped on the black ice. I felt lucky - Casualty had been full and the police occupied with collisions. I went on fencing - but carefully. I found cycling tricky and took taxis. The pain didn't go away.

It took me two weeks to go to the doctor and several days after that to get to the x-ray department. When the results came through, I had to see the doctor again, though they weren't labelled urgent. I'm not quite sure of the diagnosis though it included terms like "compression fracture" and "damaged vertebra." No-one's quite sure when the damage was done - some of it might have happened in my fall from the loft a couple of years ago.

The doctor recommended "low impact exercise." "Not swimming," he said, explaining that most people bend the spine doing breaststroke and that this wouldn't be good for me. He gave me a sheet of exercises. I've tried them - they would normally be simple but just now they hurt quite as much as the original fall, so I've given up.

I asked the doctor about fencing. "It's only once a week," I said, with my most persuasive and encouraging smile. "I'm not very good at it and I don't do that much." I took his smile for assent.

He then began one of those sentences which includes the words "considering your age." They're never good news. He's referred me for further tests for osteoporosis. But he doesn't think it likely. Nor do I. I've looked at the websites and the only indication I've got is a fracture - young people have those too.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying fencing even though I'm not doing as much as usual. I don't know whether I'll still be fencing this time next year. But I hope to be there when the chef finally returns from Paris this autumn, even if her current level of fitness means I'm unlikely to beat her.

missing

My blade glided harmlessly past my opponent's forearm towards his heart. I accelerated forward - and missed. I didn't just miss his heart. I missed his chest altogether. My blade slid under his arm and stabbed the air, as if I were taking part in a peculiarly incompetent stage fight. Then he hit me without difficulty.

Luckily the evening wasn't all as bad as that, though I was still exhausted from the previous week at work. The chef said she was tired too and we took a break when the coach taking footwork practice kept us in an exhausting routine so step, lunge, reprise faster, step forward, step back, lunge, reprise faster, step back. My calves and thighs hurt after only three or four sequences. I'm still not as fit as I was before succumbing to policeman's foot and then falling from the loft.

I don't think the chef can have been all that tired because I managed only a few hits against her. She was so much faster and more accurate than me that I felt compelled to mention that I had, at least, beaten her at Scrabulous. (It doesn't happen often - I won one of three games we were playing simultaneously and she won the other two. )

The chef's lunge gets longer every week. I suspect mine has a tendency to look more like an energetic shuffle. The chef is probably helped by her energetic cycling and regular visits to the gym. She's taken up running too, which seems to involve an obstacle course of geese, gooseherds and children's tricycles as well as congratulatory admirers. She duggested I join her but it doesn't seem a very good idea. Apart from continuing pain in my heel, I'm pathetically slow. She'd probably do at least two circuits to my one - if I managed one.

I did, however, make a discovery. The chef is good at defending against hits from above, because she's one of the smaller fencers in the club. While it seems obvious that, as the taller fencer, I should be able to hit her from above, I have more success hitting from below her arm. My best hits were to her thigh as she advanced or began to lunge. (It was probably a mistake to tell her this after we had fenced.)

I managed more hits against my second opponent of the evening - a better and taller fencer. There were disasters, like missing his chest, but I also managed a decent number of arm hits. I thought he was probably letting me hit him but the chef reckoned he was tired. That made me feel better.

After two opponents the tiredness was the real victor of the evening. I wanted to leave while I could still cycle home without swerving or falling off. The chef and I left together. and I got home safely, although I did swerve from time to time. Unfortunately my plans for next week mean I'll miss the one-hit epee (again). I was sorry to realise that but pleased to find that August fencing was suggested. As I said goodbye and "see you in a fortnight," I looked forward to more chances of practice - I'm beginning to feel almost fit. Alas! - I heard a day later that the floor of the hall is to be replaced. It will be out of use for some weeks. That probably means no fencing till September.

I'll try to work on lunges, speed and accuracy - on my own. It doesn't feel quite right. Fencing isn't the same without the immediate inducement of stabbing somebody.

picking up speed

Perhaps the brief excursion to Robin Hood country did the trick, although Nottingham Castle isn't the same as when Robin fought his way up staircases and swung from chandeliers. Perhaps it was the hour or so I spent sitting in the sunshine. Perhaps I'm just recovering. Whatever it was, I noticed a change for the better.

I was late and slightly wobbly when I arrived at fencing. I wanted to do the warm-up but the exercise required partners and everyone was paired up already. I had to wait for the short footwork practice to join in, But when we had to lunge, I felt an improvement. It wasn't a deep lunge - I can't do those - but it was definitely a lunge rather than a step forward followed by a slight bend of the right knee.

When the chef and I got onto to epee piste, I was filled with energy and, for the first time since my fall from the loft, speed. I probably wasn't that fast but I felt terrific as I launched the attack. I took the first two points despite the chef's vigorous and equally speedy defence and the third was a double. After that, she began to win points. "I don't want to read on your blog that I'm easy to beat," she commented. She isn't. After that promising opening she won more points than I did. But it felt like real fencing again.

The problem with picking up speed, I discovered, was the loss of accuracy that accompanied it - not that I'd been brilliantly accurate before. Too often my point glided harmlessly above or along my opponent's arm or shoulder. I tried to deceive opponents by changing the position of my arm, so that it would be harder to gauge a constantly changing distance. The aim was to lure opponents into reach and hit before they noticed. It usually didn't work like that. They would see my exposed hand and wrist and take the hit. The chef is particularly difficult to catch out. She's smaller than me with a deep lunge. If I reach under her arm to angle upwards, she can manage a downwards hit. But reaching her arm from above is also a risk because she's smaller and lunges so well. Most of my points involved parrying her blade and hitting to the chest, or occasionally the mask, though I did achieve a couple of forearm hits and one to the thigh.

I didn't get quite as much fencing as I'd have liked - I had quite a bit of time on the piste but only two opponents. But it was good to see new fencers, including an epeeist from the university club and a good left-handed foilist (with epee in bag!) making her second visit. It's still crowded, though the number of fencers in the hall had dropped below 40 by 9.00 p.m. And I was tired and limping before the session ended. The chef watched me get on my bike with all my equipment - "for entertainment value," she said. She suggested wego on a bike ride together some time but now she's realised how slowly I cycle I expect she's changed her mind. I manage a steady pace on my sturdy mountain bike. She races ahead on her young person's bike - is there a biathlon in fencing and cycling?

Meanwhile, I'm contemplating old age. I was cheered by the story of the old people's home in Australia where the residents have taken up fencing. The oldest beginner is a retired nun in her 90s. That's the sort of old people's home I want. When I'm a frail old person, looking for somewhere to stay, I shan't accept the offer of knitting classes and community singing. "Do you offer fencing?" I shall ask. (I suppsoe I might have to compromise and exchange my epee for a foil.)

I'm still wondering if it was the visit to Nottingham Castle that did me so much good. It's a steep climb up castle rock, whether by slope or stone staircase. This may be where Robin Hood fenced the Sherrif.

lttle fencing, much conversation

Four weeks ago, I had a plan. The chef was going on holiday and this looked like an opportunity. I would practise every week, take lots of exercise, eat healthy food and then, when she returned, I would amaze her with my skill and speed. I would beat her.

I don't know if it could have worked but my plan didn't involve tumbling from the loft down a defective ladder. It certainly didn't involve two weeks off fencing. I spent much of the time sitting still, often in the kitchen, which didn't help the healthy eating idea. Fencing was one of my first excursions apart from work and the chef's tea-and-gin birthday party, at which I consumed tea, gin and a range of foods including gin-and-tonic cake with Earl Grey icing. The party was a delight but involved no exercise apart from trips to the kitchen to load plates with food. Pleasurable as it was, it did not help my fencing.

It was very hard to fit into my breeches.

I took a cab to the leisure centre, having determined to use all my energy on fencing. I joined in the warm-up, only to give up a little later. The exercise involved touching the floor while running. I don't know if it was the running or my tight breeches that left me breathless. I certainly found it hard to touch the floor. Later I tried a little footwork. I was very slow.

When the chef and I started to fence, I wondered if I would score a single hit. Perhaps her holiday had involved a fitness regime. She certainly looked slimmer and healthy. After a while I began to score some hits. Perhaps she was inhibited by her concern not to hit my injured leg. The male epeeists were talking and laughing. I wondered if my incompetence had caused their laughter.

Fortunately the chef called an end to the bout. She said she was feeling the weight of the epee. My epee seemed heavy too - I'd forgotten the way my arm aches fencing epee after a fortnight off.

The hall was crowded again - I counted 47 fencers, including beginners, so there was a lot of waiting, and this was just as well. Standing up and making conversation was taking most of my energy. The chef and I fenced once again, briefly, while foilists checked defective bodywires. And later we found a small space - less than half a piste - and persuaded an injured sabreuse to ref. as we fenced foil. Epeeists fencing foil is not a pretty sight but it cheered up the ref. - she could hardly stop laughing to describe the fencing phrase. I'm afraid we are not good at establishing right of way or hitting to the chest but the chef is convinced that, with practice, we will improve. I suppose it's worth a try.

In theory we could have fenced for three hours. In practice we talked most of the time, and I was still tired when I left, 45 minutes before the session ended. To add to my annoyance, my heel was hurting in a way it hadn't while I rested. Policeman's foot is still a problem.


Evidently I'll have to take things easy at fencing for a while. However, I have had my bike repaired. The chef cycles everywhere and perhaps this is the source of her energy and fitness. (It may also be her youth, but there's not much I can do about that.) A couple of vigorous cycle rides may improve my fitness. And if I can find a way to seal my sword bag, I may even try cycling to fencing ... thought probably not in my breeches.

where's the horse?

You know the scene. The hero has swung from the chandelier and fought his way (backwards) up a spiral staircase. Just as the villains close in, he finds a window behind him. He breaks the window, whistles, jumps and lands comfortably on his horse's back. Then he gallops off to freedom.

If you haven't seen it, watch Le Capitain, starring Jean Marais, for this precise sequence of events. The Zorro films show something similar, though Toronado has a mind of his own.

We didn't cover this in fencing class and, unfortunately, horses weren't issued as part of the kit. So I was neither practised nor prepared.

I had spent the evening going up and down the ladder to the loft (a grand name for the storage space in the roof), forgetting that I was ever scared of heights. The ladder was one of those collapsible types, which needed the extension pegged into place. I don't know quite what happened - there was only one peg and it may have broken or slipped - but suddenly I was tumbling down from the loft as the ladder collapsed beneath me.

I know I was indoors but in any decent swashbuckling movie I would have landed comfortably on my horse's back and galloped away, sword in hand. I wasn't holding my sword and no horse arrived.

I can't have fallen more than eight feet and I wasn't badly hurt. The ladder broke my fall and I ended up, shaken and bruised, on the carpeted landing. That was last night. This morning my right arm is slightly stiff and my right leg hurts.

And it's the one-hit epee tonight.

I know I hadn't expected to do well, but I had expected to get there and take part. And now I'm not sure.

I'm going to insist the coaches teach us about swinging from chandeliers. You never know when it will come in useful.


POSTSCRIPT: A friend persuaded me to see the doctor - and the doctor has banned me from fencing tonight. Apparently it could make the bruising and swelling much worse. Apart from that, I'm recommended anti-inflammatories, pain-killers, ice-packs and rest.