dumb-bells

I hesitated over the dumb-bells.

It wasn't that they were heavy. They weren't. Only 5lbs for the two of them. Enough to begin with. I don't want to be overly muscular but felt I needed to do something to counter the flab and weakness in my arms. It was the acrobat who suggested weight-training, seconded by the chef, who has added weight-training to her schedule of exercise. I tried the chef's weights which were pleasantly heavy but compact – they seemed to be the sort of thing I wanted: neat and in a neutral shade.

I should have asked where to buy them but was embarrassed by the whole idea. I wandered into sports shops … and quickly wandered out again. The eager young people who knew their way around were fine but I didn't want to be targeted by enthusiastic shop assistant who were bound to ask what I wanted. It was too embarrassing. I didn't seem a suitable candidate for weight-training and felt sure they would snigger in private if they didn't burst out laughing hysterically at my request.

In the end I started leafing through the Argos catalogue. The range was puzzling to the point of exasperation. I had a choice: I could either leave the shop and give up or I could make an attempt to purchase the cheapest weights in the shop. Then came a further problem: the colour.

On the whole I'm not too fussy about colours. The weights weren't meant to be ornamental and, if anyone had asked me, I'd have said I didn't mind what colour they were, so long as they worked. But these were far larger than the chef's neat weights. They were shaped like dumb-bells. And they were Barbie pink.

I detest Barbie pink. It reminds me of voyages to Toys'r'us where the boys' aisle was full of camouflage gear and fake weapons while the girls' aisle glowed in a violent excess of parodic femininity. There were dolls on tiptoe whose clothes and figures made Dolly Parton look like a dowdy frump. There were sinister plastic smilers who had no existence below the neck and whose sole function was to display hairstyles of absurd elaboration. The Barbie pinkness of the aisle was so bright and commanding that I wanted to flee from the shop – but my daughter insisted on admiring femininity in its most sinister manifestations.

I tried to persuade myself that there was nothing wrong with Barbie-pink dumb-bells but twice I left the shop. But the weak flabbiness of my arms persisted. In the end, I succumbed. I wrote the catalogue number on the slip provided and handed it to the assistant.

“Dumb-bells?” she said curiously (and loudly).

I began to make excuses at once. “I think it's good,” she said. “I should get some.”

She was about twenty and seemed very trim. She must have been trying to cheer me up. I collected my dumb-bells, put them in the bicycle basket and cycled home. Then I looked on youtube for helpful, easy exercises.


I manage to exercise a little most days. I'm not sure it's making much difference but at least I'm trying. Sometimes I try to fence well too – but I don't win.

Oh well.

Fortunately the dumb-bells fit neatly in their box, which isn't pink.

fitness frolics

“No, mum,” my daughter complained. “You aren't keeping up – and why aren't you moving your arms?”

I wanted to explain that I was doing my best but that would have halted my serious effort at concentration. I tried to move in time to the music while swinging my arms in the vigorous way demanded. My daughter, evidently unaware of the great effort I was making, looked disapproving.

Looking back, the exercise DVD may have been a bad idea. It wasn't my idea. I was shopping in town when my daughter rang to urge me to buy an a DVD and mat so that she could compensate for her absence from the gym while I made an effort to regain such fitness as I had. I was relieved that the shop didn't stock the DVD she suggested - I had a suspicion it would be horribly difficult. I rang her back and offered a compromise: I would buy a DVD featuring someone I'd heard of as a keep-fit advisor – not an ex-celebrity advertising weight-loss and a fading career. (If they made Sunset Boulevard today, Norma Desmond would be recommending “swimmercise” and advising how to maintain the perfect figure by regular work-outs in the pool.)

“I'll get this Rosemary Conley one,” I told my daughter, once again on the phone. “She's an Older Person and she offers muscle toning as well as fat-burning.”

My daughter sounded doubtful. However she knew me well enough to realise it was Rosemary Conley or nothing, especially when I added the final persuasive point: “... and it's on special offer – only £5.”

There are often conversations like this when my daughter's around. She has a mission to reform me and takes on different projects from time to time, instructing me on fashion (advice on choosing the right underwear), cooking (fancy ingredients , lots of butter and no salad) and even dating (a long list of topics I shouldn't mention so as not to put off potential suitors - plainly she wants to get me off her hands). Her attempts to train me, with inducements and stern scoldings, are disconcertingly similar to her attempts to train Joe the cat. I think she's more successful with Joe, though of course she feels his shortcomings are really my fault – when she complains about his bad behaviour she often fixes me with an accusing stare (or is that maternal guilt at work?).

Fitness seemed a more hopeful area for her attention than fashion or dating. I certainly wanted to get fit. Lately I've been more active than for several months although my back still isn't entirely pain-free and I'm being cautious. I managed a walk of several miles on a visit to London and, when I stayed with my old friend Kate in Wales, I was capable of accompanying her on a lengthy tour of the National Botanic Gardens, where she works as a volunteer. We also climbed a tower with views and clambered round a ruined Welsh castle on a steep hill. Admittedly there were also intervals involving lunch and tea with cake which contributed more to the pleasure of the occasion than my overall fitness.

Meanwhile, although I'm mostly being defeated in fencing as usual, I'm managing more time on the piste and slightly more speed than earlier this year.

August fencing at our club is a particular pleasure. It's not part of the usual term so we pay a small sum for attendance to cover hall-hire. Sessions are mostly free fencing – although coaches may offer advice – and because of the holidays fewer fencers attend. The sessions I've managed have attracted between twenty and thirty with a good distribution between weapons. Most people who turn up get to fence as much as they wish although sometimes a holiday spirit infects the fencers: I particularly appreciated the spectacle of a sabreuse fencing a foilist at epée: her slashing attacks and hits to head were pleasantly piratical – at least from where I stood to observe – even though striking with her opponent's mask with the side of the blade didn't count as a valid hit. I don't think she was concerned with such technicalities.

Somehow my enjoyment of August fencing persuaded me that I needed to do more to enhance my fitness – and not just for fencing. I've found myself walking more slowly than I would like and although I can now carry much heavier bags, I discovered to my chagrin that I cannot do a single press-up. I'm sure I could do four or five a few years ago – although it's not an exercise I enjoy. The chef, returned to England after adventures in Paris and Australia, is now as toned and svelte as the greatest success in any fitness DVD. She can, it seems, do 135 press-ups in a row, followed by stomach crunches (whatever they are – they sound painful) and a run round the park. She has not, however, returned to fencing, which seems a serious mistake.

So I found myself in front of the television, bouncing hopelessly around while watching the beamingly energetic Rosemary Conley with her super-fit entourage. My daughter watched critically as I flapped my arms and stumbled over my feet in what was supposed to be a 10-minute work-out.

“You've got to try harder,” she urged, adding encouraging, “That woman there lost 6 stone.” (I hope my daughter doesn't think I need to lose six stone – that would make me dangerously thin.)

I cut out the exercises that involved twisting my back. “I don't want it to hurt,” I said. “It's supposed to hurt,” she responded. “Not like that. The physio said ….”

I thought that was the beginning of a good alibi but my daughter looked at me with suspicion. When the first ten minutes ended my daughter took over and restarted the DVD. She did three exercise sessions without pausing, showing admirable energy as she waved her arms and legs vigorously in time to the music. She seemed to know all the exercises as soon as they began, even though she hadn't seen the routines before.

“Look, Mother – that's how to do it,” she said in half-ironic tones. And then, as is the way of daughters, she announced that it was late, she was going to bed and her clothes needed washing after all that exercise – for tomorrow morning, please.

resuming normal service

Life is finally calming down – and I'm still stabbing people.

I'd like to say I'm doing so more efficiently but, if I'm improving – and it feels as though I am – other people are doing so faster. The club as a whole is having great successes: two fencers heading to the Commonwealth Games, two to the World Veterans' championship and numerous good results at regional and national level. Sadly the majority are in sabre which is still a nasty, slashy weapon.

I'm now struggling to recapture the level of fitness I had last year. My back barely hurts now – just twinges from time to time – and I can walk further and lift far more than I could even a month ago. I've yet to try a really strenuous walk and I haven't been swimming all year but I hope to put that right soon. I feel as though I'm able to move up and down the piste far faster and more energetically than in a long while.

Unfortunately I haven't been winning at all lately. The 11-year-old has acquired a new technique – he started our last bout with a couple of fleches which I couldn't resist, then let the score go up in doubles until he won. Another opponent has learnt how to score through a quick flick to the arm – I'm not fast or accurate enough to do that effectively and haven't yet found a way to counter the flicks. Every so often I manage a hit that delights me – even the occasional neat hit to the wrist. They always feel unplanned but happen just often enough for me to think that perhaps I'm acquiring a skill and an instinct to see a useful opening. But too often I fail to counter or to follow through a parry - I need to work on longer sequences of actions, if I get the chance.

Sadly the one-hit epée competition, though enjoyable, was a bit of a disaster for me. I began badly with two double defeats. The first was against a beginner who was on the electric piste for the first time. I had no idea how he would fence and hoped to take him by surprise with a quick attack, only to discover that he had exactly the same idea, so that our attacks mirrored one another. Later I annoyed myself by planning a swift attack on a young and ferocious fencer, having analysed his techniques and come to the conclusion that he always paused before fleching. But I was unsure the ref had said “play,” paused, and was duly fleched – as I deserved. I ended up with only one win out of ten and finished next to bottom. Yet the occasion didn't feel entirely disastrous - I enjoyed the fencing and felt that I'd at least planned and attempted a few worthwhile attacks. At the end I reflected that it had been a harder group to fence than usual - I was the second-oldest (the oldest is a world-class veteran who was runner up) and the only woman competing. I'd also been glad that the slightly smaller group made it possible to fence everyone in a poule unique.

Now I'm restless and full of energy, wondering how to rebuild my strength. Perhaps it's time to get my bike serviced and ride off for the day – not too far and not up any steep hills. Perhaps I'll find time for a good walk in the Peak District. Perhaps strenuous (and overdue) housework would do the trick. I'm still a little nervous, knowing how much damage a fall can do. But I'm also looking forward again.

breathe in!

It's been a long summer without fencing.

I planned to fence. Then there was something wrong with the floor in the leisure centre, which made August fencing impossible. The chef and I discussed meeting in a garden for a bout or two - not the chef's own garden, of course, because she's too self-conscious, but a garden she could borrow when friends were away. But it rained a lot and the dates didn't work out.

As the return to fencing approached, I was filled with trepidation. I'd meant to take exercise in the summer - and I had climbed over boats and walked on beaches and through cities. I'd even swum in the sea for quite some time - but it wasn't a vigorous swim and included quite a lot of floating. And the holiday, like most holidays, had included good food and alcohol.

Worrying about fitness was bad enough. I had to face an even more serious question. Could I still fit into my breeches?

I worried about it for days. Finally, the day before fencing, I knew I had to find out. It wasn't the easiest fit in the world but not too bad. I tried a small lunge. They didn't split. They felt snug and comfortable. I was suddenly confident about fencing.

So I took off my breeches and put on my skirt, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and set out for dinner. The chef, preparing for her move to France, had invited me to a feast.

towards a triathlon?

Most weeks, fencing is the only sport I do. Sometimes a friend offers me a lift to the swimming pool on Sunday, but I often say no as I'm so busy with work, housework or both. Last weekend I was fed up with work and housework so decided to take the chance.

It must have been months since I'd been to the pool. They've moved everything. Heading to the changing rooms, I hit a barrier and had to find a new route. That's going to confuse me for ages. It's the pool where I swam with the children when they still needed floats and armbands. Later I watched their swimming lessons and occasional galas there. There have been changes before - new locker-keys, for instance. But the route to the changing rooms has remained constant. I notice alterations, then forget about them. I'll probably hit the barrier again next time.

On my fourth length, my arms and legs were aching and I decided I'd had enough. By my tenth length, I felt I could go on for ever. But I stopped at 30 (750 metres) because I knew I was out of practice and wanted some energy left for the evening housework. 30 lengths is my minimum and I never do more than 40. It's not great but swimming that far - breast-stroke one way, back-stroke on my return - seems to do me some good.

I swim in the medium lane. On Sunday there were only two other swimmers in the lane - a father and small son. The father was faster than me when I did breast-stroke but had space to overtake. Every so often I paused politely at the end of the pool to let him go ahead. "I'm a bit too fast for the slow lane," I apologised and he smiled in friendly way, indicating that there was no problem.

Despite the heading, I'm not going to take up competitive swimming. I still haven't got the hang of the breathing and how to get my face wet without breathing in a lot of water. Swimming was, I told myself, a good way to get fitter for fencing.

Obviously I could aim at my own version of the modern pentathlon: epee (might get some hits), swimming (medium lane), running (for the bus), shooting (OK in fairgrounds where I sometimes win - otherwise I don't like guns) and riding (uncomfortable, not too sure about horses, but splendid opportunities for the jump from high window onto horseback, preceded by the swing from chandelier). But I've found something better.

Edinburgh University's Fencing Club offers an alternative triathlon: epee, drinking and chess. I'd like to give that a go. Come to think of it, I might be in with a chance.