d'Artagnan, shoes and wire-nibbling

I would have liked the d'Artagnan shoes. Mind you, "d'Artagnan, by Adidas" doesn't sound quite right.

The d'Artagnan fencing shoes aren't what he wears in the pictures. I ended up with a pair of Kappa trainers - half price in a sale. Unfortunately the rather strange logo is in the shade Kappa call "hot pink". I looked for a different colour - black, blue or red - but in my size it had to be hot pink. I don't think d'Artagnan would have been seen dead in Kappa trainers.


I'm not yet sure about them but they're ever so comfortable and a good fit. I haven't yet decided what makes good shoes for fencing - these are lighter, which makes movement easy, but I'm not sure they offer all the support for movement I'd like. I think I want shoes that will make me fast - perhaps winged boots like Hermes' would do the trick.


Anyway, I got to fencing and found myself facing that difficult opponent who takes control of my blade with such ease. After losing a couple of points, I tried to remember the advice I'd been given. "Come en garde in sixte," I muttered - and tried a beat befire parry, opposing forte to foible, sliding my blade over his guard.

I was too slow, of course. Eventually, somehow - I don't know how - I forced my way forward and landed a clear hit on his chest. We both stopped. The hit hadn't registered on the box. We switched swords for a moment - plainly mine was at fault. Problems with the blade-wire, I assume.

I was loaned a pistol grip and then, when I found that hard, a grip that should have been easier. But it didn't feel right. Just as before, I found that anything other than a French grip felt wrong.

"Shake hands with the grip," I was advised, as I tried to remember how to place my hand round the metal prongs. But it slowed me further. The simple French grip can feel like an extension of my arm - anything else is an object I carry in my hand and I have to think how to use it.

I stopped. I'd been using my second epee. My first had suffered spring problems and then lost two of the bolts and nuts for fixing the body wire. I thought perhaps someone could show me how to transfer them. A sabreuse came to my rescue, using a hairclip to unscrew the bolts from the second epee so that they could be transferred to the first. She didn't just show me how it should be done, but nibbled back the coating on the wire so that the metal thread would wind round easily. It was fiddly and I'm afraid she lost some fencing time helping me. Wire-nibbling could be misinterpreted, we decided - and evolved a fantasy: we would approach men in bars to ask, "Would you like me to nibble your wire?" "Can I nibble your wire?" could even be a slogan on T-shirts - who would admit to ignorance of such an obviously well-known practice?


With my first epee restored to health, I staggered stiffly back to the epeeists. (I'd been sitting on my legs and had slight cramp.) I managed to fence a couple more men. The wonderful first epee should have brought me luck and victory. But I was still tired. I think my opponents felt sorry for me. It took all their care, generosity and slow-motion fencing to ensure I got one or two hits.

I must find time to exercise and practise.

slightly drunk and rather bruised

I went to the pub after fencing. It's a while since I've been to the pub but one of the fencers who began when I did - and who is now rather good - is headed for that mysterious place called "down south". It was his last night at the club.

Probably I shouldn't have been fencing. I was tired and bruised from last week. I'd had less than five hours sleep and a busy, exhausting and infuriating day at work. But of course I wanted to stab someone - as many people as possible.

I was glad I turned up. For the first time, there were more women epeeists than men (well, it was only 3 to 2). One of the women had just received her first epee and showed it off. "Shiny," every fencer remarked in turn, admiring the guard. The fencer was a little reluctant to risk her new treasure in combat - it seemed possible she'd be so protective that she'd be easy to beat.

It wasn't so. She has never beaten me so thoroughly. Even concern for her shiny guard didn't stop her. She said the pistol grip felt good in her hand. I'm back to being the only club fencer who uses a French grip.

I had a great deal of strategy this evening and tried mixing my attacks to take my opponents by surprise. This might have worked had I combined this with speed and accuracy. I was hit hard and hit hard - often, unfortunately, after I'd been hit by opponents. Occasional hits worked well and it's just possible this strategy of varying moves and attacks may work better when I'm awake, alert and accurate - the year after next, perhaps.

Then, hot and exhuasted, I headed with the crowd to the pub. I don't drink much these days and this has a wonderful side effect: in the right circumstances, small amounts of alcohol make me feel very merry quite quickly. We sat outdoors - probably a good idea as fencing is a rather sweaty sport. Half way through the first half-pint, I felt a happy glow as we discussed subject ranging from good fencing tactics to tactics for taking over the badminton players' part of the hall. Dynamite in shuttlecocks was discussed, as were posters casting doubt on the sexual prowess of badminton players. We NEED their part of the hall - our club is growing. Strong tactics are vital. Of course, some fencers play badminton as well - but not usually while fencing.

Eventually the laughter and jokes came to an end. I got a lift home. The bruises still don't hurt - evidently the pint of beer I enjoyed had an anaesthetic effect. And that's good too.


Note for connoisseurs of beer: the pub didn't have my favourite real ales but a half of Kroneneberg followed by a half of Cobra - very pleasant for a summer evening.