"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.

cycling in breeches

I blame the Gray Epee ... and the brown, high-heeled shoes.

"Why not cycle?" the Gray Epee asked, using his occasional alias of "Jim". He thought I could cycle with the chef. I wasn't sure I could cycle with the sword and I knew the chef wasn't fencing. She was taking a rest from her career as cook and swashbuckler and giving an academic paper. (It was a triumph, I later learned.)

I thought of all the excuses. There were plenty of reasons not to fence. I've never quite got the knack of cycling with a sword-bag and my front light was broken. That happened when I cycled too fast over a speed hump - and there are three in the driveway to the leisure centre.

My son took the Gray Epee's side. Of course I should cycle. I didn't have to go on a road, just a well-lit cycle track. It would be quick. I would like it.

I disagreed, though I wasn't wure how to get there. My heel was aching after rather too much walking in my best, brown, high-heeled shoes. I didn't think I could walk. (I wasn't sure I could fence.) I breathed in so that I could button and zip my breeches. It was a struggle.

And then I realised that, while I hadn't planned to cycle in breeches, they would at least be bright white on the journey home. And cycling might help in the struggle for fitness.

It's hard to get on a bike with a crossbar while carrying a sword-bag. I attempted to fling my leg over the cross-bar and hoped no-one was watching. Then I tried to balance the bag. The sword-tips wedged themselves precariously in my bicycle bag. I had to be careful. The bag isn't really meant for epees. I bought it when I bought my first foil since I thought I shouldn't carry a naked blade on the tube, in the Royal Academy or on a peace demo. Now I use the bag for two epees as well, it doesn't shut.

The cat came out to watch and offered to come with me. My son took him back into the house. Then I set out ... and the Gray Epee was right. Cycling is the way to get to fencing, especially on a Spring evening. (Spring had arrived shortly after lunch.)

Fencing with aching feet, plantar fasciitis and a still-swollen leg seemed slightly unwise. I joined in footwork practice, but the most I could manage was a shuffle. I couldn't manage more than the suggestion of a lunge and was glad no-one suggested a fleche or ballestra. Then I finished kitting up and faced my fellow epeeists.

There were only four of us fencing epee: me, the dancer, the doc and the youngster. I did not fence well. I feel almost as clumsy and slow as when I started fencing, but I kept going and managed a few hits. They may have been given away. I noticed that the dancer bounced as though his fight was choreographed by Bournonville. His bladework and footwork was elegant and fancy, which let me see the hits coming. Every so often I hit him. I mentioned this afterwards, because I was hitting him more than I should. Later it occurred to me that he may have been giving me a chance but, if so, he was polite enough not to say so. He's very good to fence.

I managed one good hit against the dancer. I slipped my blade below his guard, clipping it as I hit his wrist. He said "good hit" and I wanted to say, "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" It's one of the best hits I've ever managed and it will be a long time before I forget it - or manage another hit as good.

For the first time this year, we got hot fencing and opened the double doors to the car park. Then we got chilly and put our hoodies on.

For a lot of the time, my main aim was to keep my sword-arm up and keep fencing. I practised against the doc and the dancer twice and the youngster once. I kept going and was better than last week, which isn't a great deal. By the end, I was exhausted. And then I cycled home.

I think my opponents tried to avoid hitting my leg. My right arm is more bruised than it has been for a long time. I must sort out a co-ordinating blue and purple T-shirt.

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.

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.

preparing to lunge

It's getting better. My "policeman's foot" (or plantar fasciitis) only hurts a little, when I've been walking for half an hour or so. I can put weight on my foot when I get out of bed in the morning and I can stay on my feet for a while if it's required.

I've been careful, however. I didn't wear my highest heels to work. I stopped running up and down stairs, and limited excursions from my office. Taking my place on a peace stall at the weekend, I stayed for a mere half-hour, leaving when a fellow Quaker arrived. I'm hesitating about the peace march in two weeks' time. Perhaps I'll find a way of reaching Aldermaston on Easter Monday. Campaigning for peace can involve an awful lot of standing and walking.

At least I managed a little fencing. Walking the mile and a half to the leisure centre was painful and it was embarrassing to explain that I would fence as much as I could from a stationary position. It seemed quite an imposition. There were more than fifty fencers. The beginners remain enthusiastic while seniors were preparing for a big, local Open. I fenced a couple of epeeists who did their best to fence down to my level. I didn't do well but any fencing was an achievement.

I wanted to watch the Open this weekend but I've too much to do and I'm not sure my foot would benefit from the long bus journey and the standing. There won't be any seats for spectators.

But somehow I've got to get some exercise. I'm determined to fence properly - footwork, lunges and all - next week. My breeches are dangerously tight.



Note: The chef alerted me to a spelling mistake which I have now corrected. There is an interesting footnote on the relationship between "stationary" and "stationery" here.