Dalwhinnie and defeats

It was good to see the chef again and lovely to meet the acrobat at last – she's even nicer than emails and letters suggest and not at all intimidating, whatever the chef may say.

We were in a pub – the best pub in the county according to recent awards. The acrobat and I were sampling the beer while the chef, who has the misfortune to dislike beer, sipped demurely at a glass of wine. It was pub quiz night - it often is - and we hoped for an impressive victory. After all, the chef and I had won once before and had come quite close on other occasions.

We'd waited quite some time for the quiz to begin. The chef got bored with white wine and moved on to whisky, choosing a Dalwhinnie - the acrobat and I weren't familiar with the name so sampled the chef's drink. Then we decided - I don't know whose idea it was - to combine our halves of beer (we'd sampled London Pride, Bullion and Absolution) with whisky chasers. The combination was delicious but I decided it would be prudent to share a cheese board and olives as well.

The quiz didn't begin well. The pub consists of a number of small bars. We had chosen the smallest and cosiest which was also, unfortunately, the one with the defective speaker. There were nine or ten of in the bar, straining to hear the questions. As it's a friendly quiz we were happy to share our views on what the quiz-master had said with the other team in the room.

I don't think we would have done well at the quiz in any circumstances. The questions were not those we would have chosen. There was nothing, for instance, on disgust in 21st century French and German fiction; nothing on the intricacies of poetic forms and nothing on circus skills or recent Australian politics. And I'm sorry to report that there wasn't a single question on fencing. Instead the quiz-setter seemed more interested in golf, girl bands and the career of Elton John.

We did our best but the quiz did not go as planned. The chef and I failed to impress the acrobat with our erudition, even when the barman came to fix the defective speaker. We still didn't know all the answers. The combination of beer and whisky may have rendered our answers illegible. Nonetheless it was a happy, friendly evening (much better than a quiz victory) and afterwards I slept soundly if more briefly than I would have wished.

I tried to persuade the chef to return to fencing - and the acrobat joined in with her encouragement - but without success. She might have enjoyed the following evening had she come to the leisure centre. She would certainly have beaten me.

Perhaps I'm too old to combine beer and whisky in the customary way - or perhaps I should do so only when I'm sure of a good night's sleep. I had an early start the next day and a busy day at work. By the time I reached fencing I felt as though I were moving through mud.

Everyone beat me. Even if they slowed down and moved very deliberately I rarely scored more than a double hit. I think it was the whisky ... or the beer ... or both. Still, the cycle ride to and from fencing was very pleasant in the cool, dark evening.

Fencing badly

Perhaps it's because I turned down the invitation to swim and trimmed the hedge instead. Plainly an hour and a half clipping at privet with shears doesn't constitute exercise. And I didn't manage a decent cycle ride either.

But I didn't have the excuse of tiredness. I've been sticking to my resolution to have at least seven hours' sleep most nights. I run up and down the stairs at work. I hardly ever have a drink in the evening. Surely my fencing should have improved, especially after last week's coaching. But it didn't.

I dawdled along the cycle path, not because I wanted to cycle slowly but because four boys ahead of me were strung out across the path, having an animated conversation as they rode. I didn't feel inclined to overtake since it would have meant ringing my bell and demanding they get out of the way. So I dawdled in their wake.

There were three other epeeists looking for fights - all men, all younger and taller than me and two of them left-handed. They're experienced fencers too. While they always make sure I get my turn on the piste, I reckon that sometimes I'm a bit of a nuisance - however hard I work, I'm not going to reach their standard. And even as I wired up for my first fight, against the Man man, doubt and pessimism crept up on me.

The Man man wanted a quick, easy victory. He got it. As he scored hit after hit, I wilted, knowing my stance was wrong, knowing I should attack but without the will or energy to put things right. As I tried, belatedly, to correct my en garde position, I found I couldn't quite remember how to get it right. What, I wondered, was the point. I lost, 15-1.

I fenced the doc, who went easy on me, so I managed 5 hits to his 15. But I was sure he was letting me get the hits. Then I fenced my teacher from last week, who had been watching despairingly. He tried encouragement but I couldn't do it.

I wanted to slink off home. Instead, I fenced them all again, trying and failing to muster the determination that would help me improve.

I pulled up a little. My last two bouts saw me losing 15-7 (the last may have been 15-8). But I wasn't thinking strategically any more than I was fencing aggressively, speedily or accurately - and I couldn't work out how to get it right.

I cycled home, gloomily, wondering if it's worth continuing with fencing. Sometimes I enjoy it immensely. And sometimes I feel a fool for even trying to wield a sword.

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).

arrivals and parries

"An epeeist, obviously," I declared, looking at the new arrival.

"Sabre, sabre, sabre," chorussed the sabreurs.

"She'd better start with foil," a more thoughtful fencer suggested.

The new arrival didn't state her opinion. She didn't even open her eyes. At ten days, weighing just over six pounds, the future fencer slept in her father's arms. In her small pink dress and long white socks she wasn't really dressed for combad. As blades clashed in the packed hall, the new arrival was passed from fencer to fencer. Foilists and sabreurs discarded their lames so that the rough metallic surface wouldn't scratch her. Her mother, more familiar with fencers than motherhood, enjoyed the chance for conversation, I think.

It was a while before I dragged myself away to the epee class. I was enjoying the sight of so small and contented a human being. But epee called.

The usual coach was away so one of the most experienced coaches took over. He led us through a return to basics: hitting to wrist, forearm and body - first from standing, then with movement and then including a parry. My accuracy and recall wavered as I tried to include a parry to quarte before hitting the chest. How could I miss so large a target? I wondered. My blade began to glide over the forearm instead of attaching. The coach took me through it again and again until, finally, I managed to land all my hits in sequence.

There's something reassuring about getting something right, even if it's simple and even when I've had a great deal of practice. I moved on to a couple of bouts - and for once I wasn't feeling tired.

I wasn't sure I'd learnt anything in the last weeks of coaching. The problem didn't lie with the coach but with my own exhaustion - how could I have taken anything in? But I was cheered by a lucky wrist-hit, in which, without premeditation or much control, I angled my blade that it slid down to graze my opponent's guard. And I found myself moving better than for a while and - in combat - putting the new parries into practice.

My attempt at a parry in seconde wasn't graceful but it took my opponent by surprise. This gave me a chance to move my blade back up and land a chest hit. Further encouraged by my success, I began to vary my tactics. My opponent was a better and more experienced fencer than me - he'd taught me in my early days of epee when no coaches were available - but although he landed more hits than me, I was doing far better than usual. I accelerated forward with a circular parry and landed a hit. Then I started retreating to see if I could catch him as he attacked. I couldn't - at least, not the first time, but the second time I tried it the box showed a double. I tried the parry in seconde again - and again scored a hit. It was feeling good.

I was tired at the end of the evening - properly tired, with the kind of physical exhaustion that leads to a good night's sleep. As for the new arrival, she left when I did, having slept through everything.

return of the epeeists

This evening, there was a shortage of foilists. Two of the three electric pistes were taken over by sabreurs while the third was epee territory.

I felt slightly out of practice. My wrist ached more from the weight of the weapon - or perhaps that was the effect of the first few minutes in which my opponent took control of my blade pretty thoroughly, even spinning it out of my hand on one occasion. (That's the penalty for using a French grip, but I still prefer it.) But then, something happened.

I remembered a friend fencing sabre telling me of useful advice she'd had - "Don't imitate your opponent - play your own game." I realised it applied to me. I'd been imitating my opponent and it was never going to work because he was using strength I didn't have. So I risked a few tricks a coach had shown me some weeks ago - tricks which had never worked for me in the past. And when I provided an opening to invite an attack, it worked. My opponent came straight at me and I was able to catch him quickly before he could attach my blade. I was thinking much more and working out tactics. I was also staying still at times, watching for openings, or threatening one attack and changing course to do something different. I still lost more points than I won (it wasn't a proper bout) but something had clicked and I was winning points I would have lost a week or two ago. I was fencing tactically and I knew what I was doing.

Against other opponents it was harder, but I still kept my head and surprised myself with some of the hits I managed - to the wrist and forearm as well as down to the knee, despite some wobbly blade control. I'm aching now - and I've a fine supply of bruises for tomorrow - but it was one of those occasions when I felt I'd progressed. (Of course, the unofficial bout at work helped boost my confidence.)

And now I need - (if only I had time!) - to work on arm and wrist strength, speed and point control. An early night might help too.