Barefoot fencing?

"You've lost it already," a fellow fencer said sternly.

She was right. I'd begun the bout - against a keen, 13-year-old left-hander - with an apology for being such a lousy opponent. I expect I'd have lost anyway but that is no way to start.

There were two new epéeists: the boy and an army pentathlete. I didn't get to fence the pentathlete. She reckoned epee was one of her lesser skills and found the boy, who's been fencing epée for three years, a difficult opponent. Most of the usual epéeists were absent. I left fairly early since I seemed to have the beginnings of a cold. "See you next week," I called.

I made resolutions. I would fence to win next week. And I would get my trainers repaired.

I like my current trainers. They're white with pale blue trimmings, which seems a decent colour scheme. More importantly, they're comfortable and I feel as though I move slightly faster down the piste when wearing them. But in the last couple of weeks I've noticed that they aren't exactly safe as the tips of the soles, by my toes, are coming adrift. I thought of using superglue but decided on a trip to the local cobbler instead.

But my week was taken over by illness - just a virus - and the impossibility of taking time off. Any time at home was spent slowly doing a few urgent household tasks (washing up, putting the bin out) and sleeping restlessly. I was even working on Saturday. I didn't get to the cobbler till the morning before fencing. ( "You can't fence," my Dad said on the phone. "You need to stay home." I croaked agreement but secretly thought I might be better.)

In the end, the cobbler decided it. He wasn't there. The young man who took my trainers explained politely that they couldn't be ready till the following morning.

I thought briefly of fencing in old trainers - or barefoot - and dismissed the idea. I needed to get better. I stayed home and cooked curry instead.



It hasn't been a week entirely without fencing. I found the Royal Shakespeare Company's 1985 production of Cyrano de Bergerac on youtube. I remember watching the production from my cheap seat and thinking nothing could be better. The verse translation by Anthony Burgess seems as light as the French original. Watching on youtube doesn't have the glamour and excitement of the Barbican Theatre but it's as close as I can get to this past pleasure.

epee classes

After swimming, I looked forward to fencing and the new, fitter me. I made up my mind. I would swim every weekend and join the beginners' epee course for regular coaching. Sadly the Saturday-morning fencing has ended for now and is moving further away. I may be able to get a lift occasionally but not every week. So the best I can do is fencing once a week plus swimming and a lot of running up and downstairs at work.

That was the theory, anyway. It's been complicated lately.

I had to plan carefully. For four weeks in a row, fencing day is the busiest of my working week. I have to get up as soon after 5 as I can to drink coffee, eat breakfast, make my packed lunch and get ready. I move slowly in the early morning. I leave before daylight and return long after dark. But it seemed just possible that, if I caught the right train, I could get changed quickly and cycle to fencing. I'd just be a little late. I tried not to think too much about the following morning, when I'd be up at 5.00 again.

The first week was tricky. There was an event at work that I probably should have attended. But not only did I want to fence, I also didn't think I could face a working day lasting more than 12 hours with a minimal chance of a break. I decided not to go. Instead I would rush home, rush out and stab people.

It didn't work like that.

The train arrived in the station on time and I caught it. It departed only five minutes late. Then, ten minutes into the journey, it halted, vast fields of dark on either side. It was some time before any announcement. Then we were told that there had been a "fatality on the line" and the pause turned into a long wait.

Eventually the train took a detour and deposited us all at the town that was its ultimate destination. Unfortunately it had bypassed my stop. The train staff said there would be a bus. The station staff said they didn't know anything about that but that there might be a train. There were quite a few of us on the platform, not wanting to complain about minor inconvenience when we knew others must be struck by grief, but still wanting to get home.

The trains started running again sooner than we'd feared but my 25-minute journey had taken two hours. It was too late for fencing.

I joined the epee class the following week. It wasn't full of beginners but included a couple of people who regularly beat me on the epee piste. Like me, they wanted more coaching - and going back to basics is a good way to begin.

By this time my plans for fitness were beginning to unravel. My laptop was playing up and I started carrying it everywhere with me, hoping someone could solve the problem. The extra weight tired me and I began taking the lift at work. I didn't blog either. The invasion of malware made me uneasy and it was almost a week till I was given useful advice about the free version of malware bytes (and how to open the computer in safe mode to download it). What with the tiredness, I didn't have much to inspire a blogpost either.

Then my daughter came home for the weekend. Most of her time was spent seeing friends, of course, and I missed Meeting to see her off. I didn't go swimming either. And, as my computer slowly convalesced, I began to feel bad about the gap in blogposts. I started a couple of posts but whenever I started the phone would ring or I'd be overcome by tiredness.

But I'm back now. And I managed to fence again last week - just for the epee class as I was too tired to do more. Yet I managed a series of accurate hits and reasonable counter-attacks. I may have been the slowest there - and was certainly the most exhausted - but I managed a little fencing at the end of a long day. And that was some sort of achievement. (And I got into work by 8.15 the following morning, despite snow and ice and blocked roads and railway lines. But that's another story.) .

the apprentice and the Cardinal's men

The chef blamed it all on Surallan, a sinister character who stalks through The Apprentice making bad decisions. Worst of these, in the chef's eyes, was his decision to fire Lucinda, who had good taste in shoes.

In my opinion, Surallan's worst decision was to appear on TV on fencing nights, luring epeeists away from the piste and into comfortable armchairs.

The chef was torn. She wanted to fence but she also wanted to see the last episode of The Apprentice. She seemed to think it her duty to criticise Surallan's choice while drinking gin with a friend. She's finding it hard to make fencing at the moment. Next week she will be indulging in academic frivolities instead of serious swordplay.

Through Facebook, we arranged to arrive early and start fencing straight away, although the chef had second thoughts as we stood, epees in hand, occupying the space that could become a piste. "But people will watch us," she said. I hadn't thought her so self-conscious.

We waited a few minutes until a few other fencers had begun. The beginners were warming up by running round in circles. No electric pistes were ready. The chef and I fenced steam for a while. The chef suggested I could make a buzzing noise whenever one of us landed a hit, but I declined. I wasn't sure how to indicate red or green and I wasn't entirely sure how well our hits were landing. Meanwhile, at the other end of our space, people who knew how fiddled with the electric boxes.

Wires and boxes have halted fencing quite often lately. The chef and I pondered over possible solutions. We could try to learn how to mend them, but that would take time and more equipment than we could muster. The obvious solution was new boxes.

Last week I attempted to find a new use for child fencers. (The chef said I should have made it clear that the small fencer didn't fix the epee, by the way - a magnetic screwdriver was required.) This time my suggestion was perhaps a little unusual. Perhaps, I suggested, we could kidnap some of the beginners and use the ransom money to buy new boxes. "But how shall we choose which ones to kidnap?" asked the chef, who prefers grown-ups to children.

I thought the easiest way would be to choose the smallest candidates as they would be most portable. The chef and I don't have a car between us and I'm not sure my bicycle basket is big enough. But the chef suggested it would be better to choose the wealthiest, because then we would need fewer. "Look at their trainers," she suggested.

We contemplated the beginners' trainers, gradually realising we didn't know how to identify expensive trainers. Fortunately at that moment the youth, who had been fiddling with a box and a wire, stood up and indicated that it was done.

When we inspected his handiwork, there was something strange about it. Two reels had been connected to one another. The youth challenged both of us to a duel, simultaneously.

At first the box refused to register hits. The chef and I fenced the youth singly. He was hitting hard and parrying my blade with such strength that I found it impossible to disengage. I managed some surprise hits, noting his habit of raising his forearm slightly, leaving a neat target if I could manage to lunge fast enough. Mostly I couldn't. But later, against the chef, I suddenly managed and accelerating lunge and found that the change of tempo took her by surprise.

Then the chef made the linked boxes work and somehow persuaded the chef and me to accept his challenge. "It will be humiliating," the chef said. I tended to agree but it was also a bit like the movies. The chef suggested a strategy. "I'll distract him with swordplay and you come in and hit him."

It didn't work. The chef and the youth fenced rapidly down the piste and I ran after them, trying to catch up. They waited for me. Then the youth hit me.

After this had happened a couple of times, I remembered the movies. The youth, with all his callow determination to win, was plainly d'Artagnan. The chef and I were the villains - the Cardinal's men. We didn't need to play by the rules. Why stop just because the youth had hit one of us or because we'd fenced him off the end of the piste.

Lawlessness was much more fun ... and made sure we got some hits in. "This is much more like real life," I said cheerfully. In real life people don't stop fencing just because a light comes on or they here a buzz.

"In real life we'd both be dead," said the chef sternly, "and there'd be blood everywhere."

"Well, allright ... it's like the movies."

Then the chef set off for her date with Surallan and the youth acknowledged that he, too, might head home to watch TV. What with the football and Surallan there were hardly any epeeists, although there were still queues for pistes.

I was about to pack up and go when a newish foilist - a left-hander who's fenced a lot elsewhere - asked if I'd like to fence steam foil. I was about to say yes when I remembered she'd mentioned an epee that she'd bought buy never used. We agreed on epee first, then foil.

I know enough about fencing to know that she was still half in epee mode - aiming for the body and exposing her forearm and elbow at times. This would have helped me if she hadn't been so fast. She didn't have the foilist's useful fault of hesitation (to establish right of way). I managed the occasional hit on her mask, leg and arm as she's not used to defending them, but, epeeist though I am, I was outclassed by a foilist.

Then we fenced foil. I think one of my hits might have been valid. She smashed me. "Half my age," I told myself. "It's OK."

It was still daylight when I cycled home. The elderflowers were in full blossom and beginning to weigh down the hedges by the cycle path. In a week or two there will be tiny purple fruit - and birds and insects.

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.

shoes, blisters and taking the blade

I was late to fencing. My train was late home, there was no lift, so I stuffed my kit into backpack and sword bad and set out to walk.

I haven't yet replaced the old trainers with holes, which finally lost all efficiency. It was wet, so sandals wouldn't do. I thought about walking boots, but for some reason could find only one. So, rather than wear the white trainers I keep for fencing, I put on my blue work shoes. After all, the heels aren't that high.

By the time I'd left the house, returned for the things I'd forgotten and set out again, I realised I was going to be late. With only a few yards covered, my feet began to hurt. I stuck out my thumb in a hopeful attempt to hitch. After all, if any driver proved dangerous I did have three swords with me.

The drivers didn't stop. They must have thought a middle-aged woman with large rucksack and three swords was most likely mad. I could see their point. I staggered on.

It's school half-term so there was plenty of space in the hall. Unfortunately some of the space was caused by the absence of epeeists. There were only two other epeeists: male, experienced fighters, taller than me and with a longer reach. I managed a few hits, possibly because they were being kind. They managed quite a few - but this week most of the hits I took were painless, which was an improvement.

I struggled quite badly in the second bout. "You have to take my blade," my opponent said helpfully. I tried in the approved manner - forte to foible. Every time I tried he still managed to control my blade, force it into a circle, take it out of the way and land a hit.

"So what do I do?" I asked. "Exercise to strengthen my wrist?" It didn't seem likely I could make my wrist that much stronger.

"Aim here," he said, helpfully, indicating his wrist just behind the guard.

"But you take my blade first," I complained. "And anyway, I'm already trying to be accurate."

"You could win on speed," he encouraged.

"But I don't do fast. I think this is as fast as I get."

My opponent smiled.

OK readers - any ideas?