repeating myself

It's getting hard to find anything new to say about fencing. Bearing in mind my doctor's advice about sticking to "low-impact exercise," I've been hesitant about fencing for too long on club evenings. So I'm not merely a once-a-week fencer - I'm a fencer who doesn't fence that much when I get there. I tend to fence everyone who turns up to do epée, chat a bit and go home for an early night. I probably get as much exercise from the walk there and back (three miles in total) as I do from fencing.

The only aim I can have is to maintain my fencing at its current, low level. There are worse things than this. When I stop fencing for a while, my skills deteriorate and my sword no longer sits easily in my hand. At least I still get the occasional hit. But there's not much to report on a blog.

Still, it's good to see the new beginners. And it was fun to take part in the one-hit epée (for an Easter egg trophy) last week. There was the usual mix of levels, ages, sizes and fencing styles as the epéeists were joined by foilists and sabreurs.

We began in two pools of seven but then late-comers arrived and wanted to join in. Our pool expanded to nine. As usual, most of the time was spent in wiring up, sharing equipment and testing weapons. And there were some unexpected results with two good sabreurs unable to reach the final fence-off after a couple of doubles (scored as a double defeat).

At the beginning, facing good fencers, I did what I could to defend and stay out of reach but lacked the aggression that might just have achieved a lucky hit. I began to realise this and at least managed a lengthy, attacking bout against a tall fencer who had barely fenced epée before but was on a winning streak. He not only beat me but was one of the two from the pool to qualify for the semi-final.

I noticed that an excellent young foilist who made the semi-finals last year had been unlucky in her first bouts - and it seemed to have affected her confidence. She's a dangerous left-hander who I've faced without success in one-hit and in club competitions. As I wired up to face her I could see her uncertainty. When the referee said "Play," she seemed to pause for a moment. I didn't - I charged forward, clumsily but as fast as I could, and made the hit a moment before she reacted.

For a moment I was delighted - it was my first hit after a run of defeats and not one I'd expected. But then I saw the disappointment on my opponent's face and felt sorry. I tried to say something encouraging but she plainly felt awful. She hadn't merely been beaten by a weaker fencer - I'm old enough to be her grandmother.

In the end, I managed two hits out of eight - not good but not as bad as I'd feared. I was sorry that the Easter egg went to a sabreur this year but at least there were small creme eggs for all competitors. And, whatever my doctor advises, I don't think my back is getting any worse because of the fencing.

Ouch!

I am getting old.

There's nothing exciting about that and most people reckon it's better than the alternative. However, I seem to be losing energy and enthusiasm.

There was a club message warning of less space than usual for fencing. It was the club's turn to play host to the local epée league and the beginners were taking part in their first match against a nearby club. Those of us not involved had the choice of queuing for the space not taken by the four electric pistes or watching the matches.

I walked to fencing. We've been lucky with weather compared to Cumbria but I felt too tired to cycle in the rain. I shouldered my backpack and sword bag and set out. I locked the house and turned the corner. Joe the cat emerged from the hedge and bounded hopefully beside me. I scooped him up and returned home. It's very hard to carry a cat as well as fencing kit but somehow I managed to lock him in. He wasn't pleased. Perhaps he'd overheard me talking about the mouse we saw the other week.

As I walked, I wondered whether I'd bother with the club championship this year. I may have been fencing a little better lately - with more desire to win - but the club championship is going to be a succession of defeats and I'm no longer sure I'll enjoy or learn from them. Besides, I have a lot of work to do, and I'm tired. d'Artagnan and Cyrano would have seen it differently but I've just started to read Les Miserables.

I determined to banish my autumnal gloom and, once in the leisure centre, started watching the first epée match. I arrived half way through and it wasn't going well. I joined the small group of spectators who clapped and called "good hit" encouragingly. I enjoyed watching the speed, accuracy and skill of the visiting fencers but could see that our team, while not doing badly, was not going to win. Every so often one of our fencers would win a few points in a row but the visiting fencers were far ahead and their progress was inexorable. They are top of the league and have won every match so far.

Before the second match, I managed some steam epée (not very well) but then returned to watch. The second team of opponents seemed less threatening, perhaps because of their youth and unconventional dress. One wore tracksuit bottom over his breeches while another wore jeans. Our team looked more cheerful - until the fencer in jeans gained a hit with a spectacular fleche. "That was a very fast fleche," someone said. Our team stayed ahead throughout but it never seemed easy. It looks as though the team will maintain its position at about the middle of the league.

Finally, as the visiting fencers packed their kit away, I had a chance to fence on the electric piste. I was uncomfortably aware of better fencers from another club watching curiously but I wanted to get in as much fencing as I could. My opponent had been away from fencing for a couple of months but he knew how to beat me. The few hits I landed tended to be doubles. I determined to try harder.

Suddenly I felt a pain in my left calf - not severe but more like a mild cramp. I tried to move forward with bent legs and it hurt more. I attempted another point. Then I stopped. I couldn't take up a fencing stance easily. Suddenly I was worried it would get worse. I ended the bout and walked away, hoping the sensation would vanish. It didn't. It was fine when I sat or stood but my calf ached when I moved.

I was glad I hadn't cycled - it meant I could accept a lift home.

Perhaps my calf will feel better tomorrow. Perhaps I'll fence in the club championship. I don't know.

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.

glowing in the dark

Soon there'll be tales of a new ghost haunting the water-meadows. I don't think anyone screamed. Perhaps they were mute with terror. It wasn't intended. I just went to fencing and came home when it was over.

This week, I booked a cab. My son planned to come but then he was tired and, at the last minute, his back hurt, so I got in the cab on my own. I was already in my fencing kit so that I could join the warm-up straight away.

It was only as I got ready for footwork practice that I realised: I'd forgotten my jeans.

When I'm with others, I phone for a cab if I don't have a lift. If I'm on my own I either cycle or walk. And fencing kit isn't every day walking gear.

I put it out of my mind and got on with the footwork practice. I wanted to get my lunges right. Footwork was harder than usual. The coach's instructions ,included "and when I lunge, I want you to parry quarte and riposte with a lunge". So we were moving backward and forward, trying to keep steps neat and maintain distance through shifts of speed, waiting for the cue to parry and riposte with a lunge. By the end, we were moving at speed awaiting the cue to fleche. At least I didn't fall over.

Therer weren't many epeeists but in any case I'd made a resolution to do more foil. My opponent said that at least I wasn't fencing like an epeeist but I had to keep reminding myself "small target area", "establish right of way", "parry", "no doubles". It was helpful, however, forcing me to be precise and deal (or fail to deal with) different kinds of guard. And it paid off when I moved on to epee. I was better able to plan hits - well, sometimes. On one occasion I even said to myself, "Next time I'm going for the wrist" - and I made it!

My second opponent was on top form; light, fast and accurate. Most of the hits I landed were doubles and it took me quite some while to land any at all. Between bouts I stood with other resting fencing by the open doors. The weather's warm again and everyone's first impulse after a bout was to stand in a cool breeze.

Only as I took off my jacket did I realise the impact I'd make when walking home, dressed in white shoes, socks and breeches with a black T-shirt and hoodie. My bottom half would glow in the dark. Mty top half would be invisible. I'd look like half the ghost of a fencer sliced in half by a careless or vicious sabreur.

Luckily my path lay along the road throuth the water-meadows and one young fencer's mother stopped and offered me a lift. But I'd already walked a quarter of a mile or more, with my bottom half glowing white in a black night.

I wouldn't mind a few new ghost stories.