An Exchange

http://slithytove.org/fencing/index.htm

It is late in the 19th century and the pursuit of fencing is fully developed as both a sport and an art. In a sprawling room with high ceilings and a glossy wooden floor, men in white jackets and mesh masks practice with the foil. Above, there is a gallery for viewing which is mostly occupied by ladies. One lady descends the wide staircase, one hand trailing upon the banister. She is slender, but not overly so as to make her appear frail. Her expression is cool, unmoved by her surroundings, suggestive of a mask to much more intense emotions. At the base of the stair is an older man, wearing the uniform of the amateur fencer. He is tall, but not so tall as to be imposing and he is handsome in a roguish sort of way. His eyes are drawn to the woman descending.

Man, inclining his head courteously: My lady.

Woman, curtseying upon the bottommost stair: Sir.You fence fine. I have seen you just now.

Man: Truly? It is kind of you to say: your propriety humbles me. Do you follow fencing?

Woman, remaining detached, matter-of-fact: I admit I do not. I have come to watch my brother. He aspires to fence as fine as you I suspect. Here he comes now.

She nods toward a young man who has emerged from the dressing area, but is stopped by friends before he can cross the room.

Man: I know of him - he is a fine athlete, if my opinion is to be trusted. What of you - have you held a blade? There is a class for ladies in the mornings. If you will not think it untoward of me, I will tell you that your figure would lend itself to the piste.

Woman, not necessarily taken aback: It is rather untoward of you sir, but I will forgive you as you have steel in your hand and I do not. I myself have not held a weapon nor do I have any wish for it. I prefer the pen.

Man, intrigued: A poetess? But you must try. I daresay you will find the language of the sword as elegant as any words upon a page. Though I can admit from firsthand experience that a blade cannot wound so deeply as a woman and her pen when she tires of a gentleman's attentions. He smiles weakly

Woman: Tell me then, Sir, why I should choose the lesser weapon? Were I to try and fend off suitors with a sword, I daresay it should only encourage them.

Man, impish: You have put your finger on the very reason, my lady. No man can resist a woman who can defend her own honor. I tell you it lifts a great burden from our shoulders! Here...

He takes his foil by the blade and lays the guard across his extended forearm, offering her the hilt, as it were

She regards him silently, inscrutable, then takes the proffered weapon. She holds it at arm's length, the point towards the floor

Man, smiling: Do not be afraid of it. You hold it as if there were a snake coiled about the tip. Like this...He lifts the blade and with it, her arm. I defy you to say that the feeling of a sword in your hand is not a satisfying one.

Woman: I will not presume to say anything of the sort then. For I would not challenge such a mandate and raise your ire. You might have one of your lady friends from a morning class throw down her gauntlet at my feet. And if I am to be deserving of a challenge, I'd prefer to go straight to the source.

A quick flick of her wrist and she has the point pressed to his chest, indenting his fencing jacket.

Man, raising an eyebrow: You have deceived me lady, for you said that you have never held a weapon yet I perceive that you have.

Woman, smiling coyly: Perhaps I have sir. But I did not deceive when I stated that the pen was my weapon of choice. A word of warning that an authoress may only be trusted with dubiety for her business is making up stories.

She returns his weapon to him in the same way it was given to her

Man: Touché, my lady.

Woman: You may however trust when I say that I have enjoyed your company... But here is my brother.

She takes the arm of a younger man, who acknowledges the older man with no small degree of reverence. The pair departs.

Man, quietly, echoing: Touché.

Tourney Reflection v. 8

...So began the season of epee

...Because we qualified for Nationals in Senior Team Epee. In the interest of fair disclosure, I will admit that all teams entered in senior women's epee qualified for Nationals by simple numbers. Top four qualify and we were fourth...out of four. But three more points and we would've been 3rd. I have to admit that team competition is much more exciting than individual competition, and thereby more fun in many ways, even in the 2 matches that we lost by a rather...large margin.

But this means that from here until July, it's all epee all the time. That's a fact worth mentioning since epee has always just been a side amusement when I could not find a foil partner. Sunday was in fact the first time I have competed in epee, not counting the Salle ladder. Given this fact I was not altogether displeased by my own performance. Ignoring the sound, and expected, thrashing we received in the first match, we were more evenly matched in the second round, with another team which had only one "normal" epeeist - the balance of the team being easily coerced foilists - just like us. I won two out of my three bouts in that one, keeping our lead rather handily as long as I could. By the time I came up the third time, I could not catch up the deficit and faced the toughest opponent.

Saturday was less fun than Sunday, as we were knocked out after the first match and therefore were the only women not to qualify. However, I did perform a rather stunning balestra-lunge (if I do say so myself) and got the touch! It certainly surprised my opponent. And, being in the final bout of the match, coming in with a score of 14-41, threw all concern for propriety and what others were thinking out the window (how could anyone possibly think worse of us than they already did?). And there followed what my spouse described as the most amazing fencing he'd ever seen me do. I felt good too: light and fast and confident. And naturally, I have no idea how I can duplicate that in the future. The final score was 20-45. In an individual bout, I would've won - and against a rated fencer. That's only the second time I've ever done that. Here's where I wave a wee little flag for myself.

...Summers came and went, but the summer of 2006 was referred to as The Summer of Epee long after it was gone

Tourney Reflection v. 7

So my first impression upon walking into JMU's UREC for the tournament this past weekend was Holy crap, I so picked the wrong college. Not that I minded running along the cracked pavement of suburban Lynchburg sidewalks to get my exercise. But wouldn't it have been nice to go and play on a nifty rock wall on those rainy days instead of retreating to the dark smelly weight room in the basement of the LC gym. Oh well.

Honestly, I'd rather keep talking about the amenities of the building than talk about the competition. Out of three Salle Green women competing, we won a total of...um...zero pool bouts. But what can we say - none of us had even an inkling that we might be qualifying for Nationals and I think most of our competitors were hoping for it. So we were just beefing up the numbers to help them out. They can thank us later.

For me, four out of five pool bouts were well fought and well lost on my part. I was simply outclassed and thus hold little enmity for my opponents or for myself in this case. I hope that I will be fencing as well as certain other women in a few years. (Few years? Will I still be alive so far into the future...)

The need to put 18 fencers into a round of 32 made for a very small first round of the DE. It also pitted me against my salle-mate and frequent sparring partner. A Pyrrhic victory to say the least so I'm not really ready to check "Get to 2nd round of DE" off my to-do list yet.

The watchword is "Speed". This summer: how to get it, what to do with it when you find it.

In case lessons and practice,practice,practice are not working for you, turn to a source of real knowledge

Tourney Reflection v. 6

Well I tried to do what I had planned. Relax, be free and joyful and let the fencing roll out. Yet, it seems that it requires more than a conscious decision to override my tendency toward tension. I even let my back arm drop in hopes it would translate to more freedom of movement for the rest of my body. But I couldn't rid myself of all of it. It's not because I am nervous or scared of competition. On the contrary, I rather relish it, even when I'm losing (often). But I think it stems from want of surety of my own capabilities. I am quite concerned with executing everything properly maintaining proper form. If I weren't being watched by my coach, my husband, and several teammates, maybe I wouldn't worry about that so much. Maybe if I could distract my incessant concern with propriety by doing something else - like taking up that piste-bouncing that seems to be all the rage of kids these days. Maybe. (Insert look of skepticism here).

When my DE opponent (read: trouncer) approached me afterward with a tip for doing better next time I thought him both a scholar and a gentleman. But I wanted to lay a hand upon his arm and say, "My dear fellow: The position of my blade is but a drop in the bucket."

Again, competing served to reinforce what I already know about my deficiencies. But what was the real lesson learned yesterday?

1. I think I would compete better at night, when I am feeling a little unbridled and mad anyway - that's what I was thinking on the way home from dinner at any rate - even though I was exhausted, I felt coiled, ready to spring.
2. I need a new pre-tourney soundtrack, which I am working on as we speak. I'm thinking all Pink Floyd because it makes me feel sharp and taut all at once.
   

The really interesting thing was the conversation that ensued on the carpool up between Maitre and my spouse. Perhaps another day for that story.

I did not post my thoughts after the last tournament. It was nothing special and I did not prove myself worthy enough to write about. Many times I realize things that I need to work on. Harrisonburg only proved that sometimes we just have bad days.

Getting ready to leave for Charlottesville now. My partner tells me I must quit being so uptight and worrisome and just turn myself over to the spirit of the bout. He always has a poetic way of telling me what I'm doing wrong. But I'm going to try it anywhere. I'm just going to stop agonizing and bout like crazy....while maintaining my footwork as much as possible of course. News at 11.

Copycat!

Everyone wants to be like me: http://www.fencing.net/blogs/morehouse/

Prejudice for Pride

Thon hast learned, my little bud, that, whatever may betide, Thou canst win thyself no joy by passion or by pride. - Louisa May Alcott

In case you missed the story on your local evening news, as of the first Saturday of February, I have been fencing for one year now. Granted I don't know if a beginner's class qualifies as actual "fencing", but technicallly: one year. And I find myself wondering if there is some benchmark for this. What should I be able to accomplish now? Who should I be able to beat? Should I be rated? Oh man, I hope not.

One of my greatest fears is that one of my peers who has been fencing for less time than I will overtake me. Why? Pride of course. One thing that fencing has revealed to me is just how much pride I have and how easily it is wounded. If I had self-discipline equal to my hubris I would be practicing for six hours a day. The funny thing is I never considered myself a prideful person before I started competing. I was perfectly content to bout at the club and never even considered how much I needed to be winning. Even when the topic of competition would be raised I would demur, "Nah, competing isn't for me." Now my desire to maintain my place in the pecking order troubles my heart to and from most practices.

I ponder now if this is healthy. Perhaps. I am not competitive about anything else in my daily life so this is a nice spike in my otherwise flatlining meekness. But I am often chided by my significant other: If you're not having fun you need to stop. I retaliate that it's never fun to lose, no matter what you're doing. Besides, the good feelings by far outweigh the bad. And maybe the Type A side of my personality needed to be roused a little. Even now when I leave the salle, it's pulled the pillow back over its head and gone back to sleep by the time I get to I-95.

There's another tournament this weekend. The salle will have its largest representation ever and I can't lie: I have fretted some over how I will finish. But what would I be doing otherwise? Probably cleaning house and listening to reruns of This American Life. Fretting seems like payment enough for a healthy rush of blood.

To martyr yourself to caution
Is not going to help at all

-Pink Floyd

Sit. Stay. Parry. Riposte.

Maitre asks if I feel like I am improving. I admit that I feel like I have reached a plateau lately. He is reassuring of course and says it is hard sometimes for the fencer to notice their own improvements. It is a kind response, but not altogether convincing. I cannot seem to pull off certain moves when it comes to a bout and the basics deteriorate when I lose focus.

So where does one look for inspiration in times like these? Well to her puppy of course. Where else? She is a stubborn thing and I fear, at times, not the sharpest tool in the proverbial shed. But when she learns a new thing, she seems to learn it all at once. (Last week she learned to bark at everyone who walks by our house and isn't that grand.) Like how we worked on "Lay" repeatedly, day after day, without the faintest glimmer of understanding. And then one day, she just did it, like it was no big deal. Now she does it all the time. She just lays down and looks at me expectantly, looking for the treat that she thinks should come with such a feat.

Perhaps this is how it will be for me. I see snatches of advancement sometimes. In extended parry exchanges, I always think "indirect riposte" but the connection from the brain to the arm never seems to make it all the way through till its too late. But it happened Sunday, and I was hardly even thinking about it. And I got the point. And a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. Which is almost as good as a jerky bit.

Boy, was I in a bad mood last time. I know I'm not supposed to self-censor, but I did anyway, because it was such an immature post.

Frustration has become the name of the game since the last tournament, but tonight it is a frustration tempered by a bit of calmness and an attempt to work through my issues.

Lessons recently have been difficult. My stumbling block is long exchanges so that is what I have been practicing. I feel like it gets no easier.

A couple weeks ago I went skiing in Vermont. I'm not a very good skier either, and it had been a couple years since I had been (conditions last year in Washington were abysmal). However, by the end of two days of skiing, I was nearing that lofty plateau of confidence. There were two things I learned about skiing during this period.

1. Perseverance solves problems: That is, if you feel yourself beginning to fall, you can push your body extra hard and actually remain on your feet.
2. Falling in fresh powder doesn't hurt. It's even a little fun with the right mind set.
   

I spent many a long lift ride pondering how these lessons might apply to my fencing. Let me tell you, I didn't get far. There is one guy at my Salle whom I fight over and over, several times a week, and I cannot beat him. I cannot even get more than a couple touches on him before the bout is over. So perseverance....out the window.

And even though I don't fall too much on the piste, I do find myself losing control of a bout and it seems like the same thing. But it does hurt in fencing. It is easy to pinpoint my failings. And when you fail - and you know why you fail - and you can't fix it so you keep on failing....Well, that does hurt.

Does it mean I am giving up? Hardly, but I must find other reasons currently to remain upbeat. Comraderie? Good ol' fashioned exercise? Looking good in tight pants?

Whatever works I guess...

Tourney Reflection v. 5

One day later, slightly tipsy, so I think, rather objective. Viewing yourself in the third person; it isn't pretty, but someone has to do it.

Good grief, what is wrong with me...I won two bouts but only scored 11 points in the entire pool? Okay, usually I try to be upbeat and optimistic in these posts, but let's be honest. That's not a good record. The simple thing is to blame it on taking a week off: lovely vacation, good for the soul, bad for the tournament. My bad luck the two were scheduled so closely together. My bad luck my brain doesn't work fast enough to figure out what my opponent is doing. How to fix? Hard to say. Okay, truthfully, at the moment, a little hard to concentrate on typing. But I got points right? And that's the whole reason I went in spite of being tired and having no practice the week before. At least my coach is a diplomatic man, doesn't rub it in.

Next post, I promise to have my faculties fully reined in.
Frustration drives the conversation tonight.

Tourney Reflection v. 4

This post comes late and as such I am a bit removed now from the tourney. Perhaps this is good as it makes me more objective, but probably it is bad as it makes me more apathetic. In brief, I won 2 out of 5 bouts in the pools, which I am quite satisfied with given the size of the event and the quality of the participants. But the bouts I win are close and the ones I lose nowhere near close, which is not a good trend. The DE, to be perfectly honest, was humiliating and I really wanted to cry when it was done. I wanted to go off by myself and cry (but I didn't do either). Yeah, I'm a girl.

Several of my Salle-mates were there, not to compete, but just to watch, which was rather endearing. However, given the fact that I was the only one competing, it also made me a little self-conscious. And then I found out that one of them was taking pictures left and right. And now those pictures are spread out all over the office. I want to hang a big sign that says "THE LAME ADDS 10 POUNDS".

See, the thing is (warning: digression ahead) my shoulders are way too broad for a girl. And while this was helpful during the stage in my life when backstroke was my main focus, it does not serve me well in the fashion arena. If I'm going to buy things (like fencing jackets) I have to get them big enough to be able to move my arms. And this means they're way too big for the rest of me. And with the lame spread out over that... I've thought of having my jacket taken in, but that means I'd have to give it up for several days and then what would I do?

Back to the topic at hand, I did come away with some solid, easy to digest experience points.
-> Slow down. Three minutes is longer than it seems.
-> Land on your heel. Pictures make for damning evidence.
-> When they said be more aggressive, they didn't mean quite this aggressive.

Bullet The Blue Sky and Balestra

It doesn't seem like it should be that hard: Doing an advance-lunge, extend the arm with the back foot of the advance.

But apparently, for my impaired self, it is nearly impossible. Only a millisecond off...okay, "maybe 2 milliseconds". I like to think of myself as a multitasker, but the timing of these two tasks at once seem to have me stymied. And I am quite aware of the problem, I can feel the disconnect, I don't need someone to tell me.

It brings me back to something I have been considering lately. If I know that I am doing something incorrectly, does that make it any less of an offense? Earlier this week, I knew a circular parry was coming. I was ready for it. SO ready! And then I did it and as it was happening, I could feel how wrong it was, how wide the point had gone, how completely ridiculous it looked. I stood there, stupefied. I didn't need to be told this was wrong. Does that make it less wrong?

Probably not. But this awareness of my body and the awareness of what is and is not correct has to be some small kind of victory I think. My mind is learning quickly, even if my body cannot keep up so I will take whatever victories I can. It's rather depressing for someone who has, in the past, had a great deal of pride in the abilities of her body. It's just one more reminder of how time is advancing... like hearing The Joshua Tree on the classic rock station.

The Necessity of Competition (?)

I find myself looking at the schedule for the Virginia division and becoming aggravated - so little is scheduled for the new year, but I love the competitions. Even when I am quite soundly trounced, I'm having a rollicking good time. I bring this up casually while practicing and am reminded that tournaments are not the only way to measure one's success. Yes, I agree, silently chiding myself for this simple but overlooked truth. Two or three times a week I compete with my salle mates in honest to goodness bouts. Some of them are more tough than what I face in competition. And I know at least that anyone I fence at the salle will smile and be happy about shaking my hand at the end, no matter the results. But, the flip side is that, even if touches are hard fought, I know generally what to expect. Do I lose something by removing that element of the unknown? Can I grow fighting the same half-dozen people all the time? I don't know...that's why I put a question mark in the title.

Tourney Reflection v. 3

Or, How life does not imitate art.

Or, Lost in Translation.

In practice I feel so fluid, graceful even. I feel confident in drills. I feel like I must look good to whoever happens by. Why then, when it comes to competition, do I feel like a flailing madwoman? Why is it so hard to translate movement - executed repeatedly week after week with confidence - to a three minute bout?

I hear myself saying in one of these bouts, "Disengage, you must disengage!". But it seems near impossible. The distance between myself and my opponent is suddenly a chasm and my arm suddenly disobedient and useless. I can't disengage. He's moving too fast, too unpredictably.

I guess I would have never made it in the military. As smart as I like to think I am, I forget what I know under pressure. Parries, which at practice are tight and controlled, suddenly fly way off course. And footwork - well...

Regardless of all these realized inadequacies and great hurdles before I even reach the rank of mediocre - I was not wholly unpleased by how I did. 3 out of 5 in the pools isn't awful is it? I like to think about that, my shiny badge of slightly-above-average and leave the thoughts of the DE for a day when my pride is running a little too high.

Tourney Reflection v. 2

Reflection...how about we forget it happened?

No, it wasn't really that bad. I'm alternately competitive and self-pitying, we know that - bad mix sometimes. Okay, all the time.

Really though, normally I have a nice neat entry all prepared in my head before I sit down to write. Now - I got nothing. But I've started this thing - I might as well see it through. So, random thoughts...after three days of stewing.

~§~

The guy, the C rated fencer who ended up so well in the end. The one (okay one of the ones) that beat the pants off me. He was unusual looking, but he was so nice. So gracious at the end of the bout when he reached down to where I was cowering on the floor and smiled sincerely and shook my hand and I whimpered and squeaked, "Is it over yet?". I'm glad he placed so well.

~§~

I've always hated crowds, that should be no surprise to anyone. Usually I can only muddle through them by blending in and doing my damnedest not to be noticed. This is not possible when most of the people in the crowd are out to get you, as - you must admit - fencers are at a fencing tournament. The smaller tournament was better on my psyche but I can adjust. I've run in races which were hundreds en masse, and I wasn't even wearing protective gear.

~§~

It's nice to have your sister there because then you have someone to bring you water between bouts.

~§~

Overall, this entry has said nothing of any weight. Trust that I did actually learn some useful things. I identified a vast new array of deficiencies that need to be worked out. I saw some really great fencing. I survived - and isn't that the most important factor of all where swords are involved?

A Lady's Blade, Part 2: Nature vs. Nurture

Upon admitting my reluctance to bout with children, I have been told that these reservations are unfounded. The fact that "Well, they want to beat you" seems to be provided as carte blanche to whip the little ankle-biters into submission. And, while in a tournament you can be assured I would (do my best to) whip them all heartily, I just can't bring myself to be merciless at a practice.

I have noticed the look of frustration when they find they can gain no ground. This is especially apparent with boys who cannot bear the thought of being beat by a girl - even if she is twice his size. And so, we come to an area of great contention for madam fencer. That is that battle between herself and her foe in so many pursuits: the mothering instinct. It is a battle which isn't meant to be won, but a game of careful balancing. For me, it goes something like this:

Score a couple touches. Then, respond a little too slowly and let them land a solid attack. "Oh! You got me that time for sure." (It is not condescending, but matter-of-fact.) Another touch for me. Another for them. "Okay, here we go." Of course, I must win in the end, but I find for them a look of sincere relief when I pull off my mask: it was close all along, I assure them silently.

In the vast reaches of my experience, I have found false hope to be a faithless teacher; losses will pay for themselves in time.

Coaches aside, do men have this same sort of struggle? I suppose it depends on the man. And the child for that matter. I admit I have come across some that certainly deserved a right and proper beating. For those, the nurture trigger is dampened. Let nature take her course.

Tourney Reflection v. 1a

Last night I went to bed at 9:00. The truth is I wanted to go to bed at 8:30, but that seemed a little drastic. I was exhausted, but why? Does coming in third-to-last warrant going to bed two hours early? Could I have really expended so much effort in eight measley bouts to claim such a luxurious prize? The facts:

1) 16 fencers. 2 pools of eight, fought on double-strips. This is supposed to be harder as it gives you less time to rest between bouts. To me, I wished they had come faster. I found myself getting too cool between bouts and I never found myself working too hard physically. Mentally…I think I pulled my brain muscle.

2) One of my fears would be that there would be many small children. This was not the case. Most were high school kids, some adults around my age, and even one very elderly gentleman who beat me 5-3. However, in my defense, his arms were no less than six feet long.

3) I feel myself slowly cresting what I thought an insurmountable hill a few months ago. I can actually tell now what my opponent is doing. Yesterday I was losing two or three touches before I finally figured it out, but I did indeed figure it out. And of course, once you know what your opponent is doing, you can deftly foil his plans right? Hmm…

4) The answer to all life’s questions? Riposte. I apparently am failing miserably in life.

5) Soccer moms are not relegated to the realm of soccer. Unfortunately they have them in fencing too. Do you know how obnoxious the simple phrase, “C’mon! Disengage!” can get when it’s shouted EVERYTIME the action stops? Does this woman not realize that I have a sword and she has nothing with which to defend herself but a loud stripey shirt?

6) I did like the girl that I fought in the DE bout. She seemed like she would be nice to hang out with. We didn’t talk much but something about the way she said “Good bout” made me want to offer her half my power bar. Yeah…I really need some friends.

The verdict? I’ll call it a Pyrrhic victory. I took the first step. I went out and did the thing which I was fearing. But at what cost to my pride? Well, it was an early bed time, but I did get out of bed this morning, so I guess I will live to fight another day.

WTF?

Fencing is a sport for gentlemen and gentlewomen. There is always the saluting, the shaking of hands, the prancing about in knickers. It all lends itself to this image of fencing being the undertaking of fine and upright citizens. I tell you now that it is a very clever ruse, though I can only speak for myself. Should any poor soul happen upon the thoughts in my head while I am bouting the last thing they will be thinking is "genteel".

While in a bout, all thoughts of what is decorous or lady-like go right out the window. There is a great deal of cursing and vague threats. Every touch is punctuated by a stern but silent epithet, very often involving the letter 'f'. When fighting someone better than I (usual), I ask myself burning questions like "How the hell do I hit this guy?". If the guy happens to be way better than I, and I know I am about to lose badly, I might scream like a little girl in the world of my head.

Likely none of this should be going on in my head of course. I know I should be concentrating wholly on what I am doing, where my point is at, maintaining proper distance, etc and etc. But sometimes a well placed curse is just good for the soul. I will always shake hands afterward, and be sincere in my congratulations, in the tradition of a true gentlefolk. But also, isn't it like a true gentlefolk to quietly wish a pox upon the house of thine enemies? Yeah, I thought so.