Eight am, Saturday.  Fencing is first.  This puts me in a very good mood as I arrive at the elementary school gym that serves as our fencing hall.  I absolutely love fencing.  I used to do traditional Japanese martial arts but got tired of being grabbed and thrown by creepy guys in sweaty uniforms.  I liked fighting people; I just didn’t want to get too intimate with them.  Epée fencing was the perfect solution because in épée, you basically run around and try to hit your opponent with the business end of a three-foot stick.  No judges, few rules, wire mesh masks and layers of protective clothing to keep the creepy guys at bay.   

The pentathlon fencing format is one-minute, one-touch, each bout mimicking a real duel, a nod to the sport’s military beginnings.  Today, we have four divisions of women – Youth A, Junior, Senior and Master (me) – fencing together, playing two separate consecutive points against each opponent.  (This has something to do with those mysterious rules and ‘point tables.’)  Because I have no real competition, I decide to seize the opportunity to learn the format and experiment with different tactics.  In turns, I attack straight off the line, I run down the clock, I unintentionally fall backwards over my own foot, I force my opponent sideways into the scoring table.  I’m not always successful and that last thing wasn’t very nice but I’m having a blast. 

Until, in quick succession, I get two yellow cards.  The first one caught me by surprise.  I’m using my favorite épée, I’ve fenced half a dozen bouts and the referee is checking my weapon, as they do before each go.  “I have to give you a yellow card,” he says.  “What?” I say.  “You’ve lost a screw.” Then, off my glare, adds, “In your weapon.” I check.  Sure enough, one of the tiny point screws is gone.  I dig out my other épée, the one that jams my arm when I mis-hit, and blunder through another bout.  But when the referee tests it for the next one, he says “That’s another yellow.” “For what?” “It travels.” I have no more weapons so I stall for time and ideas..  “How much?” “What do you mean ‘how much’?  Who cares?  You can’t use it.” 

Desperate, I beg an épée off a guy I know from BC.  This is not easy to do when you have to admit you’ve just broken two quality weapons in like five minutes.    

The bout resumes and I hit my opponent hard.  (A habit I’m trying to break but, alas, not today.)  I’m surprised that the scoring light doesn’t come on because everyone can hear the point slamming into what I hope is her plastic chest protector because she’s a nice person in real life.  The ref calls ‘halt’ and we prepare to face off again.  But he immediately calls for another halt because the tip of my borrowed épée is now pointing toward the emergency exits rather than at my opponent.  That explains why I didn’t score.  ‘You need to fix that,’ the ref says.  I attempt to bend it back but it’s still crooked.  The ref looks dubious but lets it go and I carry on like this for a few more bouts until a different ref gets an eyeful of my zigzag weapon and says “You’re not using that here.” 

Off I go to plead for another épée.  I’m now on my fourth of the morning.  With two yellow cards to my name.  I manage to finish out the day with no further mishaps, which is good because I notice that my épée-loaning friend has packed up his remaining equipment and fled the scene. 

Along the way, a kerfuffle breaks out over a scoring decision.  Conferences are held, huddles are formed, play is suspended, the venue starts to resemble Japanese baseball.  It’s certainly hot enough in here to be Okinawa in August.  Then someone notices we’re starting to encroach on the one hour of time set aside for the swimming competition which is happening in a different part of town.  We are told that we’ll have to go swimming now, then return to the fencing hall to finish up afterward.  This idea proves wildly unpopular, probably because no one wants to wriggle back into their soaked-through-sweaty fencing uniforms again.  Plus, we have to be at the riding facility for the course walk immediately after the swim.  Eventually, rationality wins out and we quickly finish off our last round of bouts before hopping in our vehicles and speeding off to the pool.   

Already, I’m starting to discover what pentathlon really is: a series of elaborate costume changes and  madcap motor races, occasionally punctuated by a sporting event.