From JER:

By now, most of the competitors have left for the run/shoot combined event venue.  My navigator has taken my program with her and I have no directions to the venue.  I run back in to the barn to see if anyone has a program or knows how to get to the golf course where the event is taking place.  No luck.  I go to my navigation unit to see if the golf course is listed.  It is.  Victory!  I drive off, following the instructions on the screen. 

Navigation systems are funny things.  They tell you ‘go this way’ and sometimes the joke’s on you.  This is one of those times.  I’m so far out of bounds, I’m not sure if I’m still in Alberta.  I’m speeding down seasonal dirt and gravel roads, not a soul around, only occasional signage that doesn’t match what’s on my screen.  I drive for a long time on rutted tracks that look like they don’t see any traffic ever.   I suspect my fellow competitors are taking another route, probably a saner one.  I consider calling someone but there’s no cell service and I don’t have any phone numbers because I don’t have my program.  So I do what most people would do in this situation: I drive faster, as if getting lost at speed is somehow the better choice. 

But there it is.  Golf course ahoy!  I pull in to the parking lot and see that it’s almost time for the awards dinner, which I assume is being postponed pending the conclusion of the competition, which was supposed to have finished hours ago.  And I’m really hungry now.  So are the mosquitoes of Alberta.  They’re out in force, battalions of them, stouter and more aggressive than the flimsy West Nile vectors we have at home.  Ow!  Slap.  Slapslapslap.   I can feel a bite swelling on the side of my face. 

The ‘combined event’, as it’s called, involves rounds of shooting at five targets interspersed with laps of a 1000m running course.  Able-bodied competitors shoot three rounds and run 3000m; old folks like me shoot twice and run 2000m.  You have 70 seconds to hit all your targets (top athletes do it in 20 seconds) and if you don’t succeed, you ‘time out’ and go running.  This is good for me because I haven’t had much practice with the pistol and my shots rarely go where I want them to.  The running part doesn’t faze me at all, although in the weeks leading up to this competition, my runs at home have been increasingly directed by the local bear population.  I’ve tried different routes and varied times of day but Mama Bear and her two adorable cubs always seem to be crossing the road up ahead of me.   The number of about-faces and sudden direction changes I make must have my neighbors thinking I’m starring in my own personal Buster Keaton movie.   

I change out of my riding clothes at the starting area of the run/shoot.  At this point, I’m way too tired to care about modesty.  I set up my pistol at the assigned station, carefully lining up my pellets so I can load them quickly when I come in from running.  Then I take some practice shots.  I haven’t fired the gun in well over a month but I occasionally hit one of my five drop-down (actually they close up but that’s what they call them) targets.  There’s one that I just can’t seem to hit no matter what I do.  Frustrated, I look to my right to watch the self-described Alberta farm boy at the position next to me nail his targets in rapid succession.  Over and over again.  “Do you practice a lot?” I ask.  “Nope.  Just gophers on the farm.” He asks where I’m from and I tell him.  His next question is “Are you staying at the Russian hotel?” I like this kid a lot.  An Alberta farm boy with a sense of history and an eye for Stalinist style.  And an eye for pistol shooting.  My god, he’s good at this.   

I take a final shot at that one pesky target.  I can feel my shot is good, then the target makes a croaking sound and reluctantly starts to rise.  Woo-hoo!  But it loses enthusiasm at half-mast, stuck in the purgatory between open and closed.  Such is my fate.  The target is broken.  I tell the shooting guy and he says “You have to change stations.  Quick, you’re about to start.” So much for careful preparation.  I sweep up my pellets, plonk my gun down at the new spot, pin a different number on and hurry to the starting line.   

My first shooting round starts better than expected.  I hit my first two targets with my first two shots.  Unbelievable.  Then I time out when I fail to locate the remaining three.  I put my gun down on the table and scamper off along the track, hoping I don’t get lost.  (I’d asked for a course map to carry with me but only got laughed at, with everyone saying how ‘obvious’ it was.  Those people don’t know me well.)  I run up and down hills, into and out of the woods, and 1000m turns out to be a lot shorter than I expected.  

Back at the dreaded shooting station, I’m fumbling with my weapon when I hear my timer saying something to me.  I turn around with the gun in my hand.  “What?” I quickly turn back, remembering that it’s never a good idea to point a gun at someone.  She says something about the gun and the table but I’m not sure what.  There’s too much shooting going on around me.  Once again, I hit my first two targets quickly.  Then a third.  But that’s all. 

As I set out on my final lap of the run, I realize I’m almost done with this pentathlon thing.  After twelve hours of changing clothes, driving all over Red Deer, waiting around and not eating, all that stands between me and my goal is 1000m of running.  And you know what?  It’s been a great day, despite the broken weapons and malfunctioning targets and malevolent goggles.  I feel like I’ve accomplished something.  Sure, it’s been a bit disorganized and it’s gone overtime but there’s such a good spirit here among the volunteers, the officials, the athletes and their supporters.  People are so nice, like that guy over there.  He’s standing out on the running course at this late hour holding up my number to cheer me on.  As I get closer, he raises up my number above his head and calls out my name and I don’t even know him.  This is so special.  I love this sport!  What’s he saying to me?    

“Number 8!  Please step into the penalty box.”  

The penalty box?  Moi?  

The penalty box is taped off with yellow tape like a crime scene.  I’m its sole occupant.  “What did I do?”  “I’ll find out.”  He asks over the radio, so everyone can hear it.  It’s now public knowledge that I’m in the penalty box.  Fortunately for me, my parents are thousands of miles away in another country and have never heard of modern pentathlon.  “You loaded your gun off the table.” Oh, that.  It must be another one of those damn rules.  So that’s what gets you sent to the penalty box.   

I serve my brief sentence, then dash off to complete the course.  When I cross the finish line, all I can think about is food but that’s normal for me.  It’s just not normal that I haven’t eaten all day. 

Our comrades back at the Great Hall of the People graciously stay hours late to serve us at our awards dinner.  By the time we’re seated and eating, it’s close to midnight.  The staff must think pentathletes are the ultimate late-night party people.  I get a medal and a plaque that says I’m masters women national champion.  I’m reminded of that brilliant moment in the Robert Redford movie Downhill Racer when Redford’s dad mutters “Champions – world’s full of ’em” but then I hear the line in my head in a different way and it’s a good thing.  Tonight, I’m happy to count myself among them.  I came a long way on my own to do something I’d never done before and I enjoyed myself immensely. 

But there’s no time to rest on my laurels.  Less than six hours, actually.  We’re due back in the fencing hall for tomorrow’s relay competition at 7 am.   

Next year, I’m aiming for competence.  And I’m hoping for competition.  There have to be some other over-30 consummate warriors out there who want to test their ‘moral qualities’ against the likes of, well, me.   Anyone for pentathlon? 

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.   

At the dawn of the 20^th century, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of the modern Olympic Games, envisioned a multi-sport discipline that would test the skills of the consummate warrior.  That sport – consisting of fencing, shooting, swimming, running, and riding – came to be called Modern Pentathlon.  In its early years, modern pentathlon was dominated by the military and limited to men only.  Today, pentathlon is open to anyone willing to train long hours to build an extraordinary skill set in an obscure sport devoid of commercial opportunities.  The sport remains as pure as the Baron’s original concept for an endeavor that “tests a man’s moral qualities as much as his physical resources and skills, producing thereby the ideal, complete athlete.” 

Then JER showed up. 

The airline agent was wearing an undersized candy-red cowboy hat and an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place on a motel room floor during a one-night stand at the Calgary Stampede.  Which, I learned, was in full swing this week and explained not only the cutesy work get-up but also the crowded flights and exorbitant rental car fees in the city of my destination. 

The ersatz cowgirl poked at one of my bags, the resulting metallic clang a cause for concern.  “What have you got here?”  

“Fencing equipment.”  

“Like swords?” 

“Weapons,” I said, using the preferred term.  “Not sharp.  Electric.” 

“And in this one?”  She pointed to my other bag. 

“That’s the one with the gun.” 

“Oh.  Oh?” 

“An air pistol.” 

“You must be…” she began, then stopped. 

“A lot of fun at a party?”  I finished helpfully. 

A nervous laugh, followed by “Did you empty the air cartridges?  They can explode at altitude.” 

“Of course.” 

I offer to open my bags so she can inspect the contents but she declines.  She’s probably been at her job long enough to know better.   

Had she taken me up on my offer, she’d probably still have no idea what I was doing this weekend.  She’d see, in addition to my air pistol and fencing kit, a full set of riding gear, a Speedo racing suit and goggles for swimming, running shorts and shoes and associated sporting paraphernalia.  This could only mean one thing:  I’m on my way to the Canadian National Modern Pentathlon Championships in Red Deer, Alberta. 

Oddly enough, my entree to the sport of pentathlon wasn’t though riding.  Last year, I started fencing at a club near Vancouver, BC and met some pentathletes who invited me to their weekly shooting and fencing practices which were conveniently held at a facility just around the corner from my house.  I jumped at the opportunity but I’m such a sucker for sports and games of any kind, I’d have done the same if it had been Candyland and Four Square. 

So here I was in Red Deer.  I’d set a realistic goal for myself: to arrive at the correct venues at the appointed time, not get eliminated and finish with a positive integer score.   

But first, a confession:  I’ve never pentathled before, modern or otherwise.  Actually, aside from watching some appalling riding on TV during the Olympics, I’ve never even seen the sport in action.  I know it might be a bit much to kick off my career at the Canadian Rolex of Pentathlons but this is also the only event on the calendar so I don’t have much choice.   

A second confession: my competence is questionable.  I know how to fence, swim, ride, run and (not really) shoot but I have only a cursory understanding of the rules and how to operate some of the equipment.  This is why I thought it was funny that the entry form required a certified trainer’s reference for riding skills but didn’t require proof that a competitor is safe around guns.  Okay.  Maybe not so funny. 

The registration table is in a function room of a hotel that looks like a vestige of the Soviet occupation – Red Deer, get it? – except that Alberta, to my knowledge, was never a socialist republic, at least not a Soviet one.  I set about correcting the various misspellings of my last name and explain that I’m not really Canadian.  But no one seems to mind, this is an international competition and there are competitors from the UK, the US, Poland and even one from South Africa, although, truth be told, she’s one of my clubmates from BC.   

I learn that I’m the only competitor in the women’s masters division (’30 and over’, a euphemism in my case) so, provided I accomplish my stated goal, I see a podium finish, albeit a lonely one, in my future.  Then I look through the program and I’m not so sure.  The directions to the venues are sprinkled with  local landmarks, roads with ever-changing numerical names and warnings about flooding and poor road surfaces.  One venue is designated only by GPS coordinates.  Oh dear.  Oh Red Deer.  I’m so glad I packed my portable navigation system.   

I present my air pistol and fencing mask for mandatory inspection.  The pistol is checked for trigger weight and I demonstrate that the grip doesn’t cover my thumb.  Then the gun is placed inside a rectangular plexiglass box with a sliding top.  The gun-in-box tableau looks like a 1970s conceptual art piece.  “Why?” I ask.  “To see if it fits,” the gun guy replies.  Ask a Yoko Ono question, get a Yoko Ono answer.   

The brief technical meeting for officials and competitors reinforces how little I know about this sport.  The riding director hands out a cheat sheet on the horses in the riding draw.  Most of them are said to ‘need lef’.  As I start to panic over my lack of fluency in the language of pentathlon, I realize this is probably just a persistently ham-fisted typo.  We hear that all horses were tested over the course for suitability this afternoon to make final roster decisions.  I’m mildly relieved but not surprised that the four year-old chestnut TB mare who started jumping ‘recently’ didn’t make the cut.   

Discussion then turns to the combined run/shoot event, a new feature of pentathlon, replacing the old separate-phase format just last year.  (Everyone thinks this is a positive change for the sport.  The shooting phase was universally described as ‘boring.’)  A heated debate ensues about the siting of the penalty box and as it intensifies, the organizers ask for a show of hands to vote on locations.  I don’t have an opinion because, until now, I didn’t know there was a penalty box or how one ends up in it.  But hey, this is Canada and we all know Canadians love a penalty box.   

Back at my accommodations at the local college, I meet my suitemates.  Both are very cool women.  One is a former national field hockey player from England who injured her back, needed to find a new sport and decided that fencing, riding, running, shooting and swimming would be easier on her back than just playing hockey.  The other is a champion open water swimmer from California who read about pentathlon in a book.  In January.  At the time, she’d never ridden a horse or fenced or shot.  But when you can swim the English Channel, this is just a technicality, and she’s here to compete in her first full five-phase.  Tomorrow will be her very first-ever showjumping round.  She has no idea how brave she is.