Harkrader
Member
Sooo, in my post-physical therapy program after knee replacement, I joined a local fitness center to continue the exercises to rehab them. I asked for some time with a KNOWLEDGEABLE trainer who could help me work out a program of exercises and using their equipment.
Sooo, I am presented with, and I shall NOT use his real name, “Franklin” who, I am assured, really knows his stuff and understands my needs. OKtherethen.
Sooo out comes this young man of roughly 25, tall, dark, and, as I was to learn, considered quite handsome. SURPRISE! He really WAS knowledgeable in physical therapy and the application of exercises to sports medicine and the specific things the PT had told me to work on. He put together a great program for me and I have made the best progress EVER, since departing the Torture Chamber, er, physical therapy clinic.
It’s the small victories that matter most. Drinking from a water bottle while standing without leaning on something? Impossible a month ago. Now, I CAN!
Standing on one foot whilst pulling on or taking off socks? Impossible a month ago. NOW I CAN(!), at least for my right foot. Left one still has a way to go.
Walk up and down stairs without dragging myself along the rail? Impossible a month ago. Now I can! But I still tell anyone who passes me on the stairs that they are required to applaud if I fall.
Sooo, I’m on that leg press thingy, knees bent, footies pressed against the large plate, 140 pounds selected on the weight stack. Impossible a month ago! Now, daily duz it.
It was hard not to note the lingering looks Franklin received from women as he walked around the place. I could almost swear that some of the ladies stumbled on the treadmills as he walked by. There are blackboards all over the place, and every one has hearts with Franklin’s name written in colored chalk. Or endearing messages of, er, thanks, for having assisted someone with their exercises. There was a lipstick kiss on his photo just outside the dressing rooms. Mothers lined up with daughters to perform amazing feats of agility and flexibility at his command. To his credit, he didn’t swagger as he walked about, but politely acknowledged all the musical “hellos” tossed to him as he passed by. Must be awfully hard to work there.
Sooo, “Franklin”, who has already seen and commented on the loverly vertical scar I have on each knee, notes the long one running from about 10cm above my left knee, on the inside of my leg, to my ankle bone. It’s ragged and gnarly. “What’s that from?” he asks as he points to it.
The gods help me, I’ve been waiting for this moment.
“Oh,” I sez, “that’s just an old dueling scar.” Shut up, wait for it - - -
Franklin thinks for a mo’, then says “Dueling? Like two guys walking away from each other and shooting?” Ah, Franklin, possibly another victim of bad TV movies.
“Naw,” I say, “swords.” Shut up, pump the foot plate.
I can see the wheels grinding. “You got in a sword fight?” he asks.
“Yeah,” pump pump, “it was a long time ago.”
“Well, who was it with? What was it about.”
Stop pumping, effect far-away thoughtful look on my face.
“Well, I was a cadet at the Heidelberg Military Academy. Long time ago. We were required to be proficient with the rifle and, because the Sword Master, “Old Snot,” was a WWI cavalry officer, with the cavalry sabre.
“He was a really old guy to us. I mean, he was born in the 19th Century CE! And really pissed off that the opposing armies of WWII didn’t get with it and do cavalry charges on horseback. Apparently his opportunity to charge magnificently (they had such handsome uniforms in those days) into the cannon during WWI was cut short by a Lewis gun that left, we were told, a string of holes angled across his chest and back. Miracle he wasn’t killed, the story went. Denied entry into service in WWII.
“So anyway, he was a jerk, but he was expert with the cavalry sabre. And he LOVED to humble and humiliate cadets during training by trouncing them thoroughly while denouncing them as incompetent and unworthy of a military uniform. Few cadets ever touched a sword point to his chest protector.
“We all wanted to find SOME way to get him, to make an undeniable touché on his body, just to show him we had it in us. I mean, he was an *OLD* guy! No one had the least success.
“So, I’m studying him and realized he had a sequence of moves he used to set up a cadet, any cadet, for a trouncing. I saw that it consisted of 14 distinct moves, executed in order. I saw my chance - - -
“I didn’t tell the other cadets about this discovery, and especially not the senior cadet colonel who would, I’m sure, have discouraged me from trying anything. But I did get other cadets to ‘play along with me’ as I worked through our rote exercises with them, followed by my diligent effort to duplicate Old Snot’s moves.
“Now, there was a second Sword Master, a much younger man, whom we all loved. He never lost a match with us, but always did a thorough analysis of each one, detailing what happened and what we could do, or should have done, about it. He respected us and we respected him. I played out a few of the moves with him, without giving away where I got them. He always countered them, but then told me how to better apply them. Heh. I was learning.
“Not so with Old Snot. Every lesson with him ended with a cadet scuttling off to the shower with his tail between his legs and rips in his body protectors.
“I practiced and practiced, gradually working up to where I was doing all 14 of the moves in sequence, and so perfectly that I was winning all the training sessions and informal matches with the other cadets. I did it so gradually, so carefully, and using my own techniques to cover them, that none of the cadets saw the similarity to Old Snot’s moves. I did this for two semesters, and then felt I was ready.
“When it was my turn to spar with Old Snot, I stepped onto the floor with a sense of confidence and chutzpah blended with that excruciating tingle of fear one feels when taking on a task that has the potential for expensive failure. As the session progressed I played the fool, bobbing and weaving away from him instead of engaging him as he pursued me around the floor. I could see he was becoming impatient for me to exchange a true volley of thrusts and parries with him and figured NOW was the moment.
“I stepped in close to him and started with a thrust, which he parried, followed immediately with a draw and sweep that would have cut off his arm, if it hadn’t been him. He saw it coming and merely stepped slightly away and came at me with Move Number 1. Heh. I countered with the same one.
“If he recognized what I’d done, it didn’t show. After all, I was a stupid student who couldn’t be expected to know the point of the sabre from the hilt.
“Move Number Two, and I mirrored it. Still no sign from him. Then, Three, Four, Five and Six. I met every one with its equal. I was feeling triumphant! I felt exuberated! I was getting at him! I could win - - -
“And then he seemed to recognize that I had not retreated in fear, nor been stuck by his point for rather a long time. He furrowed his brow and flexed his great, white mustache. Would he continue? Or change his tactic?
“He continued. After all, the stupid cadet was going to slip up soon enough as his moves reached their climax, and he’d send me scuttling away in shame and humiliation. No worries.
“Move Seven, then in precise order, Eight. And Nine. It was going perfectly! I saw his every ploy! I had discovered his game and I was going to BEAT HIM!
“Ten, and he again paused for a heartbeat, likely assessing the situation. Did he recognize what I was doing? If he did I was sure he’d drop it and carve his initials on my body armor. What to do? If I continued I risked him discovering my plan. He’d be furious. He’d REALLY trounce me, probably draw blood. Erk.
“But, I reasoned, I was all in. Stop now and it would be just another session of him scoring one point after another as he gave me contemptuous looks. Even if he broke the sequence, I had gotten further with him in this exchange of thrusts and parries than I ever had before. That just might have to be enough.
“Eleven. No sign of changing. I returned it. Then twelve and thirteen in a flash of slashing blades. Number Fourteen was coming and I had him!
“But, Old Snot though he was, he wasn’t a Sword Master for nothing. My (his) last move was an inward parry that put the opponent’s point low, and the aggressor simply slashed backhand and at the last moment thrust the point into the opponent’s chest. I had him! I parried, I slashed! He stepped nimbly away from my point, slashing in at me, at what should have been my blade held high and flat to deflect him. But, I had put everything into the thrust. I was leaning and off balance. I twisted my wrist in a futile effort to push his blade away, but that served only to direct his point down, where it sank into my knee and cut to my ankle.
“There is that moment of horror when a person realizes that all has come to naught and one is about to pay for one’s mistake. I felt no pain from the cut. I did not at first see the spurting blood. What I saw was only Old Snot dancing beyond my reach, pointing at my leg with his sabre and yelling words I could not hear for the roaring in my ears.
“A moment later a cadet major tackled me from behind and drove me to the mat while another cadet tore open the leg of my pants and another pulled a woven belt tight around my thigh. My last vision of Old Snot was of him holding a triumphal pose, the point of his sabre grounded to the mat, the curved edge held away from him. He could have been posing for a portrait.
“Well, the administrative staff was not happy. Oh, they didn’t figure out that I had tried to set up Old Snot for humiliation. And he certainly hadn’t told them how I had analyzed his Fourteen Moves, even if he realized I had.
“No, I had to be satisfied that he was admonished to use more care when fencing with such unskilled cadets. We were, after all, the next generation of officers that would lead men into combat. Wouldn’t do to have one die on the fencing floor.
“I finished the story looking wistfully at my scar, and then looked up at Franklin. I was gratified to see total credulity on his face. I sighed. “Well,” I said, “that’s fifteen reps on this thing. On to the rowing machine?”
Yes, on to the rowing machine. I affected a limp as I walked.
Post Script:
Yesterday I was in a “Flexing and Range of Motion” session with their trainer of said title. As I’m being twisted into a knot on the floor, she says, “That’s quite a scar you have there.”
Ahhh, life is good!
Sooo, I am presented with, and I shall NOT use his real name, “Franklin” who, I am assured, really knows his stuff and understands my needs. OKtherethen.
Sooo out comes this young man of roughly 25, tall, dark, and, as I was to learn, considered quite handsome. SURPRISE! He really WAS knowledgeable in physical therapy and the application of exercises to sports medicine and the specific things the PT had told me to work on. He put together a great program for me and I have made the best progress EVER, since departing the Torture Chamber, er, physical therapy clinic.
It’s the small victories that matter most. Drinking from a water bottle while standing without leaning on something? Impossible a month ago. Now, I CAN!
Standing on one foot whilst pulling on or taking off socks? Impossible a month ago. NOW I CAN(!), at least for my right foot. Left one still has a way to go.
Walk up and down stairs without dragging myself along the rail? Impossible a month ago. Now I can! But I still tell anyone who passes me on the stairs that they are required to applaud if I fall.
Sooo, I’m on that leg press thingy, knees bent, footies pressed against the large plate, 140 pounds selected on the weight stack. Impossible a month ago! Now, daily duz it.
It was hard not to note the lingering looks Franklin received from women as he walked around the place. I could almost swear that some of the ladies stumbled on the treadmills as he walked by. There are blackboards all over the place, and every one has hearts with Franklin’s name written in colored chalk. Or endearing messages of, er, thanks, for having assisted someone with their exercises. There was a lipstick kiss on his photo just outside the dressing rooms. Mothers lined up with daughters to perform amazing feats of agility and flexibility at his command. To his credit, he didn’t swagger as he walked about, but politely acknowledged all the musical “hellos” tossed to him as he passed by. Must be awfully hard to work there.
Sooo, “Franklin”, who has already seen and commented on the loverly vertical scar I have on each knee, notes the long one running from about 10cm above my left knee, on the inside of my leg, to my ankle bone. It’s ragged and gnarly. “What’s that from?” he asks as he points to it.
The gods help me, I’ve been waiting for this moment.
“Oh,” I sez, “that’s just an old dueling scar.” Shut up, wait for it - - -
Franklin thinks for a mo’, then says “Dueling? Like two guys walking away from each other and shooting?” Ah, Franklin, possibly another victim of bad TV movies.
“Naw,” I say, “swords.” Shut up, pump the foot plate.
I can see the wheels grinding. “You got in a sword fight?” he asks.
“Yeah,” pump pump, “it was a long time ago.”
“Well, who was it with? What was it about.”
Stop pumping, effect far-away thoughtful look on my face.
“Well, I was a cadet at the Heidelberg Military Academy. Long time ago. We were required to be proficient with the rifle and, because the Sword Master, “Old Snot,” was a WWI cavalry officer, with the cavalry sabre.
“He was a really old guy to us. I mean, he was born in the 19th Century CE! And really pissed off that the opposing armies of WWII didn’t get with it and do cavalry charges on horseback. Apparently his opportunity to charge magnificently (they had such handsome uniforms in those days) into the cannon during WWI was cut short by a Lewis gun that left, we were told, a string of holes angled across his chest and back. Miracle he wasn’t killed, the story went. Denied entry into service in WWII.
“So anyway, he was a jerk, but he was expert with the cavalry sabre. And he LOVED to humble and humiliate cadets during training by trouncing them thoroughly while denouncing them as incompetent and unworthy of a military uniform. Few cadets ever touched a sword point to his chest protector.
“We all wanted to find SOME way to get him, to make an undeniable touché on his body, just to show him we had it in us. I mean, he was an *OLD* guy! No one had the least success.
“So, I’m studying him and realized he had a sequence of moves he used to set up a cadet, any cadet, for a trouncing. I saw that it consisted of 14 distinct moves, executed in order. I saw my chance - - -
“I didn’t tell the other cadets about this discovery, and especially not the senior cadet colonel who would, I’m sure, have discouraged me from trying anything. But I did get other cadets to ‘play along with me’ as I worked through our rote exercises with them, followed by my diligent effort to duplicate Old Snot’s moves.
“Now, there was a second Sword Master, a much younger man, whom we all loved. He never lost a match with us, but always did a thorough analysis of each one, detailing what happened and what we could do, or should have done, about it. He respected us and we respected him. I played out a few of the moves with him, without giving away where I got them. He always countered them, but then told me how to better apply them. Heh. I was learning.
“Not so with Old Snot. Every lesson with him ended with a cadet scuttling off to the shower with his tail between his legs and rips in his body protectors.
“I practiced and practiced, gradually working up to where I was doing all 14 of the moves in sequence, and so perfectly that I was winning all the training sessions and informal matches with the other cadets. I did it so gradually, so carefully, and using my own techniques to cover them, that none of the cadets saw the similarity to Old Snot’s moves. I did this for two semesters, and then felt I was ready.
“When it was my turn to spar with Old Snot, I stepped onto the floor with a sense of confidence and chutzpah blended with that excruciating tingle of fear one feels when taking on a task that has the potential for expensive failure. As the session progressed I played the fool, bobbing and weaving away from him instead of engaging him as he pursued me around the floor. I could see he was becoming impatient for me to exchange a true volley of thrusts and parries with him and figured NOW was the moment.
“I stepped in close to him and started with a thrust, which he parried, followed immediately with a draw and sweep that would have cut off his arm, if it hadn’t been him. He saw it coming and merely stepped slightly away and came at me with Move Number 1. Heh. I countered with the same one.
“If he recognized what I’d done, it didn’t show. After all, I was a stupid student who couldn’t be expected to know the point of the sabre from the hilt.
“Move Number Two, and I mirrored it. Still no sign from him. Then, Three, Four, Five and Six. I met every one with its equal. I was feeling triumphant! I felt exuberated! I was getting at him! I could win - - -
“And then he seemed to recognize that I had not retreated in fear, nor been stuck by his point for rather a long time. He furrowed his brow and flexed his great, white mustache. Would he continue? Or change his tactic?
“He continued. After all, the stupid cadet was going to slip up soon enough as his moves reached their climax, and he’d send me scuttling away in shame and humiliation. No worries.
“Move Seven, then in precise order, Eight. And Nine. It was going perfectly! I saw his every ploy! I had discovered his game and I was going to BEAT HIM!
“Ten, and he again paused for a heartbeat, likely assessing the situation. Did he recognize what I was doing? If he did I was sure he’d drop it and carve his initials on my body armor. What to do? If I continued I risked him discovering my plan. He’d be furious. He’d REALLY trounce me, probably draw blood. Erk.
“But, I reasoned, I was all in. Stop now and it would be just another session of him scoring one point after another as he gave me contemptuous looks. Even if he broke the sequence, I had gotten further with him in this exchange of thrusts and parries than I ever had before. That just might have to be enough.
“Eleven. No sign of changing. I returned it. Then twelve and thirteen in a flash of slashing blades. Number Fourteen was coming and I had him!
“But, Old Snot though he was, he wasn’t a Sword Master for nothing. My (his) last move was an inward parry that put the opponent’s point low, and the aggressor simply slashed backhand and at the last moment thrust the point into the opponent’s chest. I had him! I parried, I slashed! He stepped nimbly away from my point, slashing in at me, at what should have been my blade held high and flat to deflect him. But, I had put everything into the thrust. I was leaning and off balance. I twisted my wrist in a futile effort to push his blade away, but that served only to direct his point down, where it sank into my knee and cut to my ankle.
“There is that moment of horror when a person realizes that all has come to naught and one is about to pay for one’s mistake. I felt no pain from the cut. I did not at first see the spurting blood. What I saw was only Old Snot dancing beyond my reach, pointing at my leg with his sabre and yelling words I could not hear for the roaring in my ears.
“A moment later a cadet major tackled me from behind and drove me to the mat while another cadet tore open the leg of my pants and another pulled a woven belt tight around my thigh. My last vision of Old Snot was of him holding a triumphal pose, the point of his sabre grounded to the mat, the curved edge held away from him. He could have been posing for a portrait.
“Well, the administrative staff was not happy. Oh, they didn’t figure out that I had tried to set up Old Snot for humiliation. And he certainly hadn’t told them how I had analyzed his Fourteen Moves, even if he realized I had.
“No, I had to be satisfied that he was admonished to use more care when fencing with such unskilled cadets. We were, after all, the next generation of officers that would lead men into combat. Wouldn’t do to have one die on the fencing floor.
“I finished the story looking wistfully at my scar, and then looked up at Franklin. I was gratified to see total credulity on his face. I sighed. “Well,” I said, “that’s fifteen reps on this thing. On to the rowing machine?”
Yes, on to the rowing machine. I affected a limp as I walked.
Post Script:
Yesterday I was in a “Flexing and Range of Motion” session with their trainer of said title. As I’m being twisted into a knot on the floor, she says, “That’s quite a scar you have there.”
Ahhh, life is good!
