David Wharton: Steel blades, tiny bruises and a new purpose in life: My search for ‘the moment’

There is something about the sport of fencing that no one tells you. Not at first.

Sometimes it hurts.

Though the blades have no sharp points or edges, though you wear a uniform of heavy cloth, a direct shot to the chest or occasional whack on the forearm can deliver wincing pain.

Not that it matters in the heat of a bout, with adrenaline pumping, but the thought crosses your mind: Oh, that’s going to leave a mark. Sure enough, you later discover a few coin-sized bruises.

That is why new fencers, taking so many hits, are known as “pin cushions.” I learned the hard way by jumping into this sport at the ill-advised age of 55, suckered by a chance meeting at the London Olympics, a conversation that lured me into an arcane but devoted culture.

This unexpected journey continued back home where, it turns out, Southern California has a connection to fencing beyond Errol Flynn and those old Hollywood swashbucklers. There is a network of clubs run by former European champions, a thriving high school league and a fierce competitive scene with sanctioned tournaments.

All of this had me struggling to learn blurry-fast technique while battling a parade of opponents younger and quicker than me, their jolting touches followed by something even more painful —