ON THE BEAT: Reporter goes inside the helmet to learn about re-enactment fighting

It still wasn’t blazing hot when I started working on the story about re-enactment fighting, so agreeing to get in the armor wasn’t the dumbest thing I had ever done, but it was in the running. First, I put on the quilted padding. Next came the cup. Since it was borrowed, I wore it outside my pants. I intentionally neglected to mention the fact that an accidental blow with a toy sword to the “cup region” once sent me to the emergency room.

Everything I put on beyond the cup required considerable help from others. A number of folks lent a hand, yanking on straps, tucking quilting under plates and buckling on various bits. Since the armor fitted me poorly, I had about as much articulation as a dollar store action figure, but I looked really cool.

I went out onto the field of battle carrying two swords, figuring my only chance of getting in a shot was by doubling the number of directions they could be coming from. I was paired with a fierce looking samurai who was only a tad bigger than me, but looked much more dangerous. I learned later that her name was Tammy.

The first lesson was being hit. The armor was good. I knew I had been hit fairly hard, but it was a jarring experience rather than a painful one.

The next lesson was hitting, which was a bit harder, because it required me to move. I could have stood there and been hit all night long, it was moving that killed me and made me realize how ridiculously out of shape I am.

My next opponent was Charles Ingles, aka Vargas Nakamura, aka Triple Fry, who was a full foot taller than I am. Any thought that I was actually holding my own out there was quickly crushed.  I would rain a series of attacks at him, only to have them all casually batted aside before he would give me a resounding thump to my head. After a few minutes of this, he stopped me and gave me some advice. “OK, three things,” he said. “First, you’re leading with your head. Second, you’re leading with your head…”

After 15 minutes at best, I staggered off the field of honor, limp, exhausted and soaked to the bone and breastplate with sweat. It was fun.