We should all start to live before we get too old. Fear is stupid. So are regrets.

Marilyn Monroe

The next morning dawned gray and gloomy. Halfway motivated, Paul left the house for his morning run. At the intersection that separated his cul-de-sac from the rest of the world was emblazoned a large billboard. <Give every day a chance to be the best of your life>, it said in squiggly letters. It was an advertisement for muesli, and for a moment he wondered how the hell muesli was supposed to make a day sweeter. Supposedly, this one was even supposed to be sugar-free. He had rarely seen such bad advertising, and as the child of two passionate graphic designers, he had grown up with that stuff, so that was saying something. Not even a half-naked body enhanced the thing. There were only flakes depicted. Shaking his head, he left the poster behind and chased with springy running steps over the gray asphalt.

The sky was covered with cloud monsters and the sun led a futile fight against it. Due to the temperatures, he had exceptionally opted for long functional clothes - black pants, orange long-sleeved shirt, and worn running shoes. He kept his brown hair out of his forehead with a narrow blue ribbon - it wasn't cold enough for a cap yet. At least it didn't look like rain. Just another uncomfortable autumn day.

After a short time, he crossed the bridge and reached the Midland-Canal. Finally, he sucked fresh air into his lungs. There he trotted along his favorite route, past the allotments, residential silos, and fancy apartments overlooking the water. To his left was the small marina. The boats had already been winterized for the cold season and so only the wharves stood out lonely from the water.

At the next bridge, he increased his walking pace, adjusted his breathing, and optimized the distance between his feet. The trees he passed reminded him more of skeletons than actual plants. All had shed their foliage and now stood like gaunt and unclothed models along the path. Saddened, he shook his head. He was by no means a lover of autumn. He was more interested in summer. Of course, this was due in no small part to the fact that women strategically dispensed with clothing as soon as it got warm.

In front of him, a blonde with a ponytail jogged along the well-trodden path. He gave her well-toned butt an appreciative glance and gave her a friendly nod as he passed. Besides, summer didn't limit him. He could go for a run in the morning without fear of landing in a hailstorm and retreat to his favorite hammock in the backyard with a book in his spare time. His biggest problem was always finding a convenient time to mow the lawn and if that was indeed all that was bothering him in the summer, it probably said a lot about his life. Everything would change when he gave his future a new career perspective. No more spontaneous barbecue afternoons with his friends, no more surprise parties, and most importantly, no more free time. It was a mystery to him why there were people who liked to work in an office and, especially when the days got shorter, only saw the sun from their workplace. He didn't want that.

There were no obstacles on the track ahead of him, so he let his thoughts drift. If he was honest with himself - and he usually was - he was aware that the zenith of his career was already behind him. In the past few years, he had achieved several international successes. He had also been European champion four times in a row, had won the title with the team three times, and had even got the trophy at the World Championships three years ago. Twice he had been allowed to participate in the Olympic Games. In 2004, he finished 37th in Athens. Four years later, at the Beijing Games, he finished seventh. In the quarterfinals, he had lost to Fabrice Jeannet 12:15. He gritted his teeth at the memory. That had been so close. Like every other competitive athlete, Paul had dreamed of winning Olympic gold one day. By now, however, he doubted he could do it next year in London. It was about time to say goodbye to competitive sports.

The next bridge appeared and a group of older ladies turned in front of him. All were armed with poles and their breath steamed in the cool air. Paul carefully circled the women, concentrating on avoiding collisions. He was about to start through again when an appreciative whistle snapped him out of his concentration. Surprised, he looked back at the throng and saw that most of the ladies were giggling. Although they seemed to be in retirement age, they still appreciated a well-toned body. Running backward, he bowed, then turned back around and accelerated. The merry-go-round lagged behind him.

What weighed more on Paul's mind than the exit itself was the time afterward. While he loved fencing - the elegance, the energy, the tactical possibilities - he wanted something different. Something new. His club had made him a good offer for a coaching position, but he didn't see himself that way. Unlike others, he had never sought security. He was not a sports soldier and his future was thus solely in his hands. Daria had talked about studying sports to become a teacher, but that didn't appeal to him either. His father had offered him a manager's job in the advertising company that his parents had built up together many years ago and led to success. But being a son by profession was just as out of the question as a gift position. Whatever he would do, he had to earn it. Paul jumped over a puddle and ran past the bare shrubs that heralded the approach of winter. Most of all, he wanted to create something. Maybe he should get some crafting skills. Who knew if there wasn't some hidden talent in him somewhere?

Another bridge came into his field of vision. Behind it, he saw the heavy body of a fully-loaded barge. He picked up his pace and took up pursuit of the barge. Meter by meter, he caught up. The exertion made his muscles burn and sweat trickled into his eyes. His feet almost seemed to lose contact with the ground as he flew along the path. Finally, he reached the stern of the barge and slowly struggled along. It took him two more bridges before he finally overtook the barge. The skipper put two fingers to the skipper's cap appreciatively and Paul waved back. Then he slowed down, crossed the next bridge, and ran back home.

In the afternoon, Paul fed Moses, stowed the dark blue fencing bag in his black BMW, and set off to pick up Daria. Both officially belonged to the Hannover Fencing Club 1862, Germany's oldest fencing club, but they rarely trained at the actual training venue in the Shootershomelane. The club's champion, Dr. Anton Sebert, had bought a detached villa in the 1980s and lavishly restored it over the years. The former wine cellar was combined with other rooms and a fencing room in the old style was created under the mansion. The walls were paneled, and Sebert presented weapons and other collectibles in display cases and glass cabinets. Despite the antique effect, the two fencing lanes and the detectors were of the highest technical standard.

After qualifying for a European championship for the first time, Daria and Paul had been invited to a celebration at the villa, and they had been presented with the cellar in the process. A classic introduction. Since then, Paul loved to do his training sessions here, in the quiet atmosphere of the venerable house. Paul reached the small street near the zoo and squeezed into a free parking space. Daria, as usual, kept him waiting. With her green fencing bag over her shoulder, she finally stormed out the front door and trotted toward his car. »Too late,« he sighed.

»Five minutes doesn't count as being late yet.« He snorted and drove off after she got into the passenger seat. She flipped down the sun visor briefly, eyed herself in the mirror there, and gathered her reddish-blond hair into a tight ponytail. It was completely unclear to him why women never used this mini-mirror for anything useful, but he was smart enough not to argue the point further. As he drove past the zoo, Daria described her latest dating blunder to him in dazzling colors. The guy had raved to her for hours about how he'd been playing guitar for years and begged her to let him play something for her. Then, after a brief visit to his apartment, he had fired up Guitar Heroes. Daria found it quite funny, but not really romantic, and so the date ended rather unsatisfactorily shortly thereafter.

Secretly, Paul found that his previous evening had been many times more amusing. After a quarter-hour drive, they arrived at the beautiful mansion. Side by side, they shouldered their large bags and walked through the well-kept park. Anton Sebert had a good income as a specialist in plastic medicine and was not afraid to show off this wealth. They passed a few evergreen bushes that proudly exposed their leaves to the cool air. Although it was still relatively early, the sun already seemed to be preparing to set. Paul and Daria entered the basement through the old service entrance. After putting on their fencing suits in the paneled locker rooms, they lined up next to the other fencers to warm up. Critically, his gaze slid from the spangled uniforms to his own, which, if he looked very closely, looked a bit used up. It still protected his body and was comfortable, but the color could no longer be called white in all conscience. More like dark white. Grayish white. But didn't that fit? Soon, it would certainly look wonderful with his future gray hair. Disgruntled, he stroked his dark mane and shook his head to silence the sarcastic voice in his head. Perhaps he should at least get a new fencing glove; the pads on the back of his hand seemed very flimsy indeed.

In total, besides Paul and Daria, four other athletes were training today. All of them were adults, but Paul was the only one over thirty. Soon he would be one of the seniors. Veterans, he scolded himself. That sounded much better. Experienced. Paul snorted, earning a questioning look from Daria. Reassuringly, he shook his head and emptied his mind. He concentrated solely on his posture, the steps, and the lunge. The training was led by Master Mika. This master placed special emphasis on technically flawless movement and they quickly worked up a sweat.

»A skirmish is like a conversation. You have to listen and read your opponent,« Master Mika lectured as he told them to find an opponent. Without consulting each other, Paul and Daria positioned themselves.

Paul leaned his weapon against the wall next to Daria's. First, they would do a dry run. To focus more on the essentials, as Master Mika never tired of pointing out. They faced each other and took fencing positions. With his arm outstretched, he held the edge of his hand to Daria's. She took a few steps back and he followed. A minimal shake of her arm gave him a literal sense that she was ready to attack. With a step back of his own, he escaped her attack and hit her shoulder with three fingers.

»Not bad, Paul.« Acknowledging, she nodded. They both resumed their stances. The next time she surprised him by loosening her bind, luring him back into the attack with a leap to wait for him and touch the back of his hand. Master Mika appeared beside them like a ghost and nodded with satisfaction.

Paul was able to land the next three hits, and two more fell to Daria. He blanked out everything and focused solely on his best friend. They had known each other for years and had been fencing forever. He could read her like a book. The next hit confirmed that she felt the same way. Finally, he managed to win the practice match with a score of 10:7.

After the dry run, Paul reached for his favorite weapon and plugged in the cables behind the deer bell. Almost tenderly, his fingers slid over the scratches that broke through the shine of the metal. The other end of the connecting cable he wore under his fencing gear also found its way and he was connected to the cable drum's feed. He loved electronic fencing. The detectors indicated every hit and reduced everything to a simple sound. If things were so clean in the other sports as well, there would be a lot less fighting on the side.

The weapons trial went flawlessly and so they fought each other. At the end, when Paul's muscles were beginning to complain, Master Mika asked him for a one-on-one lesson.

»Parade! Riposte! Finte!« The old master's commands shot toward him, prompting him, again and again, to defend and counterattack. Paul acted faster than he could think, these moves had become second nature to him after all these years. »Battuta!«

Paul turned his wrist with a tight motion and struck the front third of Mika's blade. Then he lunged, bridging the distance to Mika's padded torso. »Good, Paul! Keep going!«

For a moment, Mika held Paul's rapier in the bind, then tapped his blade against the metal in praise. Without giving him a moment's rest, he fired more orders. »Coupé! Coupé!«

Paul's weapon danced in tight circles around the top of his opponent's head, clicking as it bent from air resistance and dug into Mika's glove. Grunting, Mika corrected Paul's stance by a millimeter, then continued to chase his protégé through the lesson.