The year was . . . 1986, maybe 1987.  I was attending Northern Arizona University and needed a P.E. credit. I had already taken “weight training” and was looking for something different.  There it was  . . . in small, innocent type was the course title “Fencing.”  I immediately had visions of Errol Flynn, which is tricky because I don’t think I’d ever actually seen an Errol Flynn movie; I’d only heard of him through my father, but nevertheless I had dramatic images of dashing swashbuckling adventure coursing through my head, and I signed up for Fencing 101.
Of course, real fencing was not nearly as swashbuckling as I’d hoped, but it was still pretty cool.  I quickly learned that I didn’t care for foil, the standard Olympic weapon.  Too many rules; really, in what world could you strike your opponent in the head and it not count?!  Saber seemed very romantic and even swashbuckling, but again  . . .  rules.  Right of Way. Corps a’ Corps.  Such a nuisance.
But Epee.  Ah, now here was the sweet science!  Hit or be hit; Right of Way be damned . . . what “target area?”  Ah, this was the life.  I loved the Epee, and as the semester wound down, I moved naturally into the NAU Fencing Club.  The NAU Fencing Club shared space and membership with guys from the local Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA), and they did “historical fencing,” which for them meant rapier and dagger.   Still fewer rules, which meant I was interested. I’m not a “rules” kind of guy.
I fenced for years, mostly doing rapier and dagger, but as often happens, eventually life got in the way and I fell away from it.  Then I moved and never really re-connected with it.  I would window shop online for swords and read occasional articles about history or techniques, but there was no one to practice with.  In the intervening years, “historical fencing” had given way fully to HEMA, or Historical European Martial Arts.  HEMA is distinctly different from its predecessors because of its concentration on primary sources as well as its breadth of study.  Members of the SCA may choose to study sources, and some are quite knowledgeable, but it’s not an expectation, and such organizations have an element of fantasy to them that HEMA does not.  HEMA is the perfect martial art for someone who appreciates research and citation.  It has become increasingly popular, but not so much so that there is a HEMA McDojo just down the street; actual places to train are not so very common.
But there is one in Phoenix, where I live now.  The Phoenix Society of Historical Swordsmanship hosted a special seminar a couple of weekends ago which promised guests they would “Learn Everything.”  The study of HEMA covers everything from the medieval period until deep into the 19th century, so to “learn everything” in a weekend is a pretty tall order, but the folks over at the Phoenix Society did a bang up job of providing a solid overview of everything you could know and study, and they showcased some of their top-notch instructors as well.  Several of those who ran seminars are nationally or internationally ranked competitors in their chosen weapons (did I mention that HEMA is popular?), and Richard Marsden, one of the co-founders of the Phoenix Society, literally wrote the book on Polish Saber.
Over two days of instruction on Polish saber, 19th century pugilism, sword and buckler (it looks so much easier than it is!), singlestick, and a broad introduction to a major medieval master named Fiore, whose work covered everything from hand-to-hand, single sword and longsword. I also got a refresher on rapier and smallsword (I never fenced smallsword, but it shares a common framework with Olympic foil). We also had instruction on some of the intangibles of the fencing arts, covering timing, tempo, and distance.  The most fun, however, was cutting practice, when students were able to practice real cuts on rolled Tatami mats (the traditional cutting medium of Japanese sword practitioners) with live steel, and students were even allowed to bring sharps in and try a cut with their own blades!
So if you find yourself in the Phoenix area, check out the Phoenix Society of Historical Swordsmanship.  
https://www.phoenixswordclub.com/
If you’re not in the Phoenix area, but find a kindred spirit in d’Artagnon, Robin Hood (or Little John), Sir Walter Raleigh, or King Arthur, you can find a HEMA affiliate here:
https://www.hemaalliance.com/club-finders/
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Richard Marsden's book on the Polish Saber:
www.amazon.com/Polish-Saber-Richard-Marsden/dp/0984771654/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1496644495&sr=8-1&keywords=polish+saber

Saturday I spent a rewarding afternoon with the Chandler Police Department.  Not in an official capacity, but as a student in their Motorcycle Safety Course.  They hosted about thirty fellow riders for a full day of training in the finer art of motorcycle control, handling, and safe riding.

It is always interesting to me, as an educator, to watch other educators at work, and never more so than when the topic is dramatically different than my own field.  Teaching a physical skill like controlling a motorcycle is far different than teaching the almost internal skills associated with writing, but at the end of the day, there are more similarities than differences.  The officers, who had probably fifty years combined experience in both riding and teaching, were able to diagnose at a fair distance the precise movements I needed to employ to negotiate my turns more smoothly and cleanly, and they were able to articulate these changes in ways that made sense to me.  I only hope that I am so insightful and succinct in my writing instruction to my own students.

If you're in the greater Phoenix area, check out the Chandler PD.  This was their first training day, but won't be their last.  Look for another one in the spring, and if you're on the west side of the valley, call on the Peoria PD, who conducts similar training for the public. Protecting, serving, and helping us all stay safer on the highways.

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My friend, owner and sensei of Battle School in Scottsdale, AZ  (http://www.azbattleschool.com), posted a scenario on Facebook the other day asking readers about distances with an enraged person, and asking how one handles it – this made me think about the 21 foot rule, which is a staple in defensive combat circles.

What, you ask, is a “21 Foot rule”?  This “rule” was developed first by Dennis Tueller to explain the phenomenon of police officers being killed by knifemen without their even being able to present a weapon in defense.  What they discovered was that an average man can cross 21 feet (7 yards) in 1.5 seconds … this is problematic since the average man’s reaction time is also 1.5 seconds, which means that a determined attacker can be on top of his victim, even an armed victim, before they realize they’re even being attacked, even from as far as 21 feet away.  Hence the rule’s name.  Generally, distance favors the shooter, but inside 21 feet, the presumed advantage of a gun virtually disappears.

The 21 Foot Rule has been a buzz for some time in defensive shooting circles, and even made an appearance on the hit television show Justified, in which Danny Crowe (A.J. Buckley) dispatches one of his fellow bad guys, and finally challenges the lead character Raylan Givens, using the rule.  The outcome is predictable, and yet the way it ends defies expectation.  But, as with any fictional interpretation of real combat principles, the 21 foot rule a’la Justified was fraught with problems.  The “rule” assumes an unwary target, first and foremost – once Raylan knows that Crowe is going to attack with a blade (regardless of the distance), the jig is up and the specifications of the 21 foot window are moot.  Especially if the target is an accomplished pistoleer, as Raylon is in Justified.  The “rule” of 21 feet is all about reaction time, not distance, and if one expects a given action, one’s reaction time to it will be significantly shorter.
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This brings up another wrinkle in the 21 Foot Continuum, that being that everyone’s 21 feet is different.  21 feet is an average, and all things being equal, nothing ever is.  The “rule,”  (it’s really a guideline, at best), states that the average man can cross 21 feet in the same time as another average man’s reaction time.  Sadly, reaction times vary considerably and decline with age; my reaction time pushing 50 is not what it was twenty years ago, and so my 21 feet is really more like 27.  

I know this from doing a drill on the range.  Facing the target, a buddy stood beside me facing away from me.  At the bell, I drew and fired as he ran like hell toward the back of the range.  At the sound of my shot, he stopped, and we measured how far away from me he was able to run (remember, he was running away from the direction I was shooting) before I was able to present my weapon and fire.  In multiple attempts, and knowing that I was being tested on the 21 Foot Rule, I never made 21 feet. 

One of my little secrets is my love for reality television shows (I guess it’s not so secret anymore).  Lately, I’ve been watching the cooking show Chopped quite a bit, and I think I’ve learned some interesting things about the foodservice industry that I did not know before.  One of the most telling differences between the different competitors is their level of education; many chefs who are relatively successful in their profession come onto Chopped and admit that they have never been to culinary school, that they received their education through hard-won experience.

What it means to be Chopped

Contestants routinely cite their competing on Chopped as an appeal for validation that they are truly good enough, that they made the right choice in their profession, that they (excuse the pun) “make the cut.”  As one contestant said, a win “would be a complete affirmation that I’m going in the right direction.”

This obsession with being “good enough” seems to me to correlate quite closely with the academic graduate student’s obsession with being “smart enough,” or “published enough,” or whatever benchmark they believe they might have some measure of control over as they enter what they know will be a brutal job search.  Ultimately, many candidates who are plenty skilled will not make the cut, just as many talented chefs don’t pass muster on Chopped. 

Training or Education?

I’m not sure what the ratio is of professional chefs (and I’m not sure if that term has a standardized definition) who are “trained” on the job versus those who are “educated” at culinary institutions, but there does appear to be a clear distinction on the show, an unspoken tension among the different classes.  Those who have attended a famous culinary school make a point of naming their institution in much the same way as those who have degrees from highly sought-after academic programs, and anyone who has training in the French style makes a studious point of letting viewers (and judges, and anyone else in the vicinity) aware of their awesomeness.

The self-taught chefs, however, present the most interesting perspective on their education.  They almost always note that they didn’t go to culinary school, which they follow with either an expression of doubt or hope that they will be able to perform or a self-conscious assertion that they are just as good as those who attended a culinary school.  Sometimes the competitor appears to really believe themselves, and other times they are transparently justifying their position.

All this makes me think about the difference between training and education, and the purposes behind each.  When I think of “Training,” I think of something, generally of short duration, that is designed to impart specific skills to do a given task.  I get training in Canvas, our college’s learning management system (think Blackboard), I get training in how to navigate Word or build a web page.  In foodservice, one might be trained in some certain aspect of the business, say dishwashing or prep work.  Later, one is promoted to the grill or line cook, and learns this job.  After several years, the employee has held many of the cooking jobs, and knows how to do almost everything, so they feel confident and apply for Chopped.  They are well-trained, but are they educated?

To be educated implies more than simply having amassed a certain number of skill sets, although the connotation is not widely agreed upon.  An “education,” particularly in the humanistic tradition, implies taking a longer view than simply learning discrete skills that someone might pay for; this is historically the difference between getting a degree (Associate’s, Bachelor’s or higher) or getting a certificate, the difference between a certificate from a mechanic’s institute and the mechanics program at a community college.

What’s the Takeaway?

What’s my point here?  At regular intervals on Chopped, the contestants must deal with exotic, often truly odd ingredients, the sort of thing that no one, I mean no one, ever really cooks with.  Someone who has a fuller education, generally, finds themselves in a better position to address these odd ingredients.  They may never have actually used (or even seen!) a hundred-year egg, but they’ve heard of it.  Sometimes they’ve never encountered an ingredient, like goat brains, before, or fenugreek (is it a grain? Is it a spice?), but they can more easily assess its qualities and make a better (wait for it) educated guess about how to address it.  Ultimately, it comes down to a difference of knowing how to do something, versus knowing how to think through a unique problem.  The solution of education is the ability to think through unforeseen situations more so than the ability to perform a predetermined set of specific tasks.

For contestants on Chopped, as it is for our students, pursuing an education is an act of faith that the things learned are intrinsically valuable; even though they may take their culinary degree and work in a rib joint, knowing how to julienne an exotic vegetable just might come in handy someday.  Our students often bemoan the pointlessness of required courses like English and Math, but I submit that, like their culinary brethren, having an education pays dividends far beyond the concrete skill set required for a particular job title.