Anna Reed

Statesman Journal

Chris Barrilleaux leaves his home once a week.

Every Friday night, the 27-year-old has a half-hour fencing lesson. His mother, Julie Miller, prepares him for the outing. It takes her nearly 20 minutes to put on his leg braces, tennis shoes and protective fencing jacket. His wheelchair is lifted into the back of their van for the half-hour drive from their Aurora home to the Salem Fencing Club.

Barrilleaux lives with cerebral palsy. The neurological disorder causes limited muscle coordination and involuntary movements. He was born with the condition, though it was likely worsened after surviving meningitis as an infant. Because of the limited muscle control, he cannot speak or control the volume of the sounds he makes.

He is dependent on a wheelchair and the help of his mother for everything he does. Everything except fencing.

The sport allows Barrilleaux to compete one-on-one. Both fencers sit in wheelchairs a sword’s length apart. The short bursts of swordwork let his muscles have breaks between movements. And because fencing is just as much about the mental challenge as the physical, Barrilleux is able to use his quick thinking to act and react to his opponent’s moves.

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Modern-day fencing is the evolution of centuries-old sword dueling and sword military training. Because duelers would fight to first blood, they traditionally wore white so the red could easily be seen. The white uniform has lasted into today’s bloodless version. Fencing became an organized sport in the 14th century, and was first added to the 1896 Olympic games in Athens.

There are three standard weapons in modern fencing. The foil is the lightest sword and was originally used as a training tool. Its target area is the body; no arms legs, or head.

The epee was originally used for traditional duels. The target area is the entire body.

The sabre was used in the military as a cavalry weapon, so the target area was anywhere above the waist. Unlike foil and epee, points in sabre can be earned with a touch from the entire length of the blade, not just the tip.

All three weapons are wielded today in Olympic and Paralympic fencing, in which there is almost no distinction between able-bodied and wheelchair fencing.

“Essentially there is no difference, apart from the wheelchair fencers can’t move up and down the strip,” said Samuel Aldridge, Barrilleaux’s coach at the Salem Fencing Club.

”If there is one fundamental difference, it’s that wheelchair fencing is about three times faster than standard fencing, because you don’t have all the preliminary moving back and forth before the sword work can happen.”

Because of the speed of the blades, fencing is just as much a physical sport as it is a mental one. Decisions about how to attack and to react must be made in split seconds. As in chess, competitors must always think several moves ahead to stay in the match.

* * *

Barrilleaux’s hand moves slowly over his laptop, one finger finding each key. He is able to control his left hand enough to type a few letters a minute.

He spends most of his time writing stories. His long-form fantasy tales revolve around pirates, knights and other sword-bearing characters. A couple of years ago, he and his mother saw a bit on the local television news about wheelchair fencers.

“And then the fencing came along and that was huge, because, you know, he doesn’t get to do a lot of things that are really fast,” Miller said.

Barrilleaux had tried other activities but never was as excited about them.

He rode horses but had to rely on help. A few people would lift him onto the horse. Once in the saddle, he had one person lead the horse and a person on either side to prevent his sliding off.

In sabre, once his mom straps him into the frame meant to keep the wheelchairs steady, it becomes a one-on-one sport. He is equal to his opponent.

And Barrilleaux is often better than his opponent.

“He’s got an incredibly cheeky cut to wrist,” Aldridge said. “Everyone who fences him, they always think, ‘Yes, I’ve got a point,’ and then you realize he’s already hit you on the underside of your wrist.”

* * *

Barrilleaux has no intention of developing his fencing into anything but a recreational activity. However, a professional sphere for able-bodied and wheelchair fencers is a reality for some.

Ten years after being discharged from the Army because of injuries from a bombing, Leo Curtis of Beaverton is one tournament away from qualifying for the 2016 Paralymics in Rio de Janeiro.

Curtis began wheelchair fencing in 2012, mainly as a way to get out of the house. He had gone through depression and PTSD after the IED explosion that left him with major injuries to his brain, spine, ankles and other body parts.

Now Curtis is one of the world's top wheelchair epee and sabre competitors.

He enjoys fencing for many of the same reasons as Barrilleaux: the speed and the mental challenge.

“It’s the same sport, but it’s a different game,” he said of wheelchair fencing compared with standard fencing. “Whatever I do with my blade has to be right. If it’s not right, I’m going to get hit. So in a wheelchair, you have to be more technically precise with your blade work.”

Beyond training for competitions, Curtis spends his time teaching fencing to disabled children. He gives them an outlet.

“Unfortunately, no matter where you live, there’s not a lot for kids with disabilities to do,” Curtis said. “We live in an area where the wintertime can be very difficult with children with disabilities, and even adults with disabilities.”

He enjoys opening their eyes to fencing but also to the fact that they are able to do the same activities as others.

“It’s really fun when you take somebody who has not been able to do any type of sporting event ever, or not found the one that fits with their disability needs, and they get the concept the first time,” Curtis said. “They really understand what you’re telling them, and they’re able to do it.”

* * *

“Ready.”

“Fence.”

The clanking of metal swords echoes through the Salem Fencing Club. After each hit, lively chuckles and squeals ring out.

Barrilleaux “is great fun to fence,” Aldridge said. “He’s always able to have a laugh while he’s fencing. He will laugh at you. He will laugh at himself.”

While at home, Barrilleaux is quiet, but at fencing his demeanor changes.

“When he does a really good hit, he gets his giggle or his squeals,” his mother said, with a laugh herself. “He’s just having a great time.”

Each time his distinctive giggle is heard, others around him smile.

The half-hour each week that Barrilleaux is fencing gives him the chance to do something on his own, a rare luxury. For everything else in his life, he has and will always have to rely on his mom or an aide.

But with the sabre in his grasp, Barrilleaux opens up. He laughs. He is able to make his own choices and to communicate physically and with his competitor.

“I know that it’s given him a lot of confidence of just getting out and being able to do stuff,” Miller said. “So that way it’s really been huge.”