The Perfect Lift

A cool rush of wind crisply hit my face as I entered the Bell Senseplex. Who’s ever heard of holding a powerlifting meet in a hockey arena? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a green space. There happens to be an indoor soccer field and that is where Provincials held. Red and black, black and white, a sea of singlet wearing lifters cased the space. Just beyond a curtain, behind the main lifting platform, you could see lifters being amped up by their coaches, or zoned out by the beats in their headphones. There were others ritualistically setting up their deadlifts-left arm up-right arm up-left arm down-grip-right arm down-grip-breathe out-breathe out more-brace-lats engaged-sit back-lift—warming up for the moment that would define them. I noticed that there were physio tables set up, and a few lifters from the weight class that just finished were having their limbs contorted in ways that would ease their pain. The smell of fear mixed with excitement and ammonia.

I walked over to the lifter check-in table and started pulling out my gear. People always tease me because my bag is giant and I have extras of almost everything: 2 singlets, 2 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of shoes (lift specific), 2 sets of wrist wraps, one belt, about 16 sandwiches, 8 protein bars and a case of G2. Once I checked in my gear, I found my spot. It was close to a window and there were poles close enough to use to wrap my exercise bands around and warm up. My stomach grumbled as made my way to the weigh-in area. There were many familiar faces—friends? Rivals? Both?—who I recognized from Centrals, already in line. How did I get here?

It’s hard to really peg an exact starting point. I got into fitness several years ago, doing boot camps, Zumba and yoga. Then I crossed over into bodybuilding. After that, I tried CrossFit and through that discovered powerlifting; it was love at first lift. There is no better feeling in the world than hitting a PR. PR stands for personal record and is when you have successfully completed a lift at a weight that you have never hit before. After doing two competitions back to back in 2015, I took a one-year hiatus and slowly eased my way back into the gym.

July 29th, 2018 7am: I walked through the doors or Crossfit Canuck, ready to weigh in for the Eastbound Summer Classic. Just a week earlier, I thought I would not be competing. I had been training hard for months; all of the yoke carries, lunges, Anderson squats, and overloading almost amounted to nothing. Greif filled me—a child had been shot, just a week prior and her wake followed my meet—but I showed up. I compartmentalized my emotions. I competed. I had to. I had students rooting for me, parents pushing me, coworkers encouraging me and personal ambition driving me.

The day started out amazingly. I dread squats. You see, at my first competition, two years ago, I bombed out on my squats. I was over confident and put in a heavy opener, but I did not make depth, which disqualified me. Ever since, I have been absolutely terrified of repeating history. To ease my anxiety I did a meditation. I was in the zone: calm, cool, collected. “The bar is loaded for Yvonne Ringler.” I walked out. Got underneath the bar. Adjusted it, so that it rested low on my shoulders, walked out and awaited the command. “Squat!” I obeyed, broke parallel and stood up. “Rack!” I obeyed again and eagerly awaited the lights. All three beamed white. I happily skipped off the platform.

I thought I was going to have a perfect day and qualify for Provincials. I PR’d my squats and my bench. All that I had to do was keep those white lights coming during deadlifts. That should be easy—I had thought-deadlifts are my best lift. “Bar is loaded for Yvonne Ringler—“ wait, what? Where was Ben, my coach? He usually gives me a heads up before my name is called. I rushed out to the platform, forgetting that I did not have to wait for a command. In the crowd I saw my sisters--they actually came?—and my stomach dropped as I realized I was waiting for nothing and my one minute was almost up. I lifted the bar, a weight I had lifted a million times, but for some reason I dipped. I knew then it was a missed lift. I walked off the platform angry, not even waiting for the red lights to illuminate. Ben was waiting for me behind the curtain and told me to calm down. I told him to drop the weight of my second lift—I had to qualify for Centrals at least. I did. My last two lifts were perfect.

Three weeks and three injuries later, I found myself in Ottawa. Centrals was being held at Algonquin College and my friend Allie came with me to be my handler. Ben pretty much refused to come and coach me for the day because a lifter had burned him in the past. She jumped coaches mid competition because she thought it would give her a better edge. I was determined to qualify for Provincials/Nationals and needed a total of 377.5 kilos. I knew I had it in me, despite that fact that my hip flexor was pulled, my elbow was inflamed and my chiropractor had injured my back while trying to pop in a dislocated rib just a week prior.

Allie and I headed to Algonquin College early to find our footing. As I walked across the parking lot I heard a voice call out, “Ringler!” It was Ann. Ann is a vibrant woman who had been a volunteer at my last competition. Her smile beemed and her bubbly laugh was contagious. She had tried to help my teammate Martin, a 65 year old hipster, get his TruSportClean test results so he could compete. Ann happened to be in my weight class and was competing at Centrals too. “How’s it going girl? You ready to do the thing?” We chatted for a few minutes and parted ways, until weigh-ins of course.

The moment of truth was approaching. Squats had gone better than expected and my total was starting off on the right foot. During bench warm-ups, I got a bad hand-off. The lifter had pushed down on the bar and a searing pain shot through my wrist, down my arm and beat its way into my elbow. I winced, nearly dropped the bar and panic set in. “Allie, drop my opener!” She rushed to the judges table and handed the judges an attempt card with 57.5k written on it. I grabbed my phone, hoping that Ben was still available on the team group chat.

“The bar is loaded for Yvonne Ringler!” It was time. I walked out to the bench. Laid down and adjusted to optimize my arch. Planted my hands around the bar and waited for the lift off. “Start!” I lowered the bar to my chest and waited. “Press!” I raised the bar with little difficulty. “Rack!” Three white lights beamed and so did my confidence. I told Allie to jump my next lift to 62.5. 57.5 was so easy, I shouldn’t have a problem, or so I thought.

I walked out confidently to do my second lift. I was sure I would be going 9 for 9 today, despite my injury being enflamed. As I held the bar, my elbow collapsed and the spotter saved me from further injury by grabbing the bar and re-racking. 3 red lights. My stomach sank and my heart was beating a hole through my chest. My mind was racing. I had already lost the gains I had made with squats, what if I didn’t make my 3rd attempt? I kept the weight the same for my final attempt, went to the warm up room and did a few reps at a midway weight to prepare my body and my name was called. “Start!” The announcer shouted. I waited for the second command for what felt like a lifetime. “Press!” The announcer taunted. I pressed. I kept pressing. My arms quivered under the weight. I was stuck. Finally, my left arm extended followed shortly by my right, as I fought through the lift. I got the weight up unassisted by the spotter. I stared intently at the lights as I rose from the bench. 3 red lights. I must have dipped my arm down when I was shaking.

My plan had to change. There was no other way to make my total than to PR my deadlift. I did not want to have to rely on lifting a weight that I had never attempted before. 172.5 K! That is 380 lbs! I scrolled through Whattsapp, searching for advice from Ben. Should I start heavier? Should I lower my opener and go heavier on my second attempt? What should I do? I needed him and he wasn’t responding. Emotions filled me like a glass filling with water. The surface rising—spilling—I started to cry as I noticed Ann approach. She gave me a hug. “It’s ok. We have all been here before. It is so frustrating when you have worked so hard. You will do this.”

My first and second lifts were flawless. My total was 372.5 at this point. All I needed was 5 more kilograms…that’s only 10 pounds. “The bar is loaded for Yvonne Ringler!” There was 172.5k on the bar. If I got this lift, I was going to Provincials and Nationals. I chalked up, cracked two ammonia caps, and inhaled. Allie slapped my back fiercely, “You’ve got this!” The timer was ticking. The last few months flashed through my mind as I stepped behind the bar. All of the grief, anger, frustration, ambition and pride bubbled inside me. I planted my right foot and then the left. I stiffened my back, placed my hands on the bar and braced. As I began my pull, I wailed. “Eraaaaaaaaaagh!” I could see the judge in front of me. He was yelling at me to lock out. I locked out. “Down” the final command of the day. I looked at the lights and they mocked me. A crimson “NO!” flashed in front of me; there was no white light in sight. Like a child throwing a tantrum I jumped and yelled, “What?! Why?!” I stomped off the platform with a child’s rage. What had I done wrong? I lifted the weight. Why didn’t I get that lift?

My phone welcomed me with two-cents too late. Ben had gotten back to me but not in time. He should have been here. Allie’s words and my thoughts mixed into one. I knew then that I needed a coach who was all in. A coach who programmed specifically for me. A coach that would teach me form. A coach who understood the rules of the sport. A coach that showed up to meets. A coach that would not punish me for the sins of lifters’ past. A coach who would get me qualified for Provincials/Nationals before the September 30th deadline.

Smash! The sound of heavy plates hitting the platform resounded in the warm-up room. It was September 29th. I had a new coach; was part of a new team; and was exhausted. This was my third competition in literally two months; it had a 6am weigh in and my three-hour drive the night before turned into six because I had forgotten my purse at work. This was absolutely my last chance to qualify for Provincials/Nationals this year, so the only goal was a total of 377.5. If I could hit numbers I had successfully hit in the past, I would do it. It was funny, both squats and bench went 2 for 3, first and 3rd lifts good, middle one missed. In order to make my qualifier I needed a deadlift of 170k; that was less than the missed lift at Centrals, but I had never actually hit that number before.

“You’ve got this!” Rob, my coach, said confidently as he chalked-up my shoulders. I looked at him nervously as the announcer bellowed, “The bar is loaded!” I cracked the smelling salts cap, breathed in as the scent punched me in the nose. “Go get it!” Rob yelled as he slapped my shoulders and pushed me toward the platform. I pulled the bar, locked out and waited for the command to put it down. One white light. Two white lights: that was enough to qualify me! Three white lights: a perfect lift! I dived off the platform and hugged Rob. I had one more lift, but it didn’t matter, I got my total! I made it to Provincials!

Have you ever looked a demon right in the eyes before? You know, a personal demon. One of those challenges that rears its ugly head around every corner of your life; glaring, snickering, haunting and taunting you? Well I have. 172.5k was my demon. 172.5k represented more than just the missed lift at Centrals. 172.5k was failure. Every failure I had faced over my 38 years on this planet. You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You are not strong enough. You are not enough. The demon pressed play on the recording in my mind and laughed at me from the Provincial platform.

“The bar is loaded for Yvonne Ringler.” Rob grabbed my traps and roughly massaged them. Adrenalin built inside me as I chalked up, cracked two ammonia caps, and inhaled. “Go get it!” I walked out with confidence, planted my right foot and then the left. I stiffened my back, placed my hands on the bar and braced. As I began my pull, I wailed. “Eraaaaaaaaaagh!” I locked out my shoulders and waited for the command to put it down.

One white light. Two white lights. Three white lights: the perfect lift.