bench pulls

Yesterday, in my weight lifting class, we had to do another  bench pull test. I hate these tests. I am almost 44 years old, and haven't been in school for years. I have no interest in tests. I just want to row.

But rowers just can't let go of tests. I have had to do 2k tests, 5k tests and 6k tests. In another month I will be doing more tests, and comparing my tests with other middle-aged women's tests to figure out how fast or slow I am or where I might fit best in a boat. Actually, there are more young women than middle-aged women in our rowing club. So my tests will be compared with the 25 and 30 year olds' tests. If only these tests measured wisdom, or communication skills, or maturity, number of children raised, or how to figure out a retirement investment plan. I could whoop most of their young butts at those tests.

But no. Now I have to lay my middle-aged body across a rickety wooden bench, and yank a 45 pound bar up to my chest, bang it against the board underneath me with a clank, and drop it back down to full extension. I have to do this as many times as I can muster in 60 seconds.

I have done this test before, and I have never gotten a passing grade. In the world of bench pulls, where 60 is an A, and 50 is a B,  40 is a C, etc.I have never gotten above a D minus. In truth, my D minus is a pity grade, just for showing up. Because Tom (the very sweet-natured instructor) just cannot bring himself to utterly fail anyone who at least tries.

Of course, there is no actual grade given for this ridiculous test. It is like the SATs--no failing and no passing, but wander the halls for a day and you know who got the highest score, and you know how you stack up to your peers. The bench pull test is like that. All that peer pressure of adolescence without the pimples.

I love the strong women who are older than I am and can bench press what I weigh. There are several of them, and they are my role models. I want to be them. I want to row like them. I want to erg like them. I want to bench pull like them. They are strong, but also very supportive. If I bench pull 12 times they clap me on the back and say "good job, Robyn!". A few weeks later, when I bump it up to 20, they cheer about my improvement. When the bench tips forward because my legs aren't heavy enough to keep it balanced, they stand behind me and hold the bench down. They keep me from falling off, and they keep me from quitting. They make it feel less like a competition that will seal my rowing fate, and more like a measure that I am making progress.

So when Tom announces that we are doing another bench pull test, I decide to jump on that blasted rickety bench and pull that rotten steel bar as many times as I can--I will improve, dammit. I will do better. I will not tip forward on my head. I will not fail.I will make these women proud.

Jen is my partner and she helps me lay weights across the back legs of the bench, to make it more stable. She gives me a big grin and gives me pointers. "Pull like hell for the first half. Your arms will get tired then no matter how many times you have pulled, so you might as well get as many in as you can."

Ah. Strategy. I like it. There is a trick in here somewhere.

Jen looks at the clock. "5 seconds...3...2...1...GO!"

And I haul on that bar "1-and-clank-and-2-and-clank-and-3-and-clank......and I reach 30 just as Jen says "30 seconds--half way there".

Wow. In half a minute, I have already broken my previous record.

I pull two more times and the pain starts. A numbing fire in my biceps simultaneously travels both up and down my arms. I pull again. The grip on my hands weakens. One...and...clank...and...two...I stop with my arms extended, my chest muscles contracting down on my lungs...one...and...clank...and...rest...gasp...sigh....

"Only 15 seconds longer" Jen warns....or is it a promise of hope?

One more....ugh....clank...again...gasp....screaming pain up into my shoulders....one-half....groan....three-quarters....I heave the bar up--not quite to the bench--I grunt it up all the way--clank--and drop it down.

"5 more seconds"

ssssslooooooowly I pull it up again...arms shaking....clank--and drop the bar down, and again....oh my god.....I am going to explode....my arms are falling off....CLANK....

"Stop!"

I did it. The bar almost falls out of my hands. I roll off the bench onto the floor, my biceps quivering, my hands frozen in a permanent claw.

This is a strange and wonderful feeling. My legs are fine--no discomfort. But my chest is collapsed--I wonder if I need a chest tube to allow some air in--and my arms have stopped feeling altogether. I flop them out beside me on the floor. I have to look to make sure they are still connected to my body.

Yup. Two arms. One left. One right. No sensation whatsoever.

Tom comes over and reaches down to help me up. I slowly lift one hand to meet his. He hauls me to my feet, and grins. "Nice job, Robyn!"

I smile proudly. Until his next words.

"Lets get ready for a 20 minute bar circuit"

Oh. Shit.