Power up
Karen Humphreys threw herself into fitness as she grieved the loss of her son, never imagining she’d one day set a world record by squatting almost double her body weight.
Karen Humphreys threw herself into fitness as she grieved the loss of her son, never imagining she’d one day set a world record by squatting almost double her body weight.
words DEBBIE GRIFFITHS | photos KATIE COX
Did you just say you picked up a washing machine?”
“A front loader, yeah,” laughs the 159cm-tall grandmother, suddenly realising how far from normal that sounds.
She explains that you can ‘flick it onto your legs’ to carry it up steps. Same with a small chest freezer; although when helping a friend move house recently, her coach Mike Jones had already called to insist that she refrain from lifting whiteware. It was, after all, the lead up to defending her world powerlifting title.
“At the last worlds, three lifters were injured in the week before,” she laughs. “As we get older, we’re just not as robust as we used to be.”
It’s the only concession to her 61 years that she’ll make.
“I see other people doing what I’m doing and the fact that they’re 40 years younger doesn’t mean anything to me,” she says. “At my daughter’s wedding in Fiji, I wore a dress with shoestring straps. Some young guys wanted to know ‘how’d you get traps like that?’. That felt good.”
Fighting spirit Karen grew up in ‘middle of nowhere’ Kaihere, aiming for a career as an architect. Back then, technical drawing was only for boys.
“My parents had to go in fighting for me. The school eventually said yes, and I thought ‘right, I want to show these guys’, so each year, I was top of the class.”
Years later, she fought for her own teenager when he fell ill. After three weeks of night sweats and debilitating aching limbs, came the nightmare diagnosis.
“I didn’t even know what leukemia was,” she admits. “Jono looked it up on his computer and said, ‘Mum, I have cancer’. I was dumbfounded.”
Seventeen-year-olds are usually treated at Starship but, because Jono had left home and was working, he was treated as an adult so Karen was told she couldn’t stay with him. Her tenacity kicked in.
“I stood my ground and wouldn’t leave. I think I got guts and determination from my parents.”
In August 2013, Jono lost his battle with cancer. Channelling the grief By the age of 50, she’d taken up boxing, but after being deemed too old to compete, Karen switched to powerlifting, entering her first competition just six months later.
“I started like anyone else; lifting tiny weights around a tenth of what I lift now,” she says.
Since then, she’s won multiple national titles, the Commonwealth Championships in 2022 and last year, the World Champs in Mongolia. In October, she attempted to defend her title at the IPF World Masters Powerlifting Champs and the Commonwealth Powerlifting Champs in South Africa. Karen’s deadlifting weight was five kilos off the 155kg to secure the overall win but her best squat of 120.5kg set a new world record.
Ruthless Barbell Club owner Mike Jones says it’s rare to meet someone as dedicated. “To push our top competitor, a highly accomplished athlete, to their limit made for an exciting and rewarding day on the platform.” Strong focus “I close my eyes, blank everyone out and go through all the motions in my mind; going to the bar, doing the lift, racking it up – and then I go and do it. Visualisation is so powerful.”
Karen’s target weights are already scrawled on sticky notes in her car and on her work desk for future international competitions. She’s even eyeing up the next age category that she’ll move into when she’s 69.
“There’s a new set of records to break,” she smiles.
Just keep swimming: a love affair with year-round outdoor dips
The Bay of Plenty could have been called “Bay of Plentiful Waters” – with hundreds of streams cascading down off its ranges, deep rivers delivering the streams to numerous wetlands and estuaries, and then all of that fresh water flowing into the sea.
WORDS Annette Lees PHOTOS Supplied
The Bay of Plenty could have been called “Bay of Plentiful Waters” – with hundreds of streams cascading down off its ranges, deep rivers delivering the streams to numerous wetlands and estuaries, and then all of that fresh water flowing into the sea.
It’s a watery place, and so it’s a swimmy place. Every little neighbourhood here has its outdoor swim – a fizzing plunge pool in the local creek, a rope swing out across the river hole, a place to float in the warm estuary water and, of course, the coast with its surf and rock pools.
From the very first, outdoor swimming has defined the Bay. The first swimmer in Tauranga may have been Taurikura, a puhi of Ngāti Ranginui. Taurikura was from a village called Kahakaharoa in the Omanawa Falls area. She was shamed for refusing to fetch water for her grandfather, so she slipped away from her village one night, changed into a ngārara (a reptile-like being), and dived into the river. On that swim, she carved a new course for the river, in the process naming some of our favourite swimming places, until she reached the sea.
I grew up in Whakatāne. My childhood, like that of almost every other kid I knew, revolved around our swimming places. I swam everywhere I could, building layers of water memories and a strong sense of place and home – a “water-biography”. It wasn’t until my own kids became teenagers that my habit to jump into any water at my feet started to fade. And then came a fateful summer when I dipped into wild freshwater only once or twice.
I shocked myself. I had never wanted to be that dry adult who stood on the bank or the beach, lazily watching the kids have all the fun. So I made a resolution to swim every day the coming summer to break the spell and return me to the delight of immersing myself in the wild.
That year, I did swim every day of summer. I loved it so much that I carried on, swimming every day all through autumn and into the winter and then through spring. 365 days that had a mini-holiday inserted into them every time I jumped in.
I swam wherever I found myself that day, so I frequently entered unknown waterscapes. I approached strangers to ask where they swam and, through this, a nationwide network of very local swims opened up to me. I met people everywhere taking a dip in all kinds of weather, all through the year, and collected swimming stories from all over the country.
As I collated those stories into a book, I had the sense of a great swell of serious passion for water and swimming by New Zealanders that goes back hundreds of years.
I found 100-year-old stories from childhoods spent in the creeks of the western Bay of Plenty. In one, a memory from the 1920s, local kids filled coal sacks with stones to dam the Waitete Stream near Waihi. Each swimming hole had its own name and if you helped dam it, you were a member of that place for the summer and could swim there whenever you wanted. Winter storms washed the whole thing away, but no one minded the fun and watery job to rebuild it the following summer.
Mount Maunganui, of course, has a long history of happiness in the water. One memory from the 1920s featured the use of the ironing board to catch the waves.
Water-biographies are still being built all over the Bay of Plenty. Any beach, any river hole you were at this summer, you would’ve seen kids in the water. And with Tauranga’s recent investment in the Tidal Steps, you’re invited to step into the water any old time you’re in town.
The Tidal Steps is an officially sanctioned bombing place where kids can practice the old leaps - the Pin, the Gorilla, the Coffin Bomb, the Knee Bomb, the Angel, and the more traditional Cannonball. In recent years, we have the Manu, a bomb simulating a bird taking flight. A good Manu bomber enters the water in a perfect V, with legs and arms straight up and the tailbone entering the water first. Advanced is to hold a rugby or volley ball between your legs as you pop the Manu, sending the ball tens of metres into the air when you hit the water.
Bombing is a competitive sport now, with its own town and national tournaments. In 2017, Tauranga had its first official bomb competition at the newly opened Tidal Steps. More than 30 bombers fought it out that year for the Best Bomber title, and the numbers of people entering these competitions grows annually. There’s even an “old people’s” category for those over 45.
Don’t let the arrival of winter put you off a dip. This season can provide us with some of our best swimming. Winter swimming has a seriousness about it. In my year of swimming, I found it did take a little more dedication to out in the cold, rain and gales. The sun is slow to rise and early to descend in winter, so I would sometimes have to swim in the dark to keep my pledge, but there is an added deliciousness about night time swimming.
Founder of that New Zealand icon the Plunket Society, Dr Truby King placed cold-water swimming among his top six essentials for health. The others were fruit, raw vegetables, coarse bread, water-drinking and vigorous towelling-down.
It is true that swimming in very cold water is one of life’s great experiences. A glorious shock awakens the entire body. You are made instantaneously present and aware. You have a vivid sensation of inner cleansing, revitalising and freshening. All of your senses are sharpened by peril, so that light appears crisper, your sense of touch precise, your tastebuds bright and the scent of coldness concentrated.
When you emerge, the blood returns to your skin in a visible fizz of pink health. You are burning from head to foot, and you are likely to be laughing. The coolness, freshness and sparkle will stay with you for many hours, leaving you with a bountiful sense of wellbeing and joy. You will be kinder to your family and more generous to your workmates. You feel calm. You feel assured that the day will be exactly the right length to achieve what needs to be done. Well, that’s how it feels, anyway. I bet you swam in cold water as a kid. Try it again. Nothing’s changed.
There are actually proven health benefits to cold-water swimming. People suffering from pain or allergies (rheumatism, fibromyalgia and asthma) describe how their symptoms are eased by winter swimming, perhaps because of the sudden burst of neuroendocrines which act as natural painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Swimming regularly in winter significantly reduces tension, fatigue, and negative memory and mood states.
You could, of course, just have a cold bath, but then you miss out on all the loveliness of wild water. Open wild water adds to each swim special qualities of sunlight slanting through the lake or sea, watery views of the natural world, full immersion in the temperature of the season, and a taste of the water’s origin. Water has 600 times the resistance of air, so it is an effort to swim through it. At the same time, it holds us up, allowing us to discover its multiple dimensions – sideways, down and back up again. We get to explore as if we’re flying. We feel weightless and freed: A 70-kilogram adult weighs only 3.5kg in water.
Only outdoor swimming has bright light shafting through the water. The pools of watery darkness as clouds pass overhead. The wind and waves. The sense of risk and wildness and freedom. Unknown things rising up out of murky water. A feeling of falling when the water below is so deep and clear you can see fathoms. Disorientation without painted lines on the bottom. Not being able to stand, just in case you need to. The cold. The underside of paddling ducks, the flicking swish of a fish, the silence, the wobbling horizon, the distant mountain, the reflection of clouds, the fresh silkiness of wild water on your skin, the ripples and coins of light on the water surface, the rocking of the waves and currents, the watery blue. Fear and joy all mixed up. The wild blue yonder right here in the Bay of Plenty.
Swim: A Year of Swimming Outdoors in New Zealand, by Annette Lees (Potton & Burton $39.99). Available from pottonandburton.co.nz and booksaplenty.co.nz
Ben Hurley finds the funny in cricket
“I made the Hawera High School First XI, but partly because one of my closest friends was the captain and put in a word. I’ve had my moments on the field but I was a bit of a late bloomer, physically, and by the time I was able to compete properly, other career paths had presented themselves. Mostly comedy and beer.”
Comedian Ben Hurley is bowled over by the “ridiculously quirky” game of cricket.
WORDS Ben Hurley
“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” is Ray Liotta’s infamous and chilling line in the opening scene of the Martin Scorsese movie Goodfellas. A story of a man born into the mafia; essentially a crime cult held together by family, centuries-old tradition, rival factions and unwritten rules and terminology that the uninitiated don’t really understand. I never wanted to be a gangster, but as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a cricketer.
I know half of you stopped reading when you read that word. Cricket is an acquired taste, polarising like blue cheese or Jim Carrey. I don’t expect you to like it and understand if you don’t. I know it’s “slow” and “boring” and “complicated” and “sometimes it’s a draw after playing for five days.” I’ve heard it all a thousand times and it doesn’t offend me.
Cricket isn’t really what this is about. This column is really for anyone who thought their natural inability to do something (well) would preclude them from doing it for a living. Because I am one of that number and testament to the fact that it isn’t always the case.
I came to the game later than my friends. I grew up in an arty household more than a sporty one, so I never really saw much sport on TV. I remember New Zealand winning the 1987 Rugby World Cup, and a handful of moments from the 1988 Seoul Olympic Games, but that’s about it. Until I was about 11 and a combination of cricket-mad next-door neighbours and seeing New Zealand play Australia in something called “The Benson and Hedges World Series” set off a strange reaction inside me. Something I’ve never truly been able to explain. Within a few months, I was part of a real cricket team that played on Saturday, and my bedroom walls were covered in posters of cricketers. I knew stats and names and nicknames and stats about nicknames. I’d caught the bug, with two hands, reverse cup, in front of my face.
Was I any good? Not really. But, if I’m honest, I wasn’t awful. I made the Hawera High School First XI, but partly because one of my closest friends was the captain and put in a word. I’ve had my moments on the field but I was a bit of a late bloomer, physically, and by the time I was able to compete properly, other career paths had presented themselves. Mostly Comedy and Beer.
I still played as a semi-social weekend warrior but the realisation eventually dawned on me that I was unlikely to make the premier club side, let alone the national one. I would always be someone who loved the game and could ruin any party by finding the one other cricket person in the room and settling in for the night. Commandeering a corner of the kitchen to loudly debate what went wrong in the 1992 World Cup semi-final loss to Pakistan. That would be my lot in cricket life. Or was it?
Around 10 years ago, when comedy and TV work became more abundant for me, New Zealand Cricket got wind of the fact that I was one of these cricket “tragics”, as we are often referred to (I prefer the term “nuffy”), and got in touch. They wanted something called a “Match Day Host” to travel around with the team over the summer and interview drunk people in the crowd for the big screen. Not only did I jump at this opportunity, but I did it for seven summers. Only giving it up and passing on the role to someone younger because I realised no one wants to see a 40-year-old man doing boat races on the embankment while a dozen Otago students chant, “Down in one!”
Once again, I thought that would be it for me but, last year, in a deal even more complicated than the LBW rule, Spark Sport got the rights to televise the cricket and they gave me my own show! Who said nothing good happened in 2020? And this is what I did all summer. Half-an-hour a week where I’m paid to talk about this game. This ridiculously quirky game that has featured in many of the happiest moments of my life. (My wedding, my kids’ births and Grant Elliot hitting that six at Eden park to put us into the World Cup final). It’s not a dream job because I rarely have dreams this good.
Ok, so I’m not a gangster, and yes, I still think about it. I didn’t have the genes or the constitution for it. But, in this analogy, maybe I’m Martin Scorsese, telling those who are interested all about the ones that do. And I’m mostly okay with that.
Father + Son: Tim and Finn Rainger
Both freelance writers, father and son team Tim and Finn Rainger talk about their relationship.
Both freelance writers, father and son team Tim and Finn Rainger talk about their relationship.
FINN RAINGER: SON ON FATHER
My Dad, or Munter as I more frequently call him, is far from your average human being. He’s a self-described outsider with an affinity for the strange. Surfing, he reckons, brought purpose into his life as an alienated and vexed youth. The memory of my first proper wave, aged 16, at Taupo Bay with him hooting from the beach, drifts into my consciousness every so often. “No wife, no career, no mortgage – it is not a lifestyle that many live, and thank fuck for that,” he stated during lunch recently. I admire his resolve in pursuing a lifestyle that suits him.
This year I indulged our shared obsession for chasing waves by joining him for the season in Indonesia, where he has spent the last four years away from the New Zealand winter. We have many similarities: a psychotic tendency to twirl strands of our hair when concentrating, and a passion for reading, writing, and taking photos. One of my earliest memories is sitting in the passenger seat of his van in Cornwall, England, probably on the way home from the beach, with Sublime playing loudly and smoke billowing out the window.
Like the surf, Dad can be fickle and stubborn, and hard to contact, but when you do have his attention he usually brings something to the table, whether it’s a plan, story idea, or advice on the age-old question of what is the point? He is adept at putting life into perspective, and it was his advice combined with my Mum’s that convinced me to take a job working as a reporter for the Gisborne Herald in 2015.
His capacity to impart advice and wisdom to people who want to hear it, as well as those who do not, earned him the nickname “The Sheriff” from the Canngu, Bali, locals. He patrols the line-up in the water, always on the lookout for a snake (someone who commits the cardinal sin of paddling inside other surfers and not waiting their turn for a wave), and does not shy from the confrontation that ensues (never violent in my experience).
The nickname is applicable on land, as he has a sharp moral compass that he willingly extends beyond his own periphery. A group of European “hipsters,” as he labelled them, were drinking and listening to dodgy music at around 10pm at our homestay in Canngu and around 10pm at our homestay in Canngu and Dad, wanting to sleep, got out of bed with a grim smile on his face and headed over to sort them out. “This is a homestay. There are plenty of places to party in Canngu without keeping me awake. Live and let live!” They were not happy and got a few digs in, “This is what happens in Canngu now. It’s not the 70s anymore old man.” But he had a point, and they vacated the premises soon after, honking the horns on their scooters as they hooned down the driveway.
All those hours spent battling his two brothers at home, and bullies at Auckland’s Kings College have toughened his edges and he can be an intimidating, yet compelling character. Dad’s a softy at heart though, and has a tender spot for the underdogs of life. A couple of German girls recently told him that if he were to write a story on his life, they would read it. Me too - if I hadn’t heard most of it already.
TIM RAINGER: FATHER ON SON
To commit to print my thoughts and feelings for my son is hard. Relationships are so fluid and print is pretty final. Every word scrutinised for each subtle nuance. Plus I’m sharing a room with him as I write this; we have been for eight weeks. Surfing together every day, eating, drinking, hanging out. There is no luxury of distance. But here we go.
Let’s start with the bigger picture. We are more like an older and a younger brother than most fathers and sons. Most of the time. There are obviously moments when I have to lay down an ultimatum but they’re pretty rare. Ever since he did a milk-puke down a cold Kronenberg I was drinking (without me noticing), and which I subsequently gagged on, I’ve cut him a bit of slack. He’s always been quite determined to do stuff by himself, and certainly never wanted my advice.
When he was about two, his mum was on the phone so he flipped over a bucket, got up on the bench and merrily began chopping potatoes, which apparently was going fine until it wasn’t. By the time I got there to take him to hospital, there was blood sprayed all round the kitchen walls. He’s very close to his mum and his young brother, as well as his step-dad and all their extended family. There is a sixteen-year age gap between him and his little bro, and it’s funny observing how their patterns of behaviour mirror ours. At times he parents him hard, and others they josh around and have lots of fun.
He’s always loved reading and music, and especially loved being read to as a kid. “One more story dad!” was a line I heard a lot. It’s a great pleasure now, sharing books and bands, picking the guts out of movies and so on.
We’ve done a lot of surfing together since the beginning and it’s been a great thing for our relationship. Setting the clock. Getting up in the dark. Trading waves. It’s our mutual happy place. It’s our second season in Indo; this time we’re here for 6 months, and that’s a lot of time living cheek by jowl.
A few people raise their eyebrows when we tell them what we’re up to, like I’m being irresponsible letting my kid quit his job and spend all his savings on a surf trip. My take is: well, he’s qualified, and he works for his own dough, saving for a year to get here. And now he’s really focused on surfing hard, doing yoga, eating well. This is an experience that will shape him physically and mentally in really positive ways, and is one he’ll never forget.
He’s a good kid. I’m proud of him. And I like hanging out with him. Most of the time.