by Julie Moss
The course was simple. We swam a clockwise circuit, starting at Kailua Pier and going south for a little over a mile before turning around at Captain Beans Booze Cruise Boat—a perfectly ironic detail to a perfectly unique race. We kept the buoys on our right, the only directional thing we needed to remember. (That day’s course would finish on the east side of the pier.) As we neared the swim exit, I began to hear spectators lining the seawall, which ran parallel to the rectangular course. Their excitement and positive energy erased the prerace tension. That’s more like it!
An hour and eleven minutes after entering the water, I ran up the ramp on the far side of the pier to my first Ironman transition area, ducking into the women’s change tent. I changed into my Wonder Woman Lycra skinsuit, stuffed my Snickers bar in my back pocket, and ran out of the change tent to grab my bike off the rack. I really loved the spectator energy surrounding the transition area. There’s a little part of me that liked that attention, which I rarely had growing up. I liked it even better that some of the attention was directed at me.
Bring on the next Aloha Adventure. All 112 miles of it!
Bolstered by the swim, I rode smoothly toward the lava fields, loving the beautiful Hawaiian names of the roads: Palani Road to Kuakini Highway, a left to Makala Boulevard, a right toward the Queen Kaahumanu Highway . . . How can a fourteen-letter alphabet create words so sweet and gentle? I always feel the warmth and lushness of aloha gather on my tongue whenever I read or say the words. My favorite has to be the wedge-tail triggerfish, a tiny fish whose Hawaiian name is actually longer when spelled in standard twelve-point type: humuhumunukunukuāpua‘a (pronounced ’humu’humu’nuku’nuku’waāpu’wɐʔə). It means, “triggerfish with a snout like a pig.” I later taught my son, Mats, how to spell it. I just love that word.
Now, thanks to my Ironman appearances, I have different, more specific, race-oriented associations for these road names, but as I rode my first Ironman bike leg, I was totally enthralled with the upwelling spirit of this place, the spirit of aloha, that had erased the vibe of a tense starting scene.
Twenty-five miles into my ride, the camera truck for ABC’s Wide World of Sports drove up. I looked around—who were they following? Why are you here? Me? Really? Why am I on your radar? Just getting quick shots of people doing their first Ironman? Or maybe they noticed my battle to open a melted Snickers bar, my primary food source. I’d waited patiently to see if I could make it past Waikoloa Road, where for weeks I’d had to hang a right and head mauka—on the mountain side of the road—for a long climb to rendezvous with Cousin Frank, before I opened my sweet treat. I argued with myself over and over, “I want it, but I’m not going to have it now, not until I get past the turnoff to Parker Ranch.” At that point on the Queen K, I reached into my back pocket . . .
Squish. It was totally melted. So much for delayed gratification. I tried to navigate the wrapper with one hand and my handlebar with the other while keeping up a comfortably brisk pace. As I started smearing chocolate on the white cotton handlebar tape, ABC drove up. Right then. I continued struggling with the melted chocolate, licking the wrapper to catch the drips. Chocolate dripped down my arm. I smeared a bit on my face. Was America watching too? I couldn’t help but wonder.
This led to my next decision, made from the pure vanity of a girl getting her fifteen seconds on a show she loved. I needed all 350 calories of that king-sized Snickers bar, maybe not at that moment, but certainly later. Each calorie would make all the difference in the world. I didn’t know or appreciate that. The only thing I appreciated was that the ABC cameras were on me and my face was a mess. I can’t be a chocolate mess on national TV!
I did the only thing that makes sense when you’re a young woman getting her first “Up Close and Personal,” I chucked the uneaten Snickers bar into a fountain grass tuft in the lava field, quickly wiped off my face, sat up tall in my seat, waited for the camera crew to roll up, and flashed a big smile. “Hi! Aloha!” I exclaimed.
What a warm greeting, right? That decision turned out to be the most crucial of the day . . . and a big-time rookie mistake.
However, that was not on my mind. I had Wide World of Sports’ attention, so we started a back-and-forth conversation, a TV-competitor relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company in desolate conditions, unless you like howling winds, 100°F temperatures, moonscape surroundings, and no one else to talk to. I welcomed the company as much as the attention. Every time the van came back around, I felt like it was my private entourage. I really soaked it up and made sure to smile big-time.
The rest of the ride went smoothly, and the ABC camera truck rolled up a few more times to check in. We attempted “shaka brah” hand gestures, chatted it up, and had a good time. In Hawaii, the shaka sign—pinky finger and thumb up, middle three fingers down—symbolizes aloha spirit. It means “hang loose” or “right on,” and reminds people not to worry or rush. Everything’s gonna be alright . . .
Everything was definitely alright. My ride was pleasant, far from the misery some others suffered in the lava fields. I enjoyed much of it. As we closed in on the transition area—Queen K Highway down the hill on Palani Road, left on Kuakini Highway, right on Kuakini Boulevard, a sharp left onto Ali’i Drive, six miles to the sharp descent to Keauhou Bay to the Kona Surf Hotel and end of the ride—I felt like I was having a decent race, with plenty of energy still left in the tank.
When I reached the transition area, I received news from a race official that none of my friends would believe possible when it came to me competing in a sporting event: “You’re the second-place woman.”
Second? Really? Wow! How did I get into second?
The gears in my head reconfigured what was possible. I’d originally planned to move deliberately through the transition area, making sure everything was totally set for the marathon run ahead. I’m in second place! Holy shit! Not now. Change of plan. I hurried into the changing room at the Kona Surf Hotel, trailed by two volunteers eagerly waiting to help me. As I later reflected on how focused and intent they were to get me back on course, I realized they knew the race was on, and that I—the Cinderella girl, the girl next door, the unknown newbie—was in the thick of it. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but my brain quieted long enough for my newfound competitive instincts to kick in.
Meanwhile, in my rush to change into my run gear, I suffered a wardrobe malfunction. The hook of my bra broke cleanly off (a moment I love to mime when Kathleen and I give our Iron Icons presentation). Immediately, I sized up the two volunteers, size being the operative word. One woman was too big, but the other was just right.
I looked her in the eye. “Could you please give me your bra?”
Without hesitation, and to my eternal gratitude, she stripped off her Bud Light T-shirt, took off her bra, and handed it to me. Nothing else to say or discuss. She acted out of care for my well-being. The spirit of ohana, rising yet again. At this moment, while in a transition area after a nearly six-hour, 112-mile ride, filled with new ideas of what was possible, I fell in love with this woman and all other race volunteers. They are the unsung heroes of every event. We simply can’t get through the race without them.
Of course, my “just right” volunteer was now more unslung than unsung. But she was my hero all the same.
I started the marathon filled with gratitude and adrenaline, a feeling of well-being that could best be expressed by something bestselling author Deepak Chopra said years later: “Gratitude opens the door to . . . the power, the wisdom, the creativity of the universe.” It pays to live in gratitude. I also felt good. I’d survived the incident with the Snickers bar; America would see my smile without chocolate covering my face or body. I’d found a replacement bra. The race drama is finally behind me.
Meanwhile, after a difficult swim, and impacted by her weakened condition, Kathleen did load up on food and drink while riding in the lava fields. She had spent three days vomiting and getting IVs, watching her Ironman dreams swirl down the drain. No
t exactly where you want to be mentally. In order to even be permitted to start, she had to get the official Ironman doctor to sign off on her hospital stay. Kathleen had also done a prerace interview with ABC; the cameras were also following her as an actual race favorite. Winning races draws attention, that’s for sure.
“I started to feel better in the lava fields,” Kathleen said. “I think just getting through the past few days, surviving the swim, and feeling the nutrition start to work, gave me a good feeling. I started to feel like I could race more strongly if I could get through the bike.”
Thanks to smart refueling, and feeling better as she sweated out the last of her sickness, Kathleen managed to move up to sixth entering the marathon.
We had 114.4 miles down . . . and the hardest 26.2 to go.
CHAPTER 3
A Finish Like No Other
I left the transition area for the marathon with growing confidence. I’d run two marathons during my preparation for Ironman, so I felt like I knew how to do this. It was familiar, not a huge undertaking in my mind, despite the bike and swim that preceded it.
I started clicking off miles. The race seemed smoother than I thought possible after swimming and biking for seven hours. Then again, how would I know? I was deep into unknown territory. I loved the repeat visits from the ABC camera truck. Their attention, along with sitting in second place, started a new thought: maybe I am a serious athlete. TV trucks? Conversations with sportscasters? People peeling off bras to help me? Definitely a sign . . .
I was about to go where Julie Moss had never gone before, in any sports competition, at any time: into the lead.
Five miles into the marathon, I caught Pat Hines, a professional cyclist who had built her lead in the lava fields. However, the stress fracture in her foot caught up with her. She could barely walk. Something about this race drew people to extend themselves, take risks, and operate with a toughness beyond what they’d do in shorter or less significant races. I also learned that if you want to run Ironman and be competitive, this is the mindset to adopt.
Funny enough, I didn’t realize I was actually leading until the ABC camera crew yelled from their van, “We’re with you the rest of the way, Julie!”
Suddenly, I was leading the Ironman. Leading the Ironman? I think the only reason why I wasn’t blown away was because I wasn’t sure I believed what the ABC people were telling me. I ran smoothly and evenly, letting this notion of being in the lead take root. I looked around and behind for the other women, still not quite trusting the information.
Then it dawned on me that I had not seen any girls on the course since passing Pat. The ABC crew was right. I was really leading.
Talk about a massive shift! I started the day believing I could finish the Ironman. I also thought I could be one of the better competitors, since I’d finished just behind Kathleen in a training ride on the Big Island. I thought I had a chance to beat her. But to really be leading? No.
“People were starting to notice Julie before the race,” Scott Tinley recalled. “We heard about this newcomer putting in ridiculous miles, three or four hundred miles a week during a time you’re supposed to be tapering. A lot of people took notice, because who would do that so close to the race?”
Now in first place, I started thinking about the formerly unimaginable—winning. I’d never won anything in my life. I’d never thought about winning any sports event I’d entered. How do you go from that place to winning the hardest single-day multi-sport event in the world? Suddenly, just like Scott, Kathleen, and the more experienced triathletes, I began to think that to win I would have to push far beyond my comfort zone, a zone pressed only when I “bonked” late in the Oakland and Mission Bay Marathons. And when I nearly drowned surfing in Central California. The other top competitors had pushed into that territory before, but for me, it was like stepping off the earth and landing in a faraway galaxy. I did not know the pain, energy, or effort an “ultimate push” would entail. But I had to get ready for it.
While continuing to run steadily, I picked up a new friend to keep me company. Rohan Phillips, a men’s competitor, opened with a somewhat pedestrian 1-hour, 31-minute swim, but rode an impressive 5-hour, 35-minute leg on the bike, which put him with me midway through the marathon. At first, I was annoyed, because I thought he’d blown up his race and wanted to run with the lead woman to grab some Wide World of Sports exposure. A photobomber, circa 1982. On top of that, he spoke with a really thick Australian accent, which made it hard for me to understand him. And he loved to talk. So do I, but not when focusing on the latter stages of a race or workout, when you need your mind to keep your exhausted body moving and you need to be mindful of every feeling inside and out, not to mention keeping an eye on competitors. “You can keep talking, but I’m going to be quiet and listen,” I told him. I wanted to hang onto my energy, something counterintuitive to my normal outgoing personality, but necessary. He did say something pretty funny: “I’ll just hang around you to get my picture in the paper.”
Rohan and I decided to push each other. We formed the type of bond that happens spontaneously during long races and often leads to enduring friendships, especially if the race is significant for you. In the Ironman, it gets magnified, like everything else. As my body began to break down, my connection to this total stranger began to strengthen. I’ll always fondly remember how selfless Rohan was, staying with me, even after we stopped talking. He never left my side.
I gained confidence from the continual validation of having my own television camera crew. However, unbeknownst to me, a blond storm gathered her forces several miles back. Kathleen. In our one common competition, the 70.3-miler, half of an Ironman, she’d beaten me by two hours. When Kathleen left the transition area in Kona, she was twenty minutes behind Pat and eighteen minutes behind me.
That was then. This was now, and she was gaining. Fast. Six miles into the marathon, she moved past Pat into second place, feeling rejuvenated from smart hydration and nutrition. Once again, she looked far more like the California poster girl many chose to win the race than the person hospitalized a few days before.
After receiving the first news of Kathleen’s position, I made my second rookie mistake. With about eight miles to go, I heard she was eight minutes behind me. She’d made up ten minutes of her deficit, with the toughest miles to come. I started thinking, “She’s here. She’s got me now. You were winning the race and now you’re second.” That’s inexperience rearing its ugly head. In reality, I was eight minutes ahead, about a mile at the pace we were running. With eight miles to go. Simple race management offers a simple solution to this situation: maintain my pace, stay steady and solid, don’t speed up, but don’t give up any pace either. Make her catch me. I just needed to forget about Kathleen and run the final miles consistently.
Instead, I panicked. I reacted like she was eight seconds behind. I pushed again, speeding it up, the worst thing you can do when dead tired, void of nutrition, and protecting a modest lead. Which wasn’t even that modest. Eight minutes is usually an insurmountable late-race advantage, but right now, nothing made sense. I’m pretty sure that when race director Valerie Silk awoke on race morning (if she even slept the night before), she didn’t envision an unknown redhead leading a prerace favorite just out of the hospital.
Kathleen’s view of the situation is revealing. As she recalls, “By staying positive and patient, my mental strength allowed my physical strength to catch up. Running through the lava fields in the late afternoon, it was over 100°F. Up in the distance, I saw the most awesome sight . . . the turnaround marker . . . the two-story inflatable Bud Light can! As awesome as a giant can of Bud or Bud Light looks to any college student, I saw a sight that rivaled even that . . .”
The sight was me. I was firmly attached to this crazy idea of winning, of pushing faster to lock down this most absurd victory. It came with the Wide World of Sports crew shadowing my every move, filming me as I keep going faster, picking it up through the late miles.
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When I spotted Kathleen at the eighteen-mile turnaround, she looked scary strong and fast. Definitely a threat; I’d made a smart move in picking up the pace. So I thought. What really unnerved me was how her rainbow hair ribbon coordinated perfectly with her rainbow running outfit. She was like a goddess—blond hair pulled in a ponytail, a perfectly matched outfit from her JDavid team (the first elite racing team in triathlon), the rainbow hair ribbon. That damned ribbon! She had a wholesome, blond, and beautiful Christie Brinkley look, a Madison Avenue ideal of an Ironman women’s champion. She matched up well in team photos with her JDavid teammate, men’s leader Scott Tinley. I wasn’t the classic-looking athlete, I wasn’t intimidating, and I was kind of dorky, putting out my vibe of “fake it ’til you make it.”
As I put my eyes back on the road, I could only think, she’s so put together, making this look so easy. Who does that?
Certainly not me! I was racing in a Bud Light trucker’s hat from the swag bag we received, and the shoulder straps continued to slip from the bra I borrowed in the change tent. The Snickers bar, the bra . . . I took these issues in stride and dealt with them. But Kathleen’s ribbon inserted doubt into my psyche. It also told me that she had all the details figured out, and she was coming for me. She could’ve been the scariest, most buff athlete on earth, a divine package of femininity and rippling muscles rolled into one, but the ribbon and coordinated outfit stuck. When we bring it up in our Iron Icons presentations, she talks about how she wore the ribbon underneath her swim cap, how it all comes down to the details. She was focusing on the details.