by Julie Moss
As we began planning workouts in New Zealand, I looked around the room. Mark had started a long winning streak. Scott was focusing more on long races after spending the past six years as the most successful Bud Light USTS performer in history and, in many eyes, the greatest short-course triathlete who ever lived. Colleen was a World Champion in 1984, and National Champion in 1988 and 1990; later, she founded Women’s Quest, devoted to educating women about body image, nutrition, and a fun, active lifestyle. What great work! Meanwhile, Erin battled back and forth for supremacy with Paula Newby-Fraser, she of the eye-popping 1988 Ironman victory. Why was it eye-popping? Erin ran a 9:12:14 at Kona, shattering her previous mark by twenty-three minutes—and finished second to Paula. By eleven minutes. Furthermore, Paula finished eleventh overall in the race, just thirty minutes behind the overall winner, none other than Erin’s partner, Scott Molina.
While assessing our crew, something very solid to my soul and sure to my mind ignited me: become a great athlete, right here, right now. New Zealand afforded me a chance to seize the moment. It was quiet, with no distractions, and I was with the best athletes in the world, along with several Kiwi multisports competitors who joined us from time to time. My companions had done the hard work for years, getting up every morning in darkness and training without shortcuts or excuses. Surrounded by these real stars, I thought, why not see what I can do? What will happen if I work at it every day?
I set out with the others, trying to replicate their training schedules, posting good, strong days from the outset, but not their strong days. Erin, Colleen, Mark, and Scott operated in a higher realm. For example, I would swim 300 meters to keep up with their 400-meter workout. And I’m known as a strong swimmer. When we set out on the bike, I stayed in back and tried to keep up. It hit me very quickly that, while I might be a known triathlete who won some races, I was not in their league. I knew it, and it made me more determined to match them. Because I was training with people who knew the ins and outs of training, pacing, nutrition, and recovery, I was getting the right kind of workouts—those that produce results. I figured out how to be consistent, how to build fitness, and how to build into particular races, a refined skill at which my fiancé happened to be masterful.
With my shift in training intensity came a consequent inner shift to face tougher questions that no one could answer but myself: What kind of athlete do you think you can be? What do you want to do here? You have an opportunity; take advantage of it. Another question loomed: would my mind, accustomed to six years of almost getting there, be resolute enough? I’d never successfully trained from the start of a season to its finish, although 1985 was solid. I wanted to know what it felt like to show up at a race, give my fullest effort, and not worry about the paycheck.
My career reboot switched from the glamorous side of triathlon to hammering a more committed training plan. I didn’t need to impress anyone, or worry about subjugating myself.
After asking myself and answering these tough questions, I had one of those interior skirmishes to rise above my phobias, challenges, shortcomings, failures, and perceived obstacles. I looked myself squarely in the soul and announced it’s time to do something: It’s not about trying to balance anymore; you’ve got that piece. What are you going to do now? This is your time. What are you going to do with it?
Soon it began to click. I started pushing through old barriers that formerly distracted me or ended my workouts. I decided to do my best every day, and to not beat myself up with comparisons to the Erin Bakers and Paula Newby-Frasers of the world. They lived in another galaxy, performance-wise. Instead, I affirmed and visualized a strong season for myself. I was learning to trust that my best was good enough.
An effort like this begins with solid, stable support. And a place to call home. Erin set up Mark and me with four other athletes—two triathletes and two multiday specialists—in a rambling Victorian house in Sumner, a coastal suburb of Christchurch. Located in a coastal valley, Sumner is separated from Christchurch by rugged volcanic hill ridges and cliffs that fall into the sea in a few places. Sumner faces two of my favorite bodies of water, Pegasus Bay and the Pacific Ocean.
All of our housemates were vegetarian. Everyone was required to cook one group meal per week. Mark and I teamed to cook our requisite two dinners together, then we were free to chill out the remainder of the week till the dinner bell rang. Not too shabby, even if you weren’t a vegetarian. I still ate red meat occasionally, though not often. I couldn’t quite break my desire for it. In-N-Out Burger fans will appreciate why. I’d spent my first four school years in the Los Angeles suburb of Claremont, within ten miles of the second In-N-Out Burger shack ever built. I loved In-N-Out, but loved Mark more, so I gave up red meat, at least when we cooked and ate together.
Erin also arranged for us to borrow a car from her good friend and coach, John Hellemans. We looked twice at our car, a Morris Minor two-door, manufactured around 1950. It hadn’t been driven in years—or, at least, since a family of spiders moved in and built an intricate web condo in the back seat. The standard transmission was a challenge, since New Zealanders drive on the opposite side of the road. Neither Mark nor I were used to shifting with our left hands, from the right-side driver’s seat. We somehow managed to drive the Morris Minor back to our new digs, raze the spider condo and give it a wash. We even waxed it.
Our training sessions were intense. Our mornings always started with a swim in the AquaGym, an eight-lane, twenty-five-meter facility for which New Zealand’s national sports heroine, our own Erin Baker, cut the ribbon at the site dedication. The water temperature was chilly, which motivated me to swim hard from the first stoke.
We usually followed our swims with either a bike ride or run or both. On one epic occasion, Erin and Scott decided to take our crew on a little three-day adventure. We started out on the 110-mile route from Erin’s house in Lyttelton to the natural hot springs resort in Hanmer Springs. It started easily enough with a ride to Rangiora, but then we started pedaling into a relentless uphill and headwind slog for the remaining 100K. Since this was an out-and-back ride, we treated it as a weekend getaway. Howard drove the sag wagon with our gear and, being the gourmet cook he was, whipped up some great meals. Our destination was a cabin just past the Hamner Springs Township, in the Conical Hill Recreational Reserve. From there, we could step onto the trails and walk or run to the summit.
It took us a while to reach Hamner Springs as the headwind reared its unforgettable head. At one point, Erin suddenly turned her bike around and flew past me in the opposite direction, assisted by the same wind that was beating up the rest of us. I don’t think the challenge of a headwind turned her around. I’m not sure if Scott said something she didn’t like, but Erin can be hot-tempered, so whatever it was, she was riding the other way and not smiling. While bringing up the rear in our tiny peloton, I said to myself, “Where did Erin go? What did Scott say? Because something just went down.”
To keep us from separating too far from each other, we designated a meet-up at a milk bar about twenty miles up the road. I pedaled hard, hoping the others didn’t leave me behind. They were waiting when I arrived. “So . . . Erin?” I asked.
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know . . . maybe she went home. I don’t know.”
Our plan was to spend the night elsewhere, get up, and do a long run in the mountains, then hang out in Hamner Springs, a very cool resort town in the Canterbury region of South Island best known for its mineral waters, thermal pools, and spa . . . music to a triathlete’s legs. Further south, the Waiau Gorge was known for its whitewater rapids and abundant salmon and trout. We’d all enjoy a little recreation paradise, soak our bodies, then ride home.
Just after I started to eat and drink, Erin arrived. She’d ridden out with us, turned and gone miles back—I presume—then turned around again and rode back against the headwind. She straddled her bike and unbuckled her helmet. I was like, “Really, Erin? You’re already back? You went miles out of you
r way, and you’re already here?”
She didn’t say anything. What I did learn about Erin over our weeks of training, though, is that I’ve never known anyone who lives their truth as intensely or as passionately. She brings that intensity and passion to everything she does. You always know how Erin is feeling and where she stands. In the time it took Erin to catch back up to us, she worked through whatever was bugging her.
I did know one thing, though: I would only improve by training with Erin, now at her competitive peak. She was a terminator, big-time: out of her 121 career triathlon starts, she won 104, most by wide margins. How incredible is that? She was the first International Triathlon Union World Champion, secured later in 1989 in Avignon, France. Mark was the men’s victor. Erin and Mark earned the right to wear the rainbow world champion’s jersey in Kona. When Triathlete named her “Triathlete of the Decade” over Paula, the magazine noted, “We’ve stopped trying to figure Erin out. We just accept her as the best female triathlete that ever lived.” In 1993, Erin was installed as a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE), the highest award given to civilians.
After we ate and Erin caught her breath, we braced ourselves against the frosty headwind and finished the ride. We started our transition run, our second discipline of the training day. We call this “brick training.” The purpose is to strengthen muscle groups for the abrupt transitions from one discipline to another, and also get the body used to the jarring effects these transitions can have. Today, I’ll ride and then run, or swim and run, or run, ride the bike, and run again. And supplement it with my fourth cornerstone, yoga. Transitions and recovery, the ability to quickly bounce back from one discipline when you’re embarking on the next, are critical to becoming a strong triathlete. Before our time in New Zealand, I can’t remember doing any brick training.
We ran on tired legs at altitude, climbing Conical Hill. Rain started to fall, and upshifted into a strong snow shower as we moved higher. Mark and I looked at each other as thoughts of our toasty cabin enveloped me.
We ran to our cabin, warmed up, and then asked each other, “Where’s Erin and Scott?” We knew they continued onward, running up the slope . . . but to where? “You know, it’s freezing out, it’s snowing hard, and they’re somewhere alone up that mountain,” I said. We weren’t concerned about their ability to hunker down in nasty weather; our concern was their apparel. We’d left in tank tops and shorts.
We found Erin and Scott huddled in a small bathroom on the mountain. We started laughing when someone blurted out, “Hey, if we would’ve left them up there a few more hours, then maybe Scott would have proposed.”
The training paid off. I felt tougher, stronger, and faster. It didn’t take long to get excited over the possibility of where my extra work might take me . . . like a podium spot in Kona? I now noticed day-to-day improvements. How much further until I reached peak performance? I’d never really touched that place, though one could argue I did hit my available potential in 1982, and came close in Japan in 1985. I already knew Mark’s potential, and Erin Baker’s, Scott Molina’s, and Colleen Cannon’s. So did the rest of the world. I knew every day how strong and how good they were.
My first significant breakthrough came on a training run. We took a ferry to a nature preserve in the middle of Lyttelton Harbor, on the backside of Christchurch. It’s a wonderful place for picnicking, as well as trail running and hiking. A Triathlete magazine writer tagged along with us for an article on our training crew. Nice writing assignment . . .
We started running. I was normally content to stay in the back of our pack of five. On this day, though, I felt differently. It wasn’t long before I passed Colleen and moved onto Erin’s shoulder. Then, a bit later, I moved around her. She was probably thinking, “I’m tired, this isn’t a key workout,” and I seized that moment, stepped around, passed her, and did not look back. My move and tenacity in holding position surprised her. A feeling washed over me: I want to go harder. Erin didn’t share her surprise with me, but she did tell Scott. He mentioned it to Mark, who later told me, “Yeah, Erin said you were going to surprise some people at the World Cup, and this year in general.” Sometimes, with Erin, you need to rely on a small relay team of messengers to find out what she’s thinking.
Finally, it was time to test the new and improved Julie. The World Cup Gold Coast Triathlon near Brisbane, Australia, was circled on my schedule. I was ready to go. What I didn’t count on was beating Paula. She had just covered Kona in 8 hours, 50 minutes—a women’s record that stood for twenty years. By comparison, my lifetime best at the Ironman distance is ten hours flat.
During her career, Paula won twenty-four of twenty-nine official Ironman-sanctioned races, a record that, in today’s greater parity, I doubt anyone will touch. Comparatively, Mark Allen and Dave Scott won eight official Ironman races worldwide (including six apiece in Kona), and Erin won seven. Paula also won several ultramarathons. The United States Sports Academy, CNN, and USA Today named her one of the top five women athletes of the final quarter of the 20th century. The others? Tennis Hall of Famers Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf, and Billie Jean King.
See why I smile when I recall 1989? No one was beating Paula Newby-Fraser, except Erin Baker—and then me, twice.
After the swim and bike portions of the race, I felt great, moving toward the lead while heading into the marathon. Would it be my albatross again? Or my soaring eagle? I looked over and saw Paula dismounting her bike at the same time. We transitioned into the run together, mindful of my tendency to hit big or fail spectacularly. Conversely, Paula was a relentless machine. Just like in Japan three and a half years prior, my ability to maintain patience would make or break my race.
Right away, I dropped my water bottle. I also dropped my Nike visor, so I ran back for it and grabbed something to eat, to sneak in some extra nutrition before embarking on what would have to be the run of my life. I would not stand a chance against Paula with anything less. I also vowed to run my own race. I thought of my runs with Erin, sticking close and even passing her on that big day on the island. I’ve prepared for this.
I was ready to take on Paula. I’d never felt so confident. I was truly prepared to match strides against someone that, on any other day, outmatched and intimidated me.
We took off together at a quick pace. At the 5K mark, we passed Aussie Carol Pickard. We bookended her, running up on either side, then blew past, with me a bit ahead of Paula.
At the halfway turnaround, I caught the first-place woman, 1988 women’s Tour de France third-place finisher Liz Hepple. After pushing into the lead, I took a quick look back. Where was Paula? I couldn’t see her. Just like that, with 15K (9.3 miles) to go, my destiny unfurled like a long red carpet: running strong, in the lead, the fittest female athlete on earth behind me. Do I smile? Pinch myself? Celebrate finally putting it all together?
Not close. Been there, done that, not interested. For the next few daunting minutes, though, part of the old Julie did circle back, the one that broke down late in runs, that played not to lose, that didn’t give everything. I started thinking, Why are you running scared? Because it might fall apart on you? Normally, this messed with my attitude, allowing competitors to pass me and end my hopes. This time, a wiser, more positive inner voice popped up: You’re fine. Just keep running.
I recently found the 1989 World Cup Gold Coast Triathlon on YouTube, and watched it. I was really running. My stride was strong, my chest out, and I really look like an accomplished athlete powering through my miles with confidence and authority rather than grinding. I arrived at the starting line with the training background of a champion, and it was evident.
Finally, the finish line was only a kilometer away. I hadn’t heard footsteps, seen shadows, or picked up any hint of a late-race comeback, but I knew Paula Newby-Fraser wasn’t one of the two greatest women’s triathletes ever because she settled for second. I kept my guard up, but took the chance of grabbing a quick peek behind me. Only empty ro
ad. This was not Kona. This was not 1982. There would be no embarrassing, late-race crash-and-burn. This was really happening!
Before entering the stadium for the finish, we ran through a short shaded section behind the bleachers and scaffolding. I was so locked into the runner’s zone that I didn’t hear a sound nor notice anyone alongside the road, even though several thousand people made plenty of noise. The only thing I heard was an amazing inner dialogue as I pushed for the line:
So THIS is what it’s like to win a really big race on merit. WOW!
I’d trained really hard, but I didn’t expect this . . .
This is from all the training. Good job, Julie. You did everything to get to this point. Here it is. You WERE the best on the day.
It’s so small, really, that small inner acknowledgment. I thought it would be so big, and yet it was as sweet and simple as saying to myself, good job. You started out this year thinking, What if I show up for a race prepared? No excuses—just show up ready to go? This is what it’s like to know, for one day, your best is THE BEST.
I ran flush into the bright lights and wall of stadium noise. Spectators and top male finishers, including Mark, cheered like hell for me. Mark won his race as well, the fourth time we’d shared the podium at a major international event (we also finished first at the 1985 Japan Ironman, 1986 Avignon Triathlon, and 1988 Sag Sater Sweden Triathlon, which was ¾ of the official Ironman distance). I dashed into the finishing chute, waving, hugging Mark, getting pictures, and giving interviews.