by Julie Moss
I had fulfilled my goal of being the best among the world’s top triathletes on this particular day.
World Cup Gold Coast Triathlon was completely different from any race I’d experienced. It wasn’t about winning; it was about capping off a maximum training effort with a race in which I performed at my highest level in all three disciplines.
I’m interviewed at every race in which I compete, and I love the parties, competitor pasta feeds, hanging out with friends in the sport, and side journeys within event stops. If there’s a surf spot nearby and the waves are breaking, I might borrow a board and check that out too.
Not in 1989. Not on the Gold Coast. I was so focused on race performance that I didn’t even bring the right outfit for the party afterward. Nor did I bring much except my workout gear, bike kit, and racing outfits. I kept asking the same question: What do I have to do to stay ready? Well, I needed to stay in the condo, put my feet up, and ignore the waves at Surfer’s Paradise. I’d come out on race day.
Beating the No. 1 triathlete in the world is no different than taking down the greatest in any sport. You’re on top of the world, if only for a race or game, and everyone hears about it. I felt as proud as anyone that’s ever taken down the No. 1. There’s no such thing as a perfect race—God, do I know that!—but after almost thirty years, the World Cup Gold Coast Triathlon still comes closest.
Later, I learned that Paula had visa problems that nearly prevented her from entering the race, which might have dinged her mental edge enough to make a difference. Though she never made an excuse, she was really upset. In 1989, Australia refused to admit South African or Zimbabwean athletes due to apartheid, on its dark last legs after the freeing of African National Congress leader Nelson Mandela from thirty-five years of confinement. The prevailing attitude? If you were from South Africa or Zimbabwe, you were guilty by association, no matter your views. Paula is from Zimbabwe, though she lived primarily in the U.S. for over thirty years. Erin disliked Paula intensely because of this issue, causing a peculiar tension between the superstars. Paula is a wonderful, warm, and kind woman, and I don’t know I’ve ever heard her speak of this. As far as I was concerned, she was scrutinized only because she spent her early years in an offending country. Perception is not always fair—or accurate.
Putting Paula’s visa issues aside, I reflected on my performance. It traced back to my original commitment for the season. If you commit in a certain way, you open the door to untapped potential—but you have to immerse so deeply that it’s sometimes hard to see outside your bubble. It’s not something you can think about or visualize. It’s more like a concrete mental picture. How do you anchor your vision, or commitment, into your body and mind and lock it in so that it takes shape, grows wings, becomes real? I knew this concept intellectually. Now I believed it too.
After Australia, we traveled to the Japan Ironman. I won again, but only because Paula got DQed for a drafting violation on the bike. In the aftermath of my victory, the old Julie reared her head and put an asterisk on the win—*won because of Paula’s misfortune. Then my new Julie attitude snapped me out of it: Hey! You put yourself in a position to win. When you put yourself in a position to succeed, something very good often happens. How did I position myself? By crossing the line in second place, not third. Runners-up become race winners when a DQ occurs.
After the race, instead of diminishing my effort by saying things like, “Well, if she wouldn’t have been DQed . . .” I was like, “Let’s move on to Kona and see what happens.” Rather than bluster on the outside (did I mention the 1985 Tri-Athlete magazine article?), a current of confidence built within me. My shift was complete.
Sadly, it took Paula and me years to heal our relationship afterward, the healing made necessary because I trained with her dreaded archrival. Today, we have a really nice friendship. If I had to pick one of the two superstars to train with, and one to race against, it couldn’t have been more perfect than the way 1989 turned out: train with Erin, race against Paula.
I came into the 1989 Ironman World Championship with the same feeling I would later experience in 2017. I did everything I could, checked off every box, and hit my daily and weekly training goals with more precision than ever. I had two wins to show for it. I repeated the process for Kona.
When we arrived on the Big Island, I had enjoyed my best season, and Mark hadn’t lost all year. He was confident he could finally turn aside his running ghosts at Kona and take down Dave Scott after six years of trying. Our joy ran far beyond big races too. We headed to Hawaii less than two months from our wedding.
Would it be a perfect ending to the season? On paper, it looked possible, especially for Mark. However, we were no longer in Japan, the Gold Coast, Europe, or a USTS event. We were dancing again with Kona, the most fickle and complicated competition partner ever. Madame Pele, the volcano goddess, would churn up much different outcomes for us.
CHAPTER 12
Passing the Torch
Should I stay or should I go now?
I surveyed the situation, feeling trapped inside a Clash lyric. The question was pretty simple: Do I shout encouragement to Mark as he runs past me, and then finish my race? Or do I abandon my effort to support his? Do I stay in the race? Or do I “go”—drop out—and watch my fiancé try to supplant the King of Ironman as they slug it out side by side and stride for stride?
A tough choice, because I thought the 1989 Ironman World Championship might provide a winning conclusion to my best racing year of my life.
Many stories and a book have chronicled the showdown between Mark and reigning six-time champion Dave Scott. The race was epic, the greatest marathon duel in Ironman World Championship history. The two warriors ran side by side for 24 of the 26.2 miles, neither giving an inch or a word, neither willing to lose. In an ironic twist, Dave’s six titles equaled the number of times Mark had tried and failed in Kona.
On the course, I didn’t know the marathon was so hotly contested. I had enough trouble dealing with my own race. While passing my ten-mile mark, I saw them at their Mile 21. Dave kept trying to push the pace, but Mark stuck with him. Dave had once told Mark that the Ironman marathon really began at the sixteen-mile turnaround. Mark trained with that in mind. Could he hang on? Could he get over the same hump—breaking down—that typically waylays me at mid-race, and overcome another late-race disappointment?
I’d entered my rough patch. Besides struggling physically, I was thinking about a race besides my own. You can’t do that in any Ironman and maintain the edge to perform well, let alone Kona; she will bend and break you. Besides rooting for Mark, my incentive was eroded by the feeling that I would break down at—you guessed it—the midway point. I came to Kona to win this race, yet five women were ahead with more strong running ladies heading my way, their leg turnover much faster than mine. I had nothing left. I could see myself slipping out of the Top 10, out of the money, a whole lot of hurt about to head my way while the most important moment of Mark’s life was unfolding.
Stay? Or go?
Decision time.
We showed up in Kona on a robust momentum wave. This race was about more than facts, figures, and comparisons. It was personal. We were in love, engaged, and two months away from getting married. And Mark had spent 1989 taking dead aim on the only major triathlon he had yet to dominate. As we got swept up in the prerace hype, something occurred to me: how much fun would our wedding in December really be if Mark left Kona without a win?
I realized I wanted Mark to win Ironman more than myself, so we would start our marriage in a deeply positive place. I wanted Mark to have this. He worked so hard. He’d been so close. Did I have the confidence he’d do it? I figured that if he shadowed Dave, as he planned, he’d have a damned good chance.
The triathlon world had anticipated a mano a mano showdown since mid-season, as Mark and Dave operated at a higher level than the rest of the field. We both enjoyed great seasons, me winning two major races and several podium appearances, a
nd Mark riding a 9–0 undefeated streak—including his impressive, hard-fought win over Dave at the Gold Coast Triathlon. Mark also beat Dave in St. Croix, along with winning Nice for the sixth time and taking the World Triathlon Championships in Avignon, France; did Grip finally have The Man’s number? For Dave’s part, he won several short-course races, and the Japan Ironman in the mind-boggling time of eight hours and one minute. Both men won on short courses too. You could almost hear the saloon doors swinging and the streets quieting in anticipation of their showdown.
Though joined in history as two of triathlon’s fabled Big Four, Mark and Dave didn’t socialize much. They respected each other, and were cordial in public, but they weren’t what you call friends. They were very different, right down to their one shared fascination—reading the elements. Mark loved to read the surf, while Dave sharpened his forecasting game when training over the fields and hills around Davis, his home near Sacramento. While most other triathletes found heat and cold, winds, and remote settings to be a turnoff, Dave lived for these conditions. “My other calling was to be a weatherman,” he once told Outside magazine.
Then there was Kona . . . bewitching, unyielding, ready to take but not so quick to give. Mark and I knew that better than anyone in the field, given our previous disappointments. As the buzz over and Dave mushroomed to atmospheric proportions, like you’d feel in a “match race” environment, Mark understood and appreciated the harsh reality of Kona. “When you come to the Ironman,” he told Triathlete magazine, “you have to put everything you’ve done before it in the garbage can.”
Our histories at Kona were checkered. I seemed to alternate between a Top 10 finish and DNF, not coming close to victory since 1982. Mark’s resume read like a syllabus from the School of Close But No Cigar: DNF. Third. Fifth. DNC (Did Not Compete). Second. Second (and a trip to the hospital). Fifth (suffered two bike tire flats). These are superb results for mere mortals, but Mark wanted the only result that mattered to him. Furthermore, Dave had won five of his six Ironmans at Mark’s expense. Despite Mark’s season, Dave was the favorite, simply because he had delivered in crunch time at Kona and Mark had not.
I’d like to say I too came into the race with the mental mechanism clear and ready to face down my disappointments. However, Kona wasn’t going to make or break my year. Also, I made the mistake of saying and deeply affirming, “If I could win just one big professional race, I’ll feel complete.” Then I won the Gold Coast and Japan triathlons. Maybe I shouldn’t have said just one! And definitely not “complete”; that word tends to bury into the psyche, though I meant it. But in reality, once I got that win, I wanted more.
I first saw Mark on the bike course. I was in the top six after a strong swim and solid ride thus far, and he and Dave were already pushing each other. Thankfully, Mark wasn’t trying to “Grip” him into submission so soon, the strategy that cost him here before. He was already doing something different. Good.
I saw him next on the marathon course. He and Dave remained side by side, inches apart despite having the whole road to themselves. Neither talked. Both looked straight ahead, oblivious to the entourage that, I noticed, was equally riveted. I was thrilled. He’s doing it! The new racing strategy! Something different! I was really stoked.
I was also hurting. While not having a horrible race, I was suffering and knew it wasn’t my day. My focus and concentration were compromised and distracted as well. When you can’t figure out a reason to continue running while sitting in the Top 10, something’s missing. Kona, you got me again. I wasn’t surrendering to the pain, but fighting it, all the while thinking of Mark’s race.
I wrestled with my choices for another half mile. If I didn’t decide fast, I’d never be able to catch up with Mark and Dave, who were clocking brisk six-minute miles. Then my heart took over. I turned around, reversed course, and started running back in order to get to Mark. I jumped on a course official’s scooter for a ride to the press truck, a big flatbed with a railing set up for the media. They stopped long enough for me to climb aboard as Mark and Dave finished Mile 22.
To this day, I feel I made a perfect choice.
Once on the truck, my muscles relaxed, so relieved to be finished running. I spotted Kenny Moore of Sports Illustrated. I divulged the big plan: “When they get to the bottom of the hill, Mark’s going to go,” I said. It was a decision Mark made during summer training in Boulder, while sitting at the dinner table. We were discussing the perfect place to make the crucial big move. If you’re strong, it’s at the base of the hill at the 24-mile mark, where you can use surges to further weaken an opponent’s legs that already feel like they’ve endured fifteen rounds of body punches. Dave, no stranger to winning strategy at Kona, had his own plan too: to surge at the top of the hill, and use the final downhill into town to break Mark.
I was unsurprised by what I saw, but inwardly ecstatic: Mark was executing his plan. At this point, I knew it could be his day. He hadn’t faded after sixteen miles, his normal “danger zone” at Kona. He looked just as strong at Mile 22.
One person who, I assumed, wasn’t happy to see me on the press truck was Dave Scott. One of Dave’s Ironman routines is to spot his wife, Anna, during the early stages of the marathon. He felt a nice mental lift and tended to dig deeper whenever he saw Anna and, now, his infant son, Drew. Family time was so precious to Dave that the Scotts typically spent a few days alone on the Big Island, quietly prepping, away from the hubbub of press and fans.
In Kona, Dave and Anna spotted each other a few miles into the marathon. Anna held up Drew, which lit a sizable spark under his Ironman dad. “That’s not fair,” Mark said as he ran alongside.
Those were the only words Mark spoke the entire race.
I’m sure Dave would consider my close proximity as an unfair advantage, a motivational cue for Mark, maybe even think I was coaching him from the truck. (How comical, the thought of me coaching Mark!) If Dave only knew how it really worked: if Mark noticed I was on the truck, he never let me know. I didn’t get an acknowledgment. A gesture of any kind. Nothing.
Mark’s way is to get deep inside “the zone” and not come out, which I fully understand as an athlete. Personal feelings have no place on race day, even when engaged couples are running. When Mark got locked in, nothing distracted him. He needed very little from the outside world besides nutrition and drinks. What worked for Dave did not work for Mark. The only thing that mattered was the next stride, and the next.
I looked around, mesmerized by the fact that the normally boisterous, chatty entourage of dozens of cyclists escorting Mark and Dave were so quiet. It was equally quiet on the press truck. Everywhere it was almost silent. No one talked. You could hear a pin drop. It felt eerie in a sense. You could only hear the runners’ footsteps. They’d begun running close enough to bump shoulders if they’d wanted. They actually did bump in an aid station. They ratcheted up their battle to a test of guts, determination, and steel-minded willpower few had seen in a race of any kind, let alone an Ironman. For me, it was like jumping onto a party truck, only to find it better resembled the moonlike silence of Haleakala, the dormant volcano on neighboring Maui.
We all need something to push us when the usual motivators don’t work. Maybe we call to mind our love for a spouse or concern for a sick friend, how good the food will taste when we’re done—or creating something truly magical that draws in the inherent energy of a place. Nothing rolling through Mark’s mind pre-Kona touched the phenomenal experience that followed.
As Mark approached the sixteen-mile mark, an image appeared to him in the lava fields. It hovered between his eyes, like a passing daydream, the face of an old shaman healer portrayed in a Yoga Journal ad that promoted an upcoming shamanistic training. The shaman in Mark’s vision was over 100 years old. Mark had spent much time seeking the connection between his desire to win Ironman and the pain of pounding out marathon miles at a six-minute pace with Dave. It all came together at Mile 16. Mark told me it was a supernatural mo
ment in which the shaman offered his strength—and Mark received it.
On this day, he would not falter down the stretch.
Mark focused on executing the strategy for which we’d trained all summer, and becoming the first to make a move, rather than reacting and hanging on. He emerged like a blade of forged steel. How does someone overcome a previously insurmountable challenge when mind and body aren’t always enough? Mark found the answer: draw from deep inside.
Mark later told me he was trying to connect to the spiritual element of the Big Island. He made the connection that he hadn’t properly tapped into the elemental energy unique to Hawaii. What happened if he did? He felt drawn to the ancient Hawaiian religion of Huna, or at least its shamanistic aspects, along with the visionaries, healers, and heiaus, sacred places or sites. Now, for the first time deep in a Kona race, he thought, Why fight the pain and distress, this course? Why not just surrender to it?
That realization is the key to Ironman—surrendering to what the elements and course give you. It’s also a critical step on the hero’s journey, the Wonder Woman journey. We must let go, surrender, and trust the process. It becomes hard when the world dumps its expectations on us, and, like Mark, we have to figure out how to draw power from surrender while overcoming our rivals in any type of life or work conditions that present themselves.
Mark surrendered to the place and race. He even offered up a little prayer: “Allow me to be here. Whatever you bring, allow me to be here.” He did exactly what I did not do in 2017, or in many previous Ironmans. He took what the course and conditions gave him. He didn’t force anything on the race. Out came a wisdom burnished into his muscles and mind from six losses at Kona. His past struggles with bonking, hitting the wall, further forged a superior willpower. The Grip. This time, Dave was chagrined to find out Mark did know how to close at Kona!