by Julie Moss
Spiritually, I had a short stint with transcendental meditation at Cal Poly, a popular pursuit then. I received my mantra and kind of dropped it (though I used the mantra word “patience” while winning Ironman Japan). For Mark, it was a calling, always near and dear, whether from something he was reading or listening to. He was an open channel. He understood that the key to fulfillment didn’t run through supreme mind-body fitness, but rather through spirit. He was looking to refine his interior landscape, to find what was unique for him. His path. I supported every step, because I felt it enriched him and us. My spiritual seeds would grow later when I discovered yoga.
Three years sped by. Our relationship flourished while we jetted from place to place, enjoying the spoils of being top triathletes. When the Julie & Mark Show arrived, we drew plenty of attention. I was always the perky, outgoing one who loved media interviews and the community spirit. He was more laid-back, focused, already in race mode. Triathlon was really booming, economically and popularly. It was the best time ever to be part of a sport. Just imagine being in your late twenties, one of the more recognizable figures, and living with Mark Allen. I loved my life.
Then it got even better. Though it didn’t feel that way at first.
When we arrived in Chile on January 1, 1989, I’d been dealing with a recurring pit in my stomach. Celebrations would pass, such as my birthday, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, days I thought might culminate with a ring on my finger . . . but never did. Mark bought me flowers, champagne, or something nice he picked from Victoria’s Secret, but not the tiny box with a ring in it. I was beginning to think that if we didn’t get engaged soon, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. I started thinking, if Mark’s not the one for me, I can hardly wait to meet the next one. How cool is he going to be if he’s a step up from Mark Allen? Then, the follow-up, mind-stopper question, “Who could that be?”
Mark had planned to propose in Paris, atop the Eiffel Tower en route to our November 1988 race in Réunion Island, off the Eastern Africa coast. Could anything be more romantic?
I never found out. When we reached the top of the Eiffel Tower, it was windy and freezing, biting cold. This California surfer girl said, “Okay, let’s go. It’s too cold.”
With that, I blew my shot at the romantic proposal. I only learned about his intentions later.
I surrendered to whatever would happen next. That was good, because I had been dropping hints, apparently too many. I told Mark I wasn’t going to concern myself with it any more. “I felt you let go of that [trying to get engaged]. I felt you relax, and I was allowed to decide, ‘this is what I want,’” he told me long afterward.
We flew to Chile for the 70.3 Pucon, then known as Triatlon de Pucon. Mark won the men’s title, gaining momentum for what would become one of the greatest multiyear winning streaks in professional sports history.
The day after the race, we decided to hike Villarrica, a 9,000-foot-tall volcano that overlooked the lake in which we swam in our triathlon. While it was 80°F at the lake, very summerlike (it was summer; Chile is in the southern hemisphere), the volcano could turn from sunny skies to blizzard conditions with hardly a moment’s notice. Neither of us, nor our fellow competitors, was properly dressed for a sudden shift in temperature or conditions. While our Chilean guides donned proper climbing gear, we wore running tights, running shirts, and rented hiking boots—and backup wind pants and wind jackets provided by the hiking outfitter. Except me; they didn’t have my petite size. I wore running tights that offered a little body grip if I slipped, and a little warmth if it got cold . . . but not much.
We started quickly, grinding out miles like triathletes do, enjoying the warm weather as we stripped down to T-shirts hiking through the snow. We hiked quickly when we could, earning a reprimand from the group leader: “Slow down, kick your boots into the slide of the slope. You don’t know this mountain. It can get dangerous. People have died here.”
Those words would soon prove prophetic.
As we started to climb, the conditions began to deteriorate. Thick dark clouds rolled in, including a swirl that wrapped itself around Villarrica like a halo. Visibility vanished. We threw on our limited layers as the temperature plummeted, and rain turned to snow. Our leader gave us lessons on using ice axes, how if you start to slip, you turn around, dig the ax into the other side of the hill, and hang on.
We kept climbing, up and up. And up. We got wetter and colder as we negotiated the steep terrain. By the time we stopped to rest and snack at a local shrine, the near-zero degree temperatures left us shivering in our soaked clothes. We still faced the toughest part of the climb, a ninety-minute segment that would end near the summit. With doubt and anxiety spreading among us, one woman dropped from the hike.
It took us thirty minutes to complete the next one hundred yards. We took fifteen steps, rested for thirty seconds, then plodded forward again, the conditions and altitude slowing us down. Our pleasant 80°F lakeshore day had turned into a monstrous winter beast, with fifty-mile-per-hour winds, rain and snow, and unfamiliar trails and terrain hampering our every step. Furthermore, some fought the early, shivering stages of hypothermia. A couple group members also slipped on the increasingly slick, icy ground; other hikers circled back to help.
The group leader made his way over to me, since I was the most underdressed. He asked me if I wanted to go back. “If we continue to the top,” I asked, “will we be able to see anything more than we can right now?”
“No.”
That made a tough decision easy. We stopped climbing and immediately started back down the mountain. I didn’t hear any complaints. We were freezing, under-dressed (especially me), and couldn’t see—the surface clouds had reduced visibility to thirty yards. Villarrica would have to live another day without us.
After the ice axe lesson, we started sliding down the mountain, opting for lesser effort and greater fun. Our guide was not amused; he promptly tied a woman and two other hikers to him with a rope leash after the woman slid too far. He sternly warned us that we were next if we tried to slide again.
Suitably chastised, we prepared to continue. After taking a quick seat during the tie-off, I stood up and leaned on Mark’s shoulder. I accidentally pushed him slightly, ever so slightly—and knocked him off balance due to ground conditions as slippery as a hockey rink. He started slipping and sliding . . . and sliding some more . . . and more . . .
He wasn’t slowing or stopping . . . he was picking up speed! He swung his ice axe and tried to dig into the snow and ice, but the axe slipped out of his hands.
“Marrrrrrrrk!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
He disappeared into the fog.
Shit! While freaking at the clear and present danger of losing my boyfriend, I tried to think. Which switchback did we just come up? We’d walked along a number of rocky ledges that fell into nothing. I don’t like being on the edge—of cliffs and ledges, anyway—so these horrified me. If you tumbled over the side of one of these ledges, you were gone.
For all I knew, Mark was careening toward or over a ledge, ice sliding on borrowed slick pants that provided lots of speed. The person I loved most in the world was somewhere down that slope, in grave danger, because I pushed him while trying to gain my balance . . .
I took off down the hill, not giving a damn what the guide said. I slid, slowing myself with my boot heels. “Marrrk! Marrrk! Where are you?” I screamed as I kept sliding, looking for him, hoping he would answer.
About one hundred yards from our group, I heard a noise. I saw a big lava rock formation, which would have crushed anyone who smacked it head-on. By a sheer stroke of luck, and his own efforts, Mark had tumbled into it without sustaining anything more than a few bumps and bruises. We embraced tightly, then I started quaking inside. I almost lost my man!
After the group reached us, we wanted to get off this diablo volcano. We made quick work of our descent, taking only an hour to reach the bottom. Unfortunately, our support vehicles had not yet
arrived, thinking we would summit Villarrica and return a couple hours later. We waited it out at a rustic trail hut with a fire made of scrap wood, eating our rain-soaked cheese sandwiches, and drying our clothing by the fire.
Finally, our jeeps showed up, and we returned to the hotel and enjoyed extra-long showers. “I don’t think the micro-adventure can be much bigger than what we did today,” Mark told me later. “I’ve had enough adventure for awhile . . . but what do you think about a mountain bike ride to waterfalls tomorrow?”
“Maybe we’ll see what the weather looks like,” I quipped.
Mark then said something else. “I could tell by the way you were screaming and calling out how much you cared about me.”
In that moment on Villarrica, during our shared terror, something significant had cracked and broken loose inside him.
Those words were music to my ears, especially since I wasn’t feeling my most attractive. I was a pasty-skinned redhead who flew into brown-skinned Chile from the northern hemisphere winter, carrying a few extra pounds from holiday dining, and wearing borrowed clothes because my luggage hadn’t arrived. I didn’t feel very feminine, but it didn’t matter. Mark was safe and we were good. That’s what mattered.
A few days after returning to Santiago, we visited Vina del Mar beach, where the Chilean locals spend their summer days. Surfers always like to flock to where the locals hang out, as opposed to beaches mostly frequented by visiting tourists. A hot beach with warm water in January? Count us in!
We arrived at about 10:00 A.M. It wasn’t crowded, so we put our towels down, swam, napped, and enjoyed a nice, beachy day. Every time we woke up or turned around, we noticed more people packing themselves onto the sand. Before too long, they stood, sat and lay inches away. We started to feel buried inside a patchwork quilt of towels, along with the sight of the day: three young women lying in front of us, their three brown Chilean butts spilling from the tiny pieces of cloth covering them. Next to me, one Mark Allen wore a huge Cheshire Cat grin. I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Really, Mark? You enjoying this?”
For a few minutes I teased him about his astute observation of the girls’ potos. We both enjoyed his animated post-race side, relaxed and frisky. Then he turned to me, suddenly serious. “So, do you think we’re going to get married this year?” he asked.
What? You’re asking me . . . now! I was stunned, incredulous. “What? No! We’re not having this conversation with this going on right in front of us!” I pointed my finger toward the senoritas and counted—uno, dos, tres. “Wherever this is going . . . not with the tres potos in my face!”
Since Mark never proposed atop the Eiffel Tower, this was the first time I heard a marriage statement made with intent. After years of waiting, was I going to let him off the hook with a “not now”? Was I going to do so because of my ruffled ego over three thong-clad girls with cocoa-colored butts that we’d never see again? No . . .
This really wasn’t the time. Not while sitting in a borrowed Speedo. I wasn’t feeling it. Nor was I seeing the obvious beyond this silly beach scene: that Mark liked what he saw every time he looked at me. The Chilean girls were window dressing, not even a blip on his screen.
We returned to our hotel. To my great delight and relief, my luggage had arrived. I put on a nice dress, and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner on Chilean time, not seating until 8:30 or so. We returned at midnight, or maybe even later.
Once we reached the room, I could tell Mark was tired. Mark Allen is no good to anybody when he’s tired, and he wanted nothing more than a deep sleep. I stared out the window of our high-rise hotel room, feasting on the lights of Santiago. It was such a beautiful setting, as romantic as can be. I lay next to him. “Remember that conversation we started on the beach?” I asked.
“What conversation?”
“You know the conversation.”
He nodded, and then closed his eyes. “I’m really tired. Can we talk about it in the morning?”
I sat bolt upright. “If you want to have any hope of getting any sleep tonight, you might want to have this conversation.”
We discussed what it would be like to get married, blend our lives, and make this partnership work. Being a fiery romantic at heart, I’d always thought my engagement would invoke elements that make great movies and fairy tales. I’m no different from many other girls; I carried dreams of a storybook wedding that began with the perfect proposal.
However, this conversation turned out to be pragmatic, a real heart-to-heart. Mark was thirty-one and I was thirty, not two kids racing from campus to chapel. We knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We knew our family histories, as well as each other’s former love interests. We discussed what we both did and did not want in our marriage. He knew my insecurities and accepted them, except for one: my use of cutting humor. My go-to defense mechanism is a finely honed sarcasm that, unfortunately, sometimes comes across more like the literal meaning of the Greek root sarkasmos: “to tear the flesh, bite the lips in rage, sneer; remarks made to hurt someone’s feelings.” Mark wanted no part of such “humor.” He made it very clear.
I knew it was not easy for Mark to be so brutally honest in what should have been a romantic moment, but his words hit my heart stronger and with more lasting impact than “I love you.” He was challenging me to be my best self, to bring that person into our marriage. It was our most profound moment, and I fully embraced his words and the life we envisioned.
During this talk, Mark also said he’d wanted to propose to me atop the Eiffel Tower. I closed my eyes and swallowed before I could speak. Why did I have to say something about being cold up there? He wanted to give me the most beautiful proposal, as he knew about my romantic proclivities. That drew me even closer to him.
I had what I wanted: a loving relationship with a strong, reliable man, and my career. My six-year run as a professional triathlete was so fulfilling that, at first, I didn’t feel a huge desire to throw everything into training and racing again. I wanted to pour myself into our engagement. If I needed to cut a workout short to muster the energy to make dinner, no problem—I cut it short. It wasn’t a sacrifice; I was totally down with that. I felt comfort in letting him carry the pressure of showing up at big races with the target on his back. We knew and fully appreciated our good fortune of being marquee figures in the sport. We often worked within that spirit to share our house with up-and-coming athletes, giving them a dirt-cheap, “pay-it-forward” rent. For the longest time, I felt like I was making dinners for four, or six, or eight. I didn’t really know how to cook for two!
When we flew into Chile, I didn’t know where our relationship would go next. Would it even continue? I had to release my expectations. A week later, after nearly losing Mark on a volcano, we departed as an engaged couple—proof of what can and often does happen when we let go of expectations and “trying too hard.” When we try too hard, we grab the wheel of ego-control and steer it away from our greatest authenticity, though we think the opposite. Sometimes, we beach ourselves. Or smash ourselves into the rocks. By releasing my expectations, I gave my innermost authentic self—and, more so, his—some breathing room to find the truth of who we were to each other.
Now I knew. Now we knew.
CHAPTER 11
1989
If you sorted my ten professional seasons into word clouds, my clouds would look like a map of the stars, weighted by magnitude. About three-quarters of the way through, you’d find a huge sun, around which the rest of my competitive career seemed to pale by comparison.
That’s 1989, my best professional season, my BIG YEAR, the year everything came together. I was newly engaged, my fiancé was en route to making triathlon history, and my life and body were in great working order. I was fit, focused, and energized by the alignment of my life. I never expected my peak year to happen at age thirty, but endurance sports can be stingy until you’ve already offered the road plenty of experience, sweat, and tears. Then you’re ready. I took advantage.
; My Big Year shot to another level in New Zealand, about a month after I nearly pushed Mark off the face of the earth in Chile. We flew down to train with our friends and rivals, future triathlon legends Erin Baker, Scott Molina, and Colleen Cannon. We promptly told Erin, Scott, Colleen, and her husband, Howard Kaushansky, that we were engaged, and shared our wild Chilean story. One of them, likely Scott, joked, “Oh, so you had to almost kill him to get him to propose! Really? You had to shove him off a volcano to shake something loose in him.”
I nodded and laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”
That became our running joke—shoving Mark off a volcano to gain his favor. If the others had been there on that frigid, slippery slope and felt the horror and fear screaming through me while I slid ass-first through the ice fog in my running gear, yelling for the love of my life . . .
My relationship was in an ideal position for me to take a long, mighty swing at the two goals I had yet to meet: 1) a full season of top training and top performances; and 2) winning in Kona. I didn’t sacrifice anything at all by mixing my engagement and work. I was even receiving da kine opportunities by being with Mark. He was now the endurance sports face of Nike and Oakley and, increasingly, the triathlon world. His ascent took the pressure off me; he was now the focus. Seven years of partially carrying a sport’s mantle was a lot of weight to lift, and was a distraction too, from training and racing. Now I could relax and back off a little, and mean what I told many: “Mark’s career is so much more important than mine.” My place in the sport was cemented. However, I was also concerned how people would view me if I suddenly tanked the rankings after getting engaged.
In between our racing plans, interesting moments and decisions arose, on the course and inside my head. Several times, race officials, media, or broadcasters would ask, “Julie, why don’t you do more TV work? You’re a natural on camera. You really enjoy it.” I’d done some TV, as a guest announcer at several triathlons and professional surfing events, and as a voiceover analyst. I loved it, especially as I developed skills, but two major problems precluded a broadcasting career. First, my soon-to-be husband and I weren’t about to move to LA or New York, nor would I do so and enter a long-distance relationship. Why do that when I could travel, race, and be paid well for both? And live in Boulder, Colorado, during the summer, and a great beach town, Cardiff-by-the-Sea, during the winter? With the man I loved? I enjoyed such a nice lifestyle.
