by Julie Moss
I asked my doctor about running the Carlsbad 5K, since I planned to race hard after training all winter. He knew I was an Ironman and unconcerned with the distance, but what about my heart rate? I’d recently run a quick 17:39 5K and knew how hard it felt on my cardiovascular system, as well as my body. My heart pounded an average of 185 beats per minute, up from my resting pulse of 48 to 52.
The doctor asked, “Can you carry on a conversation without feeling out of breath at 185?”
“Obviously not.”
His message was clear: If I can’t talk, then I can’t run. I started, but jogged and chatted with friends while they competed. I watched as Zimbabwe’s Philemon Hanneck won the men’s elite race in a blazing 13:22 and Shelly Steely blitzed the women’s field in 15:36.
Eleven days later, I sat in Winter Park, Colorado, for my friend Eney Jones’s “Mountain Mermaid” wedding to Jeff Writer. I flew solo; Mark had left on a Dance of the Deer retreat. Eney, a two-time cover girl for Triathlete magazine, was a tremendous swimmer. She often led the swimming portion of races with Wing, my friend and great triathlete Wendy Ingraham. Wing and I had remained close friends since her splashy “hot legs” introduction at my wedding.
Eney planned a fun weekend of downhill skiing and cross-country skiing. Much as I wanted to fly down the mountain with everyone else, I opted for cross-country, the safer bet for a newly pregnant woman. I might be a thrill seeker and risk-taker, but I knew how to shift into mommy mode while carrying my precious child.
It didn’t take long for trouble to find me though. Within two long strides on the narrow Nordic rental skis, I fell back and landed hard on my tailbone, knocking my breath out. My tailbone felt fine, so I continued skiing.
The wedding was a hit. Eney bought matching cowboy boots for her bridesmaids, which included Wing, Shannon Delaney, a college friend, and me. We did something unconventional—hiking through the late season snow to a rustic lodge, where the ceremony was held. Given our love of Colorado, and the great relationship between the Rocky Mountain State and triathletes, it seemed more fitting than pulling up in a stretch limo.
When Easter Sunday dawned the next morning, I found myself lying in a good-sized pool of blood. WTF? Immediately, I thought of my fall on the cross-country skis, and beat myself up over the stupidity of deciding to ski. Why did I always think I could do anything and everything? Why did I have to be the Queen of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)? Was my baby all right? Guilt, regret, and despair filled my heart. “I don’t want to have my irresponsible actions put a cloud over the wedding,” I told Shannon.
Still bleeding, I flew home and called my obstetrician first thing the next morning. “It sounds like a miscarriage,” he said, “but come in and we’ll check it out.”
After physically examining me, the doctor gave me a fetal ultrasound to confirm his suspicions—that I might have suffered a miscarriage. I was crushed. What had I done? Frozen by sadness and fear, I waited as he moved the transducer across my belly, bracing for the dreadful news . . .
“The heartbeat is strong; the baby is fine,” the doctor said.
Our weasel was alive and well. I’d been given a second chance. In that moment, my greatest loss became my greatest gift. The universe was giving me a do-over. I wanted to take care of this tiny baby more than anything else in my life. I finished my pregnancy risk- and incident-free.
Due to the scare, we opted for an early amniocentesis procedure at twelve weeks. There was another reason for the procedure as well. Mark’s brother, David, was born with Down syndrome, a condition passed along genetically. Mark wanted to be prepared for that possibility. In addition, insurance guidelines strongly recommended an amnio for advanced maternal age, geriatric pregnancy, and high-risk pregnancies. That was me. I was only thirty-five—why the senior citizen references? We did, however, choose to learn our child’s gender after the birth.
I continued to work out, but far more carefully. I lasted until October 30, two days after the 1993 Ironman. I noticed the buoys still on the swim course, and decided to go for a dip, three weeks from giving birth. As I reached the buoy in front of the Royal Kona Resort, a quarter mile out, I felt a couple of strong Braxton Hicks contractions. Since the near-miscarriage, I held my breath whenever I felt anything from my stomach, womb, or lower abdomen. I took some deep breaths, rolled onto my back and floated. While the contractions subsided, I thought about swimming to the mile marker buoy. However, I decided to turn around. As I swam back, I thought to myself, how will I be able to tell if my water just broke out there? Certainly, it could make the cut for a future Bad Moms movie!
It was time to become even more careful.
Later that week, Mark and I flew home for my baby shower, which took place November 7. I had such fun with the girls, which included Sue Robison and plenty of triathlon friends, including Ironman superstar Paula Newby-Fraser, Leslie Engel, Shannon Delaney, Janet Hoover, Sian Welch, Janet Wendle, and Patty Mackle, a State lifeguard friend and wife of professional triathlete Rob Mackle. My mom, Aunt Bev Castleberry, and Cousin Wendy Castleberry joined the fun.
The shower motivated me to finish the baby’s room. I was given a crib previously used by several babies, their names written on the bottom with a sharpie to show the pass-along history. I repainted it into a tropical theme with blue and green sponge painting, and glued wooden tropical fish to the head and foot. Later, I added Mats’s name and passed the crib to another family in short order; he only stayed in it for two days. We even had a “fashion show” moment, when I modeled a nursing bra over my elegant outfit. I wore a purple floral tunic and purple silk pants, something I made in Thailand when we ran the Phuket Triathlon the previous year.
After three hours of sleep hooked up to a fetal monitor, the midwives woke me at 6:00 A.M. I didn’t feel any closer to having the baby than twenty-four hours before. They gently explained that I was having trouble surrendering to the birth process. “Labor and birth is really out of your hands,” one of my attendants said, “but definitely controlled by nature. By ‘going’ with it, it usually makes the experience less stressful. Less stress will give you a better outcome.”
She may as well have described an Ironman push. However, labor bewildered me. I was used to being in control of my body and pushing through pain, but labor is more about surrendering. The midwife also explained that pregnant athletes can have longer second-stage labor because their pelvic floor muscles do not yield as easily. The good news? I have a strong pelvic floor. The bad news? I’m a control freak.
Great.
The midwives grew increasingly concerned. They talked about lightly inducing labor by administering Pitocin, the synthetic version of oxytocin, a natural substance in our bodies that causes the uterus to contract. If your body doesn’t produce enough oxytocin, Pitocin can provide the needed boost to get the job done. However, Best Start could not legally administer Pitocin, or any labor-inducing substance. We had to go to the hospital.
Mark and I walked 150 yards to Scripps Mercy Hospital. When I arrived, I’d only dilated to four centimeters. I was hooked up to an IV to receive the Pitocin. They started me on very small doses, slowly increasing until a strong, regular pattern of contractions developed. By 2:00 P.M., “Vitamin P” had kicked in, and mid- to late-stage labor finally began. We were thirty-six hours into labor . . . I could only think of it as the time equivalent of back-to-back-to-back Ironmans.
“Vitamin P” proved to be a go-no-go situation. Eight more hours passed with plenty of contractions, but no results. I begged the duty nurse to check my progress. She told me that, because of the fear of infection, she would only check me if I was considering an epidural.
“I most certainly am!” I exclaimed. I was getting a bit tired of waiting for this baby to emerge.
“You’re about six centimeters now.”
“What is the best I could progress naturally?”
Her reply came quickly. “About four hours.”
I thought about it. Four hours . . . a
marathon at a roughly nine-minute-per-mile pace. Doable. I thought of the effort, the pain I’d endured in Kona, always in the latter stages . . . body depleted, trying to finish . . . not going to make it on one can of Exceed nutritional drink and ice chips . . .
“Bring in the anesthesiologist,” I said. Moments later, Dr. DeReamer arrived. True to his surname, he turned my late-stage labor into a dream.
Our good friend Shana Menaker offered to be our impromptu doula, or trained labor coach. Shana taught modern and improvisational dance and yoga for dancers at four different colleges in adjacent Orange County. I especially appreciated her assistance, which made it possible for Mark to completely support me. Shana was a nice buffer when things grew intense before the epidural kicked in. Mark and I made a better team with her there, holding space and coaching us.
At some point, I fell asleep again. At 5:00 A.M., two days and three hours after my first contraction, I awoke and gazed lovingly at Mark and Shana. They were sound asleep in their respective reclining chairs. I woke them up with a tired glow warming my face. “It’s showtime,” I said.
Two hours later, at 7:03 A.M., and with the aid of forceps, Mats was born. He “only” took fifty-three hours to make his appearance. If you’re only going to have one baby, well, I got my money’s worth.
CHAPTER 15
Out of the Spotlight
In 1997, Triathlete magazine came calling for a story far different than my “Material Girl” cover girl appearance twelve years before. With Mark sitting at the table and Mats playing nearby, our lives could not have changed more. Nor could the conversation: Triathlete visited to ask Mark about his retirement, and me about my decision to return to Ironman after a seven-year absence. Meanwhile, in other news, Outside magazine now dubbed us “The First Family of Fitness.” Heady stuff.
The visit began with a tour of our Cardiff house, described by Triathlete as “a beautiful Spanish Mediterranean home surrounded by bougainvillea, cactus, and willow trees.” We showed them our special wall and its sculptures and masks from around the world, featuring a shamanistic aboriginal painting, Dream Time. Mark had collected the masks, paintings, and the ultimate aboriginal instrument, a five-foot-long didgeridoo (which he played at dinner parties), before getting serious with Huichol Shamanism. The Huichols created their own form of art, applying beeswax to a board and inlaying yarn to describe their dreams and visions. Eventually, he sold the African and aboriginal works to focus on the Huichol art.
The buzz in the triathlon world concerned Mark’s retirement: would it last? He’d returned to Ironman in 1995 and won his sixth title, tying Dave Scott for the all-time men’s record. A year later, he ran his final competitive triathlon, and then turned his attention to our family, shamanism, and his fledgling corporate speaking and online coaching career. One thing about Mark Allen: when he makes a final decision, he’s not likely to reverse course. However, he worried like anyone else taking a chance from a sure bet to an unknown. “My immediate reaction was like everybody else, to freak out,” he told Triathlete. “What am I going to do? Can I make enough to support my family?”
We were fine. Nike, Oakley, GT Bicycles, PR Nutrition, and Iron Men Properties still sponsored Mark. He’d received a large appearance fee at the International Triathlon Grand Prix in 1996. He’d also signed with ESPN as a commentator for three Ironman series races, and with NBC to provide expert analysis from Kona. His coaching was starting to produce income. Now the president of the Professional Triathlete Guild, Mark remained in the public eye, though he preferred the quietude of our private life. He’d also been the subject of an eighteen-page Outside magazine article, “The World’s Fittest Man.” The article shared the evolution of his coaching career, launched with his reputation, results, and scientific fitness approach. He already had one young Ironman competitor under his wing, Australian Chris Legh. The article discussed his recent appearances at Paula Newby-Fraser’s and John Duke’s Multisport School of Champions, and his nine-week Ironman preparatory clinic.
Doesn’t sound retired, does it? But that’s the thing: when professional athletes retire, we are still young, so we have to create new opportunities from our achievements and the relationships we’ve formed. It starts by trying to decelerate from the fast, glorious, and seductive world of center stage. “The lure of the heroic athlete has a powerful force field around it,” Scott Tinley writes in his book, Racing the Sunset. “Sport gives them the opportunity to be a hero . . . for every athlete who passes that gate, though, the aura of hero becomes their identity, it validates their existence. Take it away and meet Mr. and Mrs. Vacuum.”
Fortunately, Mark and I knew how to leave center stage and stay within the sport, not being impacted too much by the vacuum caused by the absence of training and competition. We both felt it though. Years later, in my case, I nearly became nearly consumed by it.
“It can be really difficult when you retire, “ST said. “Most young athletes, especially in a sport like triathlon that doesn’t normally lend itself to a long stay at the top, don’t plan well for a life after the sport. They’re too focused on winning and staying in the game. I’m not talking about financial planning, which is another issue, but finding something meaningful that they’re passionate about. I see it across every sport; we retire when we’re still young. What the hell do we do next?”
We were building our new future with our three-year-old son in tow. I couldn’t have asked for more, because everything I’d most deeply wanted sat in front of me: my husband, who’d been in my life for twelve years; my beautiful son; and a wonderful, warm, loving home.
As well as lingering business to settle. It was time to return to Kona. This time I’d be lining up as a thirty-eight-year-old mother and member of the Ironman Triathlon Hall of Fame. While I was thrilled to be inducted a few years before, I still couldn’t bear the thought of carrying those DNFs on my record. I had plenty to prove, and I didn’t mind taking center stage again to prove it.
Before Mats was born, Mark took the off-season to rest and pursue his other interests, surfing and shamanism. I sort of felt like, “Well, I want some of that attention and support.” The feeling didn’t last long, but I held all this untapped energy. I’d trained and raced for nine seasons, pouring myself into a single focal point. When I stopped racing, I lost that. Now what? What did I bring to the table? ST may as well have written Racing the Sunset and addressed it to me. I was challenged to offer something uniquely my own, not as a supporting player, but as a real contributor. My mom, Eloise, supported my brother and me as a kindergarten teacher, then earned her Master’s and became a school administrator. What was I going to do? I didn’t need to work for financial reasons, but I wanted to be part of something bigger here. I didn’t miss the attention I received from Ironman. I missed the feeling of making a difference. Athletes on center stage can exert influence and become agents of change in any number of ways.
Mats’s birth shifted me out of that headspace—for a while. Initially, I handled baby-rearing duties so Mark could keep his string of Ironman World Championships alive. He’d won his fifth straight the month before Mats was born, an unprecedented feat. Dave Scott’s longest consecutive streak was three, and Paula Newby-Fraser once won four in a row among her eight total crowns. No one has matched Mark’s consecutive string since, and probably never will, in today’s ultra-competitive, ultra-structured environment.
Mark’s selflessness ended the streak, when he decided to step away from Ironman in 1994 for Mats. Father and son were together regularly for the first year, though Mark honored his commitments to most other races. When Mark went to race in Pucon, Chile, Shannon Delaney commented that he slept the entire week. Later, he competed in the Berlin Marathon for Nike and, before dropping at Mile 22, ran several miles with German superstar Uta Pippig, she of the three-runs-per-day workouts in Boulder. Uta didn’t have her best race, either, but she can be excused: earlier in 1994, she won her first of three straight Boston Marathons with a blazing 2:21:45.
She would come back to win her third Berlin crown in 1995.
Mark refused to sacrifice his time as a dad in Mats’s first year. It was a wonderful gesture. It also fulfilled my dream of creating a do-everything-together family. Plus, we shared a family dynamic on which I’d missed out, due to my father leaving when I was eight.
The spirit and love behind Mark’s decision, and his love for Mats and me, manifested in the Christmas cards I received:
Merry Christmas MY Love,
We have been given the beauty of Christmas in our little bundle. I don’t have much in the way of presents for you this year. But I give you instead my love, help, support, all that I can to be with you in this new way. It’s a completely new adventure for us. I pray it will be the best.
Love, Mark
The Weasel—Merry Christmas Mom,
I can’t tell you in words the love I have for you or how happy I feel to come into this family. I can only look you in the eyes with my love and lay across your chest touching you with my body’s warmth. We can talk later.
Love, Mats
During the holidays, forty days after he was born, we took Mats on his first outing.
We chose to confine Mats at home for forty days. Giving birth is a profound, intense, and life-altering experience. It redefines your being mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, and it takes time to assimilate the changes for Mom, Dad, and Baby. Confinement allows the mother’s body to recover from the intensity of childbirth when hormone levels change dramatically, the uterus returns to pre-pregnant size, milk production is established, and the perineum incision heals. (Did I mention I had a lot of stitches?) Many cultures around the world practice confinement. Because it takes that long to set a change of habit or lifestyle, it was vital to us that this time be honored and respected. Taking it further, my “Iron Twin,” Khalil Binebine, celebrates Ramadan in a forty-day cycle, not the traditional thirty days. And didn’t Jesus spend forty days alone in the wilderness?
