Crawl of Fame

by Julie Moss

  We headed to Swami’s beach, once the hermitage of Paramahansa Yogananda, who brought deeper, more spiritual yoga teachings to the United States in 1920. After starting in Boston and New York, where he drew packed houses at Carnegie Hall for lectures, he headed west and built centers from Hollywood to San Diego, still highly popular today, some sixty-five years after his passing. A sixth Yogananda-inspired community, Ananda Village, is tucked away in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Interestingly, I subscribed to Yogananda’s meditation lessons years later. I marveled about living so close to where, in 1946, he wrote the bestselling Autobiography of a Yogi. Growing up, though, I knew Swami’s as an excellent surf spot in Encinitas.

  We also practiced Attachment Parenting, which breaks down into four components: co-sleeping, feeding on demand, holding and touching, and quick responsiveness to crying. Mats slept with us in the same room, in the same bed, and we adhered to his sleep schedule rather than ours whenever we could. I breastfed him for eighteen months on his schedule, rather than referring to a pediatric time chart. I loved the feeling of our family being tucked in together. I also love touch. We kept Mats physically near always, either by cradling and cuddling, or by wearing front packs. Whenever he cried, we intervened right away, not to silence his voice or make the house quieter, but to act on the source of his distress before it flew out of control.

  Mark would take Mats to eat breakfast at our local spot, Miracles Cafe (well, Mark ate), and walk along the railroad tracks near our home for hours on end. They checked out sticks, rocks, and wildflowers, which often go unnoticed when running rail trails at six-minute-per-mile pace or cycling at twenty-five miles per hour. “He is totally at home in the natural world . . . you wake up in the morning and goof around with him a little bit because he is always in a goofy mood in the morning,” Mark told Triathlete.

  As soon as he could talk, Mats started asking questions. Good questions too, not just “why?” or “why not?” He asked whenever something intrigued him, and a lot of things caught his attention. As he grew into early childhood, we saw how we blended in his features, down to Mark’s facial characteristics and my blue eyes. He was very playful, sometimes goofy, and quite sociable; he loved to chat and make new friends, both characteristics of my personality. He was very physical, moving around outside, curious about the natural world. He’s been entirely comfortable in nature since he was born.

  As a toddler, Mats was the first to awaken. We would encourage him to see “Auntie Lala,” our tenant Leslie Engel. She rented the Blue Room, the mother-in-law unit adorned in three shades of Martha Stewart’s blue paint. Mats would open the front door, walk onto the shared front patio, and tap on Leslie’s door. She would open her door without getting out of bed, and Mats would hop up for some Auntie Lala time.

  Mats and Mark drove for daily surf checks in Mark’s silver Toyota truck. When they returned, it was either time for Dad to surf, or our time to head off to the park. Mats was what Jerry Seinfeld coined a “sidler” (pronounced side-ler). He would observe the other kids playing, and slowly make his way closer. He never tried too hard to make friends, but inched over until he assimilated into their group. Mats did have a BFF living on our street, Rebecca Kutlow. Becca called the shots. When they rode around in a big plastic car, Becca always drove. She had an older brother, Zach, so when it was her turn to rule the roost, she did just that. Mats and Becca spent part of every day together unless Becca had a conflicting playdate. Becca would announce, “Go home, Matsy.” Thus dismissed, poor Mats would watch as her new friend arrived.

  Mats and Becca are still the best of friends, more like cousins. A human rights law student at UCLA, she might be the kindest person I know. However, she was a ballbuster in her early days. A kind ballbuster is a good combination for a future lawyer. We still tease her about being an early dominatrix.

  From the start, Mats became my partner in various adventures. We held season passes to the San Diego Zoo, San Diego Wild Animal Park, and Sea World. We always sought out a new animal, bug, or flower. I have many “Bad Mom” stories, including one from the Wild Animal Park. The tram driver started commenting on the animals we passed. Soon, she directed our attention to a rocky outcropping and, by name, pointed out the African Wild Ass. I laughed and turned to Mats, faux innocence fighting with real mischief for control of my senses. “Honey,” I said, “I didn’t hear what the man said. What was that animal?”

  “A Wild Ass.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “What was it?” I repeated.

  “Wild Ass!” he yelled, his voice booming.

  The other passengers laughed.

  Mats also liked fun runs so much that we held one for his fifth birthday, starting at our house on Glasgow Ave. The kids ran down to Cardiff Elementary School, where a piñata waited to be bashed. Mark’s triathlon coaching protégé, Chris Legh, and his wife, Sarah, were staying with us, so Chris and Mark kept pace with the speedy runners while Sarah and I were the sweepers, making sure everyone was finished.

  Mats attended preschool at Sandy Hill, a parent-teacher cooperative school that emphasized natural settings and a play-based philosophy to support child learning, exploration, and self-esteem. It was a perfect fit, considering how we’d raised him thus far. During this time, I thought more about my how rewarding it was for my mom and best friend Sue to teach early-grade elementary school. (In a nice personal twist, Sue student-taught in my mom’s kindergarten class.) Leslie would follow suit and teach second grade. I’d seriously considered a career in elementary education until Ironman sent me down a different path. Later, I saw myself teaching high school rather than elementary.

  While in the classroom with Mats, it struck me that I loved this young age. Were I to teach, I would want to follow in the footsteps of the Wonder Women in my life responsible for making such a big impact on young people. Why not pursue elementary rather than secondary education? The thought lingered. Maybe I could pursue my credentials when things got more settled, and Mark was secure with his speaking and coaching . . .

  Meanwhile, Mark dove deeper into shamanism through Dance of the Deer. According to the foundation’s website, “The Dance of the Deer Foundation Center for Shamanic Studies exists to preserve the Huichol culture and its shamanic practices and traditions (the deer is the Huichol symbol for heart). The foundation was established in 1979 by Brant Secunda to carry on the vision of his grandfather and teacher, Don José Matsuwa, the renowned Huichol shaman. Don José’s vision was to leave Brant in his place to carry on the sacred traditions and to teach Huichol shamanism.”

  Mark had gravitated toward shamanism for years. He was fascinated with native Mexican spiritual practices, the Huichol Indians in particular. He experienced the lava field vision in Kona, and then attended a retreat on the Big Island the following year. Mark’s commitment involved pilgrimages, vision quests, holistic medical conferences, and practicing sacred traditions that, according to the website, “reunite people to the source of all life in order to help heal the earth, our communities, and ourselves.”

  When Triathlete asked Mark about how he gauged his practice, his answer warmed my heart: “Well, the microcosm you can see every day in your child. Are you selfish, or giving? Are you self-absorbed, or present for somebody else? Are you clear in your communication? You see all of that in your child. They reflect it back to you.”

  Mark wanted Mats and me to join him in his quest. Very much so. I’d been to a couple events, and supported his spiritual quest, but I realized it wasn’t my path. Yoga was still a decade into my future. However, Dance of the Deer served as Mats’s introduction to a spiritual life. We headed to retreats to Sedona and Alaska, the latter to baptize Mats while Mark went on a five-day vision quest in the deep Alaskan wilderness with no food or water. I knew Mark could handle extreme physical situations, as you might expect of a five-time Ironman champion. Still, I worried, and was relieved when he returned. His translucent eyes were shining, the eyes of one tapped into his inner light. He remained in tha
t space for days afterward.

  Mats’s introduction to Dance of the Deer came at the ripe age of five days. We bought a new palm tree to plant along with my placenta, a ritual familiar to many indigenous cultures . . . but we still hadn’t decided on a name. “What kind of a father am I when I can’t even give my son a name?” Mark despaired.

  We laid out a beautiful altar in our front yard. I was wavering between naming him Mats (after Mats Wilander, the tennis star) and Watson, after my Carlsbad surfing friends Jimmy Watson and Watson Gooch. I’d call him Wats for short. It was between those two. Mark broke the tie and we went with Mats.

  We flew over to Kona for the 1994 Ironman World Championships with our eleven-month-old in tow. Neither of us raced, but Mats took his “one small step for man.” He walked for the first time in Kona. How perfect was that? Meanwhile, I became the second person to be inducted into the Ironman Hall of Fame. Dave Scott was the first. I was thrilled and overwhelmed, especially considering I was a new mother, out of shape, and not exactly holding the best Kona credentials, having DNF’ed in my last two Ironmans. What humbles me the most is that it is such an exclusive club. In 2017, Chrissie Wellington became just the twenty-ninth Ironman Hall of Famer. If only I might one day erase those DNFs and again finish what I started . . .

  In 1995, Mark set a goal that the triathlon world considered ridiculous: Coming back from a one-year absence to win a sixth Ironman at age thirty-seven. We heard that younger competitors were writing him off as old and out of touch. Do you know how much that motivates a great champion?

  Mark was a different athlete than the one who left the Kona stage after 1993. In his absence, Greg Welch held off forty-year-old Dave Scott to win the 1994 Ironman. Mark took a close look at Dave’s age and performance, and knew he could succeed again. His first Kona win had freed him up to enjoy racing, and to appreciate the other things in his life, like his son, which he couldn’t do while constantly striving to win. It made our life so much better, and happiness in life is success in life.

  Now, he wanted his crown back.

  When we arrived for the 1995 Ironman, l looked at the young upstarts and thought, You guys have no idea what you’re dealing with. He might be chronologically ancient, but he’s more powerful than ever. Mark had spent a full year steeped in fatherhood and spiritual practices. When he returned from his vision quest, the look on his face was so calm, so powerful. These younger athletes might have watched him win the Iron War while in college, and now considered him Too Old To Beat Them.

  Good luck loosening The Grip with that misperception.

  With Mats and I watching and cheering, Mark stepped up for his race, the toughest since his duel with Dave. Mark addressed the challenge of defending champion Greg Welch, but his larger fight came against two young Germans, twenty-four-year-old Thomas Hellriegel and twenty-eight-year-old Rainer Müller-Hörner. Mark came into T1—the swim transition—in fourteenth place, and only moved up to ninth after the bike. I was concerned. He was thirteen minutes behind Hellriegel; he’d need to outrun the German by thirty seconds per mile over the marathon—unheard of at this level. He also had to pass eight world-class athletes along the way, while being at the center of all of their radars. With all due respect, I don’t think a defending champion ever faced less pressure than Greg. Everyone wanted to see if Grip still had it. Much as I wanted, I did not coach or urge Mark on; he did not want that. Yet, he still fed off my energy. “There was always this invisible connection between us that was critical for me,” he told Triathlete. “I told her that no matter how far behind I got, to always think positive thoughts. There was no room for negative thoughts if I was to have that one percent chance to win. She gave me her strength.”

  Between our constant positive thoughts, his training and unwavering belief in himself, Mark dug into an inner place only Mark Allen knows. He erased Hellriegel’s thirteen-minute advantage in a comeback for the ages, unleashing an incredible 2:42 marathon, his second fastest ever in Kona. He beat Hellriegel by two minutes, Mueller by five, and Greg by nine.

  After the race, Mark handed the Kona family race baton to me. I wanted my final date too, to erase those damned DNFs from my memory banks. I told him, “You know, I was thinking, when Mats is older, he will ask, ‘So Daddy, you won Ironman six times. Mommy, what did you do? Oh, you dropped out the last two times?’” I did not want that to be the story Mats knew.

  While I competed in other triathlons, and made strong attempts for the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials, I’d also had Mats at age thirty-five and spent his first year doing what new mothers do—feeding, changing diapers, and tending to family, and not so much working out.

  I needed a longer runway than a same-year decision. In 1996, I began to view marathons as the way back. During the fall, I trained for November’s New York Marathon, with a goal of breaking three hours. It gave me something to do while Mark wrapped up his competition commitments. I ran a lot during our summer in Boulder, which made me confident I could hit my goal.

  “I want to go back to Kona,” I told Mark.

  “Why don’t you see how New York goes first?” he replied.

  A wise suggestion. Lisette and I flew out and dove into the crazy Manhattan scene while Mark stayed home with Mats. My goal? To break three hours. The crowds encouraged and motivated me, and I fed off their energy—much as Shalane Flanagan did twenty years later, albeit much faster. Plus, the difference between running 2:47 and 3:00 in a marathon is major—30 seconds per mile. Though it had been six years since I ran the 2:47, I could tell the difference in pace and effort.

  In the end, the PowerBar centipede got me through. The runners in that costumed chorus line allowed me inside their “cape” while grinding through the late-race Central Park hills. They dropped me with two miles to go, but helped me pick it up enough to finish at 2:59. Earlier in the year, I ran 3:18 in the LA Marathon. In seven months, I’d improved by almost a minute per mile.

  I launched into training for my return to Kona.

  A few weeks after returning from New York, I surprised Mark on our seventh anniversary. Leslie Engel took Mats to see 101 Dalmatians. He even wore a jacket covered with dalmatians! Back home, Mark and I dressed to the nines for an anniversary dinner, like we’d done every year since getting married. “We need to make a quick stop at Lois’s house,” I said, referring to Lois Schwartz, the cofounder of Competitor magazine with Bob Babbitt.

  We walked inside—into his surprise retirement party. Lisette and Sue joined the predominately triathlon crowd as well. We used Mark’s Waterford Crystal trophies for flower arrangements, and we balanced the honoring speeches and words with a nice, kindhearted roast. I’m happy to report that Mark responded to the trophy flower arrangements better than my Christmas stalker ornaments!

  Mark stopped racing completely. Since his body hurt from fifteen years of intense training, he worked out or jogged very little for the first few months. Except for surfing; he surfed all the time. When he tried to resume a workout schedule, his new daily work schedule—plus family obligations—made it difficult. He famously told Outside, “When I was racing, I couldn’t figure out why people couldn’t stay fit. I thought, ‘They have no excuse.’ Now I know.”

  Now in the same boat as the rest of the working world, he carved out time to hit the weight room, ride the bike, stretch, and run. His aches stopped, his muscles strengthened, and he felt in shape again. He would never win another Ironman, but now, he embraced the bigger reason to work out: to maintain lifelong fitness for the sake of his well-being. This is the essential reason to run, ride, sweat, lift weights, or play sports, beyond races or achievements.

  As Mark found his groove on the sidelines, I couldn’t wait to get back in the game. It showed; the 1997 season could not have gone better. My fast start was due entirely to former pro triathlete Jenny Wood, my amazing and sassy training partner who dragged my ass around for months. Together, we logged hundreds of hours riding and running. The season officially started when Mark, Ma
ts, and I traveled to Australia so I could qualify for Kona. I turned in my second fastest Ironman ever, finishing seventh in 10 hours and 13 seconds—70 minutes faster than my Kona race fifteen years before. My splits were rock solid: a 55:36 swim, 5:33:33 bike, and 3:31:04 marathon. My desire to erase the bad memories of Kona now seemed possible.

  I realize not many who saw me on Wide World of Sports remember or even know of the Kona DNFs. Well, I remember them. And they had to be erased. “It’s good for her to do that. She had that thing inside her that felt incomplete. She felt she let herself down the last few times she did the race. Who wants to live with that if you can correct it?” Mark told Triathlete.

  My Ironman résumé did not square with my place in the Ironman Hall of Fame. I was known for finding whatever resolve it took to crawl across the line, not dropping out of races. I have a moral code, which I’d covered up by justifying the DNFs. I used the extreme discomfort of 1982 as my excuse. I know how far I can go, and I’m not willing to do it. It led to three DNFs. The first, in 1984, was legitimate; I had medical issues. Then came 1989, when Mark and Dave waged their Iron War. I couldn’t focus on my race anymore. Not a good excuse. In 1990, while Mark defended his title, I dropped again to be at his finish. Another bad excuse. This is not why you line up. In all three cases, I dropped while in the Top 10.

  My moral conundrum was simple. After the race was over, the cheers died down, the press filed their stories, and my justifications faded, I was left with a knotted truth inside my belly: I quit. I fucking quit. Something needed to be protected—the “never quit” moral fiber from 1982—and who better than me to protect it? No one else knew it was a big deal, or any deal at all. But it was to me.

  During my Ironman training cycle, I faced the same problem as athletic mothers everywhere: how to find time away from my kid? I used a local daycare facility to buy some training time. Mats took one look and did not dig it one bit. He saw some poor kid getting his diaper changed from a table that dropped out of the wall, the toddler’s package on full display. Mats decided he would never poop at that preschool! When I saw the look on his face as I dropped him off twice a week, I realized I had to raise the bar on my training. If my kid was putting up with a daycare he didn’t like, then I owed it to him to become more efficient in my training.