by Julie Moss
That’s when I finally got the idea of brick training—putting together two or all three triathlon disciplines by stacking one workout atop another. I literally charged through my training as if my kid’s happiness depended on it, fueled by guilt. I also thought of the poor kid desperately having to poop and holding out until I got him home!
When we arrived in Kona, Mark was in full Sherpa mode, proud to support me in the first Ironman either of us ran that Mats can still remember. On the flight, I finished up Mats’s Halloween costume; I considered sewing and making costumes to be part of my rite of passage into motherhood. Two weeks after Kona, he wore his favored menehune costume in the Halloween parade in Lahaina, Maui, during the Xterra (Off Road) Triathlon World Championship. Mark and I went as the Turn Down Service, wearing bed sheets with chocolate mints pinned to our chests. Mark threw in the hotel lampshade for good measure.
I raced with authority in Kona. No DNFs this time! Not only did I finally feel worthy of my Hall of Fame induction, but I finished second in my age group and nineteenth overall in the women’s division, running 10:39—a half hour faster than 1982. “She is older and wiser, and she trained smarter,” Mark told the press afterward. “She was not so obsessive. There was no pressure. She could have been sucked up into an unhealthy competitiveness, but she kept her perspective the whole way through.”
I attributed much of my success to Mark’s support, Jenny Wood, and motherhood, particularly the brick training necessitated by Mats’s daycare discomfort. “You make sure to get as much as you can from each workout,” I said then, “because your time is much more valuable.”
I bowed out of the sport with my head held high. What a perfect way to return to retirement, to my husband and son . . .
While basking in the afterglow of Kona, storm clouds began to pop up on the horizon. Storm clouds at home. I began to worry about the degree to which Mark immersed himself when working with Dance of the Deer. His activities increased greatly during the year, often without including Mats and me. I began to wonder, How far is this going?
CHAPTER 16
When Iron Breaks
Where would we turn next?
Mark rolled deeper into his post-race career, which now included owning a new gym in La Jolla, California, and a new book we were writing with Bob Babbitt. Mats continued to grow; his spirit, energy, and deep intelligence lighting us up daily. Our marriage carried on, minus all but the usual stresses. I immersed myself in tending to Mark and Mats, my commitment to being a great wife and mother absolute. Deep down, though, a question nagged: What about Julie? I’d enjoyed the world stage for a decade before willingly ceding it to focus on motherhood and family. As the buzz wore off my latest Kona achievement, I felt an itch. It’s something most great athletes who later become mothers experience, but I grew more and more isolated from those circles.
I wanted to find something. Maybe announcing? I’d enjoyed the bit of TV work I’d done. It would be nice to continue—as long as I didn’t have to move to Los Angeles or New York. What about public speaking? I’d given quite a few talks, and liked sharing my experience and energy to inform or motivate the audience. The thought of teaching also stayed with me.
Meanwhile, I more keenly observed the differences in our parenting styles. Mark had been a parent-pleasing child, wanting his dad’s approval, never acting out. He was the classic good kid, just like my brother, Marshall. His life rolled on discipline and structure. He created moments of greatness by trusting that his workouts would pay off, and then grinding them out. He passed the state lifeguard test at seventeen after graduating high school, and entered UC-San Diego and did mega yardage every morning and night for the swim team despite a heavy premed course load. He didn’t have a lot of wiggle room for free time.
My upbringing was much different. Marshall was my mom’s primary focus. She was determined to create a better man than she married. Because her spotlight was trained on him, I slid under the radar. Meanwhile, I was a parent-pleasing kid as well, until the parent I wanted to please most left us. I got by with minimal daily effort, though I was certainly smart enough to achieve good grades. Marshall and I were even tested into the mentally gifted minors program (IQ 132+) in junior high, an embarrassing proposition to share with my peers. I used my smarts as my excuse: “If I really wanted to do well, I could. I’m smart enough.” I was too busy surfing and socializing, making sure I was not left behind, all the fun things about high school. “I remember having a pre-prom party at my house,” Cindy Conner recalled, “and we were all there with our dates. But no one had asked Julie to the prom. Julie showed up anyway and helped with throwing the party. She found a great way to be right in the middle of it.”
From his earliest years, Mats’s comfort zone was different than ours. He would take his little Radio Flyer four-wheeler and race it down our driveway. The driveway wasn’t steep, but he built some speed and stopped just shy of the bumper of Mark’s truck. He knew when he needed to slow down—when his face was two inches from the bumper. A perfectly fine comfort zone for him, but as I watched, I bit my tongue to keep from yelling out. Never mind that when I was the same age, Jay Jardine and I plowed a surrey wagon into a car in Carlsbad. I wanted to honor Mats’s comfort zone, and not impose my discomfort on him. I wanted to honor that. So I avoided yelling, “Stop!”
Mark was uncomfortable with Mats’s more blatant adventures. His structured approach held that, if you take the right step, then step after step after step, you can find success. Conversely, I maintained that sometimes you stumble and fall into things. Like moments of clarity. Or Kona; I changed the sport without really knowing what I was doing. Whereas Mark, following his methodical path, took seven years to win in Kona. He never lost there again, posting six victories. Our results intersected in a great way. When they announced the ten greatest moments in Ironman history for the thirtieth anniversary celebration in 2008, my 1982 race was voted second only to the creation of the event. Right behind that was Mark’s Iron War conquest of Dave Scott. To me, this shows how you can take vastly different approaches to a sport—or parenting. I see in Mats a great blend between us. With him, we got it right.
Mark had been involved with Dance of the Deer for nearly a decade. He’d attended their major functions and retreats, and served on their staff. When we traveled to the retreats as a family, it was a positive experience and I was pleased to take part and witness Mark’s transformation and healing. He had found what he was seeking, a community- and family-oriented group that fed him spiritually.
As 1999 rolled around, Mark felt drawn to increase his commitment. Since Dance of the Deer was headquartered in Santa Cruz, he reasoned that living there would allow easy access to the local activities, while he continued to participate in the ongoing national and international retreats.
Mark started talking about moving us to Santa Cruz. From our beautiful Spanish Mediterranean home in sunny, warm Cardiff? What? Why? Why uproot to a colder, wetter climate that chills any surfer to the bone? Sure, the waves could be really good, but who wants to paddle into hypothermia? What could Santa Cruz offer Mats educationally, or me personally, that we didn’t already have? What about the friends and family who fulfilled our family life, all of whom I wanted Mats to know as he got older?
I held out hope. I thought Mark was throwing out feelers for something years down the line. Mats would start kindergarten at Cardiff Elementary in the fall of 1999. Surely, we would wait until he changed schools after third grade—at least. That gave me plenty of time to change Mark’s mind while Mats and I continued to live our happy lives in Cardiff.
Unfortunately, Mark moved his chess piece before I moved mine.
When Mark got the calling to do something, and committed to it, you either followed suit—or left the train.
He tightened his resolve—and our marriage entered troubled waters. I tried to save it through the way I handled difficulties then, by ignoring them. Maybe I was holding out for a miraculous shift. Maybe I believed w
e would be okay. Deep down, though, I knew we were in trouble. A dark cloud billowed, a disturbing perception that the shit would hit the fan if we moved to Santa Cruz. It was the inner version of the sudden weather change on Villarrica we’d experienced in Chile, only far worse.
I knew this was beyond my ability to sort out. I sought out a therapist, who lived in our neighborhood. I walked over for our first meeting and explained that my husband wished to move our family to support his spiritual path, a path different than my own. I hadn’t even found a path yet. The therapist said something I’d never considered: “Navigating opposing spiritual paths is one of the most difficult obstacles a married couple can overcome.”
Oh boy . . .
She added that when one partner embarks on a spiritual discovery, there is no telling what will happen to the relationship, marriage, or future. It is a deeply uncomfortable and despairing place for the other partner. She likened the experience to sailing along smoothly, and then hitting an iceberg. “It can be scary for the partner left behind, for the partner witnessing rather than seeking,” she said.
There they were, words to trigger the scared little girl living inside me since my dad left thirty years before . . . left behind.
After we finished, I walked home to share the session with Mark. He was not sympathetic. He simply said, “Get a new therapist.”
I didn’t know how to shift my fear and ensuing anger into neutral. My primary role, my job, was being a wife and mother. I also loved being half of a triathlon power couple. I didn’t know how to shake my feelings to remain the wife whose loving presence supported our marriage no matter what. I desperately wanted to find this in myself, but anger and fear paralyzed me.
Mark continued to move forward. As he veered further away from me, I felt left behind emotionally, helpless to stop him. I well knew the feeling of being dropped on a long climb by the Grip. My anger and growing depression plunged me into emotional quicksand, and I slowly sank. As a girl who not only thrived, but also subsisted on love, vibrant energy, and positive attitude, I found myself in a desperate place. How could I feel any worse? How could it get any worse?
Well, it did.
I focused on keeping us where we were. In Cardiff, I could trust my love for Mark, and see that his growth was good for all of us. To offset the fact that emotionally, Mark was becoming increasingly distant, I surrounded myself with those who shared in our success, relationships built over many years. They became a lifeline for me.
I focused on getting Mats ready for kindergarten, just a few months away. Cardiff Elementary served about 350 kids in grades K through 3, with a great view of the Pacific Ocean across Highway 101 as well as San Elijo Lagoon, a beautiful coastal waterway. California dreaming, all the way. I visualized Mark, Mats, and me holding hands for our ten-minute walk to campus for Mats’s first day. Later, I would run along the beach and wait for him at the gate. We would walk home and he would tell me about his day. This image was so strong, so sure. I never doubted it. I never pictured another image, or another school. Or another life . . .
We packed several bags and moved to Santa Cruz on a weekend, so Mats could start kindergarten the following Monday. While Mark happily bid Cardiff farewell to plunge headlong into a new life, I slumped in the backseat with Mats for the entire seven-hour drive, fuming, hurt beyond belief. I barely spoke to Mark. When I did, it was to complain.
Finally, we arrived at our fully furnished rental home, which sat above Sunny Cove—the exact opposite of how I felt. Relocating your family to best serve all parties is something we can rally behind, even if we miss our friends or our kids complain about their new schools. Still, the spouses/parents are working together to make a better life.
This was a different story. Mark was singularly committing to a lifestyle to which I had only a peripheral connection. Fine for him, but not the life I’d committed to. This was a whole new ball game, not the same as making mistakes in your relationship or marriage, which can be apologized for, rectified, and “worked on.” We were no longer on the same team.
It was the end of the life we had known for fourteen years.
After we enrolled Mats in his new school, I tried to make the most of our new life. I liked the Gateway School from the beginning. Their mission appealed to me, especially the emphasis on gender balance, whole-person education, and using playing and laughter as vital learning tools along with nature. An adventurous, sociable, smart, and free-spirited kid like Mats would fit right in. Simple notes like the one Mats received at year’s end from his kindergarten teachers, Diana and Pat, warmed the aspiring educator’s heart inside me: “Dear Mats, you’ve been a good classmate this year, because you’re a good sport and share your skills with others.”
Before Christmas, I took Mats to the Tall Ships’ annual procession in Santa Cruz Harbor. We spent three hours sailing both the Lady Washington, and a vessel whose name resonated with us, the Hawaiian Chieftain. I have a picture of Mats hanging from one of the masts. We learned about the ships and their trade routes, along with life on board for 19th century sailors. We also reenacted a battle between the two ships, and Mats learned how to load a cannon on command: “Fire In the Hole!” As the group leader explained, “fire in the hole” was a warning of an imminent detonation. The term originated with miners, but spread to the high seas in the 18th century. When someone yelled “fire in the hole,” you ducked for cover.
The Bad Mom in me thought “Fire in the Hole” would make a perfect name for a spicy salsa. Sadly, though, it more accurately reflected my home life. On December 10, we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary, a far less joyous event than anniversaries past. Mark had just returned from a speaking engagement in New York, and brought me a white gold band I had admired, along with an Ebel watch with a beautiful blue face.
However, no gift could mask the tension between us. We got into a fight, and I hurled that red Cartier box across the bedroom. Fighting with Mark was something I’d rarely done. It felt so foreign and wrong.
For our first Christmas in Santa Cruz, we also decorated a birdseed ornament tree on our back patio, having left our ornaments behind in Cardiff. We cut out Mats’s initials in the ornaments—“MA.” The old Stalker Tree skills came in handy, but the memory at that point seemed distant. We also cut out shapes of stars, diamonds, and candy canes, strung popcorn, peanuts, cranberries, dried pineapple, and dried apples, coated them with peanut butter, and put birdseed on top. It was really fun to see the birds enjoying this Christmas tree.
I had no idea what to do with my consuming love for Mark. I loved him, but hated his choices. I couldn’t handle being torn apart by these opposing feelings, so I shoved my love deep down and let my new persona of being a total bitch mask the fear.
The year 2000 began with more confirmation that we were staying in Santa Cruz for the long haul. While skiing in Mammoth with Lisette and her family, we closed on our new house. Mats finished school and we returned to Cardiff to put our beautiful home on the market, the center of our family’s greatest years. After returning to Santa Cruz, Mats started first grade at Gateway.
Meanwhile, Mark worked on his public speaking with famed financial planning and life strategy expert Bill Bachrach, whom he also coached in the 1998 Ironman. (I would have my own moment with Bill years later.) After figuring out his path forward, Mark had rolled everything fully into gear by 1999. We’d also finished working on a book with Bob Babbitt, Workouts for Working People. The premise was simple: Mark and I shared our stories, training secrets, and a simple series of workouts with readers who had trouble finding an hour a day to exercise. The cover even shows the two happy spouses, Julie and Mark, running on the beach together. Only one thing: we were the furthest thing from being happy.
I continued to hold Mark at a distance, my fear and anger now dominating my heart. Slowly, he became completely remote from me. Eventually, he let me go.
I needed to keep myself afloat and among people. I’m a sociable person who likes her quiet t
ime—not the other way around. It was not working for me to be so isolated in Santa Cruz, hundreds of miles from my friends. I had to do something.
I turned to an old friend: racing. In April 2000, I returned to North San Diego County for the California Ironman, held in Oceanside, my old stomping grounds. It was so good to race again, to feel part of a scene I’d helped to build but toward which I now felt increasingly removed. While training, I reconnected with some old friends: Alicia Hougharty, a former pro triathlete living near in Santa Cruz, to run in the redwoods, and Marc Martinez, a California State lifeguard who worked with Mark and me, to swim at Simpkins Pool, a mile from the house. I made new friends in Nick Lewellyn at Masters swimming, and with Diana Roberts, a physical therapist and strong age group triathlete, who showed me all the local rides.
I also connected with the local surf community. Several Santa Cruz moms and I would paddle out between 9:00 and 11:00 A.M., when our kids were in school. These were the Mom Sessions. I really enjoyed riding waves again, but never got used to the ocean temperatures; Santa Cruz was not Cardiff. But what stoked my heart was the sheer number of women in the water. What a difference from Emily, Robin, Cindy, and me fighting for scraps in Carlsbad as kids; women’s surfing had grown so much.
Leave it to my original favorite sport to enliven me. I loved to go to the beach in front of wetsuit inventor Jack O’Neill’s house. The O’Neills have been the First Family of Surfing in Santa Cruz since Jack and his hearty friends, Fred Van Dyke and Richard Novak, bare-trunked it or wore flannel shirts while surfing in 50°F water, then warmed up with giant beach bonfires. The stories they told at those bonfire sessions are some of the richest in surfing lore, and I love good surf stories. In 1952, Jack handed Fred’s wife, Betty, a neoprene suit to wear in the water. She ditched her cashmere sweater, paddled out, and stayed warm in the suit for much longer than her typical twenty-minute white-knuckle sessions. Jack called his invention a “wetsuit”; water enters the suit, then warms from one’s body heat. Nearly every surfer in the world now has one. I was deeply saddened when Jack passed in July 2017, after taking ninety-four splendid trips around the sun—during which he surfed, ballooned, sailed, and headed up the wildly successful O’Neill Wetsuits operation and its great branding slogan: “It’s always summer on the inside.”
