Countdown to Gender.

Ian was a small, lightweight person; I used to think his build assisted flashy, fleet-of-foot running. No doubting the man could run and rapidly. Capable of passing a mass of triathletes, including me. Little did I know he ticked down moments to a time he could be comfortable in his body.

Appearances are deceptive. If I searched to find a more precise descriptive word for Ian, petit might fit. Tiny slip of a thing. Possible to apply such a term to a male, and still complimentary? Ian’s hair was short, thinning and reddish, his freckled face signified an outdoors lifestyle full of physical training. At social events he was typically seated quietly on peripheries, an observer, rather than deep in gyrating dance floors.

We shared, at least sports-wise, common experiences. Our chat times were while we waited for the in-crowd to arrive at functions. Both of us habitually arrived un-fashionably early. Back then, in the 1980s friendships could set tongues a-wagging so I want to get rid of any rumors right up front. Ian fitted under my armpit, and I always adhered to a height restriction; ‘Taller than me to get on this ride’. I remained ignorant about his desires.

Another commonality for our triathlete group included nick names. Butch. I always used to wonder why when Ian did not embodied Butchness. I suppose for similar reasons John was called Big John. How I came to encounter un-truth behind John’s moniker, is a whole other story. Pity kindred reverse psychology was not applied to my nickname: mouth from the south, mobile megaphone or just plain loud, most frequent options. I was seen as capable of unloading deep secrets.

After a stint working down south at a country college, I noticed differences in Ian, his eyebrows appeared more cultured. Longer more sleek hair. Even Ian’s skin took on a new radiance, seemed more care taken generally in his appearance. He’d already became to count down to his new gender.

He still spent time with that same weekend cycle-pack. Lycra clad numbers gather for obligatory coffees. We spilled across a wide verandah on South Terrace, engaged in multiple conversations.

Someone dropped a bomb shell. ‘Butch is undergoing gender re-alignment therapy,’ offered up in secretive, low volumes. With my reputation for noise, why tell me? Glancing over, I struggled to understand; just what could this mean? Butch showed some subtle changes to his body language. Was I imagining it? Yes, he crosses his legs more now. But cyclists are androgynous. Tough, strong women; fit, lean, men and women with faces reflective of helmet hair, wind, and sun. All sporting, (pun intended) wearing, displaying shaved legs. Why so secretive about transition with this group?

I remembered a leg competition one year as a lead-up activity during a pre-race ‘carbo loading’ party. With identity hidden, athletes visible only from thighs down, impossible to guess male or female. A crowd counted down until guesses were revealed.

Take a casual glance and we look poured from similar molds.

On that day my greatest dilemma was Ian’s nickname. Butch now felt downright insulting. No, today our exchanges no deeper than a friendly greeting, nodded across masses.

Those at my end of the table were curious about my recent employment changes, so I did not engage in any in-depth exchanges with Ian. I can remember attempts to poke fun at Ian’s changing persona but everyone in our kindred triathlete bike pack accepted occasional sledging. 

While I spent much of the next two years overseas major changes happened. Ian underwent gender realignment surgery in Thailand. Took the final steps, emerged from dressings as Janice. Now he was she …taken a walk on the wild side. 

After these ‘cosmetic’ changes Janice began a lengthy process to gain permission to race triathlons in his new gender. A fight for rights to take part in a preferred sport despite a new set of genitalia. Such a struggle in our small triathlon community, I wondered why? From third parties I’d heard she was rejected, re-presented her case and only on her third attempt did state controlling, sport governing body conceded to Janice as a female. So Janice ticked off another hurdle and finally gained recognition as female.

But going through paperwork processes and people’s reaction can be two different matters.

My next awareness of Janice was toes on a start line of Bunbury Olympic distance triathlon. Blending in among our usual teeming mass starts. Dressed in slick new two-piece racing outfit everyone wore.  

‘There isn’t even a bump there!’ says Peter, loudly.

‘What are you talking about?’ I tried to encourage him out of earshot.

‘Women have that VW bonnet thing. If you look IT doesn’t have one.’

‘As if I’m going to walk past and take a long hard look at her box.’

‘Don’t you wonder what it looks like?’

‘No.’

‘Well in the dark, with a few drinks, all looks the same.’

He’s still staring.

‘You think she still gets a boner?’

‘What? You are really disgusting!’

No one was more stunned than me to be closing in on his/her Janice/Ian’s (going to take me a while to get used to the change) small frame during the run course’s second lap. Thinking a new hormonal mix must reduce speed. As I passed, I offered a token, ‘well done, nearly there!’ As usual ignorant about how she might have counted down elements of her success.

Months later at our largest, longest and last race I encountered Janice again.

Something about a hard half Ironman distance triathlon on windy Rottnest Island meant digestive systems can be on dysfunctional mode. I felt distinctly ill and just a little depressed crossing this finish line. Participants trying to qualify for a crazy, inhuman, unachievable, unimaginable Ironman best I managed probably included missing out by one or two places, at worst I mid-field ‘also ran’. Suffering with this internal physical and mental trauma I decided to use a change room-shower facility well away from more crowded transition areas. My mind set just couldn’t cope with a well-meaning-casual, ‘how did you go?’

As I arrived Janice was toweling down, finishing her ablutions. Knowing this might be my only change offer a supportive comment, I took an initiative. ‘I really have to admire your courage, to do what you have.’

‘Thanks, I wish I’d done it 15 years ago.’

‘Making you, what, in your late teens; you really think it would have happened?’

‘Probably not, but I’ve not spent all this time feeling as if I was in the wrong body.’

‘Well, I really want to congratulate you.’

That was it, women’s change rooms didn’t present an ambience for extended philosophical interactions. Yet I am sure such positives helped Janice to find a new place in her new gender.

Speaking to Peter about our tiny exchange all he wanted to know was, ‘did you see it? What did it look like?’

I tried to block out his bigotry with a greater desire to learn names of recipients about to gain Ironman qualifying slots.

Extensive gossip buzzed about Janice’s wild card entry to that Ironman race. According to some she’d written and made an application. With entries down, she apparently scored successful inclusion. A whole string of questions encroached: Not least of which concerned changing outfits in transition tent zones. Some people get naked in there. What if my fellow participants knew that a woman who used to be a man disrobed amongst us? Was I going to tell anyone? Nope, not my job. 

Once a year a real freak show invades a quiet country town. Back then you couldn’t just enter. No, most submitted to gaining a qualifying slot, knowing full well extent of physical pain we were about to inflict ourselves to. Regardless of how, all these triathletes freely tested boundaries of human endurance with mammoth distances, all in the one day. Swimming - 3.8kms, riding - 180kms and running a full marathon (42.2km). Makes quiet an impact on demographics. Not to mention populating a country town usually full of tourists with taut, Lycra clad bodies. We all countdown to seventeen hours permitted to finish this race, the longest one day event on the planet.

Some new friends met Janice one morning for a swim; they’d already heard gossip. It’s hard to quell rumors and prejudices from within our ranks. A voice inside grumbled about sledging way past funny. …one ugly woman…wouldn’t want to go there…

I waved to Janice in crowds about to be seated for Ironman’s pre-event party. Happy to chat, she talked about event lead-up training, success in gaining entry to this event, and plans to shift to a country town. I listened and couldn’t help thinking such moves yet another new beginning and anonymity she deserved. But Janice looked anxious and unsettled. We all suffered from pre-race jitters, but when she was he, Ian already completed one of these Ironman events. You’d think novelty would wear away. Still how does anyone feel comfortable on the eve of what we’re about to do to ourselves?

Nope, it wasn’t nerves, because Janice’s focused on a small leather bag over her shoulder. Eventually she began to cry, ‘I can’t find the key to my room….’

I walked with her toward openings in marquees, an open exit, hopefully with a comforting arm around her tiny frame. ‘Perhaps if we retrace your steps, we’ll find it.’

‘What’s the problem, ladies?’ asked a huge but friendly door official. 

Turned out someone had already found and handed her room key in at function door.

Last I heard Janice decided to live away down south, enjoy anonymity a new life might bring, free of anyone who might tick off her vital life steps, and make some sort of shocking announcement. I hope she is happy. I long to pat her on the back and congratulate her for managing her final countdown.