One hour ten minutes! Four thousand two hundred seconds. Four thousand nine hundred heart beats (average resting heart rate). A space shuttle takes approximately 90 minutes to orbit earth.
That's how much faster I ran the Vermont 100 race this year compared to last year.
The race director had challenged me to finish under twenty hours. AND I DID IT. I CAN DO HARD THINGS!!!
It was a great weekend. The whole family came. We brought the popup trailer and stayed at a nearby campground. It was nice having them there. I stayed solo, meaning I ran without crew and without a pacer. So the family could cheer me on only at a couple spectator locations, not at any of the aid stations. I never saw them, not until after I finished. I finished so much faster this year, that my wife didn't think I'd finish so soon. I had had a great day. And it was super nice to sleep on a bed, and sleep with my whole family.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
Can This be Me
Lately, I've been feeling off. I haven't been "passing" as easily lately and have been getting misgendered a lot more often. Usually it doesn't bother me, and I can easily brush it off.
At races, there are always rumors about me. There has been a bunch of debate in online social groups about transgender runners. Comments get heated, and often the post gets deleted. But it hurts.
Around Boston this year, someone interviewed me about the safety aspect of being a transgender runner. Many popular races offer live tracking, and some even predict arrival times at various points along the course. It's public data, anyone can access it. Transgender women know all too well about the need to hide to stay safe. I had never even considered the possibility. I told the reporter that I hadn't felt that in the trail- and ultra- running community. I felt safe. I felt that if someone were out to get me, fellow runners would help protect me. I even felt that way about Boston, that complete strangers would have my back.
Maybe I'm naive. Not long after that interview, I read some of those debates, in a trail-running group. I was heartbroken. The ultra community is special. We come from all different backgrounds. Some are recovering addicts. Some are doctors. Some are plumbers. All walks of life. But we have something in common: the love of the trails and that we'll help each other no matter what. It's a tight, beautiful community. We build each other up on and off the trails. But many of the comments really tore me up inside. I retreated a little, at least internally.
Many in my church congregation know I'm transgender (I present as female everywhere else), and they seem mostly supportive. Which coming from a bunch of Mormons is a welcome surprise. But when I'm out around town and run into some that don't know, it's very awkward. And even if they do know, it still feels awkward.
I'm tired. I'm tired of hiding who I am at church. I'm tired of not passing, of not being seen simply for who I am, of not being a complete woman. Sure, I know my kids wouldn't be here if I hadn't contributed my genetic material. I know that only I could be their father. I'm tired though of being seen as a pervert or as a mental case or as a runner taking advantage of the system or as anything but a woman. I'm tired of being transgender. I wish I could be simply male or simply female, as long as I didn't have to deal with the trans issue. Cause it really sucks sometimes. I just want to be me.
At races, there are always rumors about me. There has been a bunch of debate in online social groups about transgender runners. Comments get heated, and often the post gets deleted. But it hurts.
Around Boston this year, someone interviewed me about the safety aspect of being a transgender runner. Many popular races offer live tracking, and some even predict arrival times at various points along the course. It's public data, anyone can access it. Transgender women know all too well about the need to hide to stay safe. I had never even considered the possibility. I told the reporter that I hadn't felt that in the trail- and ultra- running community. I felt safe. I felt that if someone were out to get me, fellow runners would help protect me. I even felt that way about Boston, that complete strangers would have my back.
Maybe I'm naive. Not long after that interview, I read some of those debates, in a trail-running group. I was heartbroken. The ultra community is special. We come from all different backgrounds. Some are recovering addicts. Some are doctors. Some are plumbers. All walks of life. But we have something in common: the love of the trails and that we'll help each other no matter what. It's a tight, beautiful community. We build each other up on and off the trails. But many of the comments really tore me up inside. I retreated a little, at least internally.
Many in my church congregation know I'm transgender (I present as female everywhere else), and they seem mostly supportive. Which coming from a bunch of Mormons is a welcome surprise. But when I'm out around town and run into some that don't know, it's very awkward. And even if they do know, it still feels awkward.
I'm tired. I'm tired of hiding who I am at church. I'm tired of not passing, of not being seen simply for who I am, of not being a complete woman. Sure, I know my kids wouldn't be here if I hadn't contributed my genetic material. I know that only I could be their father. I'm tired though of being seen as a pervert or as a mental case or as a runner taking advantage of the system or as anything but a woman. I'm tired of being transgender. I wish I could be simply male or simply female, as long as I didn't have to deal with the trans issue. Cause it really sucks sometimes. I just want to be me.
I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
'Cause we don't want your broken parts
I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you areBut I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there's a place for us
For we are gloriousWhen the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on to the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me[Chorus]Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that's what we've become (yeah, that's what we've become)
Out There
I had the wonderful opportunity to run with an acquaintance for a few miles at Vermont 100 this year. We first met two years ago. She passed me around mile 90. I was defeated. I had been in second place all day only to drop to fifth place between miles 80 and 90. But I knew there was a tough hill the last few miles, and up hills are my strength. So after getting some water before the hill, I surged. By the top of the hill I had reclaimed second place. There I stayed through the short hill down to the finish. Runners second through fifth finished within ten minutes, which is very tight for a 100 miler. We won't talk about the female winner - she's amazingly fast and later that year broke the 100-mile world record. She easily beat the rest of us.
Last year, this friend of mine didn't run but was there cheering her husband. And we talked for a little bit. I couldn't remember her very well, definitely not her name. But she knew me. (I get that a lot, people remember me and know who I am even if we've only seen each other once before. And I rarely know them or remember them). This year though, after such kindness from her and her husband last year and from talking quite a bit, I actually remembered not only her face but her name too, and her husband's.
As we were running, we chatted about a lot of things. I was in no rush since it was pretty early in the race, and I was going faster than I planned but feeling real good. Anyway, she thanked me. She thanked me for putting myself out there. She works with young adults, and having my story has helped her with them. I don't know the particulars. Maybe one of them is transgender. Who knows. But I never thought this little blog reached anyone. Much less that it helps someone. So I will continue. Ramblings, thoughts, struggles, triumphs. Here they come, and they'll keep coming.
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