How did I get here? History, change, something else.

“Son, you’ve marked the wrong box. I’ll fix that.” 

My photo ID had an “M” on it, through a stroke of luck/fate, and some greater cosmic [mis]understanding of the complexity of gender, plus the scratched, coke-bottle lenses of the octogenarian DMV clerk. I said nothing, stunned. And then left, quickly.

But, that wasn’t the first time in my life I had been read as male without trying. In fact, prior to my mean-girl phase, I was almost always read as a little boy. When she was around, my mother would try to correct people. When she wasn’t, I enjoyed the freedom to dig in the mud and roughhouse with the other boys, prior to putting on my gymnastics leotard. I earned a reputation as a real bruiser in soccer; they called me “the little weapon”, a jibe at my petite stature in an era of Arnold Swartzenager movies. Dolls were boring, and I hated sitting still through playing house or princess movies – except for My Little Pony, I LOVE My Little Pony.

Being a boy, part time, allowed me to play the rough and tumble sports that I wanted to play. I was able to have the friends that I wanted to have. And, I confidently walked by myself at night on the streets, my hoodie up over my head, watching the moon fade into the purple haze of early dawn, and nobody ever told me that walking alone at night wasn’t safe for little ladies. (This sense of safety alone on the streets at night may be more of a phenomenon of largely absent/irresponsible parenting, but I’m pretty sure it also has something to do with how the world perceived the gender of an 8 year old kid). Yet, at school and at gymnastics, I was a girl, living a split life for a while. And, I was a mean girl when I was in girl mode. I was popular, cute despite my mostly handed down clothes, had a crush on one of the cool boys (we held hands!), always had perfect hair, and cruelly asserted my presence as a pretty girl by mercilessly mocking “Carol the barrel”, my grade’s too-hairy, too-heavy girl.

When I was 9, I went to Girl Scout Camp, and met other girls who weren’t really girls either. Some of them were even more boyish than me, and that was a shock. I had never met girls who played too rough before, who ate bugs on a dare, and didn’t squeal at pulling leeches off their legs after wading through the green slime in the shallows of the lake.


Shortly after my third summer at Girl Scout Camp, I withdrew from the cool girls clique. It didn’t matter anymore, and I was sorry for what I had done to Carol for all of those years. That timing wasn’t a moment too soon. With the onset of puberty, I was suddenly a little bit too heavy for competitive gymnastics and a little bit too hairy to be cool.  I cut my hair short, dyed it green, and became an outsider.

The thing about growing up is that you don’t get to stay a kid forever. Eventually, you need photo ID, there are always forms to fill out, and you have to pick a box. Male or female. If you leave it blank, somebody else will pick for you. If you pick one that the world doesn’t think is correct, you will be reassigned to better fit other people’s comfort.

Perhaps in another place and time, things would have been different. But, I was ten years too early for the concept of gender nonconformance as an acceptable identity. After leaving high school early to attend college, and then dropping out of college for lack of funding and increasing identity struggles, I had no marketable skills and nothing to show for qualifications. I found myself suddenly in the precarious place of being marginally housed, scavenging for stale bagels in Panera dumpsters, and doing day labor or various other odd jobs where I could find them. I hitchhiked around the country, with all of my clothes and a few possessions on my back, allowing the truckers to believe the narrative they flawlessly invented for me: pre-teen, boy runaway. When rides became hard to find, or I was weary of trucker banter, I rode freight trains. Living as a boy five years younger than my actual age became a habit, and allowing people to invent my past in their imaginations became a self-preservation mechanism. Being a boy traveler isn’t as unsafe as being a girl traveler. The only requirement is erasing your own history and never slipping up. Slipping up has dire consequences.

Who do you think I am? I can be whoever you want me to be.

Then, I arrived in Philadelphia, and found myself at a roudy punk house party. It was New Years Eve, to my surprise. I had lost track of time in my travels. I was exhausted and fell asleep on a couch, despite the blasting noise. I woke up two days later to one of the residents poking me to find out if I was dead. My backpack was gone. My travel companion was gone.

“Do you want to catsit? I’m traveling to Mexico till the spring.”

I had come of age in my travels. Now 18, I used my time with free housing and small amount of income to take an EMT course and find a more settled life. Being an EMT was a lot like the traveling life; hyper-masculine, unedited, and a bit risky for women and non-conformers. My photo ID said “M” and thus I started my work history with a place in the men’s locker room. I continued my habit of having no history, and held the world at arms length. I went to extremes with lifting weights to build up my core and upper body strength so that when it came to lifting the heaviest of patients I would never have to ask for help, compensating for my small stature. Coming out could have meant becoming a hate crime statistic.

Our circumstances shape our identities.

I was living as a man and did not really know how to live as an adult in any other way. I had very few friends who knew I was not male assigned. My experience with living a stealth life resonated with that of being trans*, female to male, and I embraced that as my own identity. It was the only thing that made sense to me, as a way to find others like me and to define my experience. Living as an outsider was so hard. I so desperately wanted things to get easier. Maybe if I could mold myself to better fit this identity, life would be easier.

Nearly fifteen years ago, when I first put my name on the wait list of gender identity counseling, there was no third gender. The only acceptable narrative was that of the classic transsexual: trapped in the wrong body, dysphoric, heterosexual, conforming to gender stereotypes. Choose to express anything otherwise and you fail the test. As a guy, that means erasing desire to sometimes be a girl, sexual desire for men, or to wear sparkly nailpolish. Even medical care was coercive at that time. There was only one pathway forward for trans* people at that time. It was 100% or nothing.

I chose to tap out of that path early on. I was warned by the clinic that if I didn’t come back again to check off box #8 on the checklist, that if I didn’t come back for a testosterone shot, I would be off the list.

I was off the list, but that didn’t really matter. I never needed much help to pass as a guy, albeit a small and sensitive guy, as long as I kept my clothes baggy, my gaze down and my eyes cold. It was always my eyes that gave me away.

Years later, living in Western PA, working as a Paramedic, I was still stealth. I still had an absent past and kept friends at an arms length. But, now I was boiling up with rage at the new, younger generation and their phenomenon of “genderqueer”. Who were they to try to redefine my struggle? Don’t they know that they can’t speak for us, the real trans* people who went through the system? How dare they try to speak for us? They are so naive. So lucky. These 18 year old college kids wearing Abercrombie and Fitch, flaunting pins with genderqueer symbols on their backpacks, are so privileged to never have had to fear for their lives while living a life so out in the open. Times had changed, but my life hadn’t. I was still immersed in a world where hatred of fags, love of guns, and racist jokes ruled.

And, then, I moved to the ultra-liberal and ultra-safe world of Yale and Connecticut. It was a shock. That was the fall that I came out to USA Cycling, the ECCC, and all of the Yale Cycling community. At that time, my language was still that of being a gender-normative trans guy. I hadn’t yet had time to reconnect to my past, or relax into just being myself again. That first season of racing in the women’s field was jarring. Change is hard. Peeling back all of that rage hurt. But, humans are good at evolving.

Looking at the progression of entries into this blog, I see the slow creep of nonconformity setting in. I started accepting myself, for myself. I started remembering what it was like to grow up as a girl. I started taking pride in my history, and in my accomplishments as a physiologically female athlete, although I still live as a guy in my professional life. My language to describe myself has changed drastically in the past three years, as has my personal identity.

Originally, I stated myself as a guy, who is physiologically female. I am still a guy. I’m one of the guys, but I also give myself room to be one of the girls. The glitter is back, fulltime. The eyeliner is back, fulltime. I’ve made a promise to myself to wear clothing that fits and is comfortable, which these days mostly means wearing women’s clothing. Either pronoun is fine, although I prefer a daily mix rather than strictly one or the other.

I’m back to where I was when I was 10. I live part of my life as one of the boys, and the other part of my life as one of the girls. Being able to have the freedom to be all of myself is important to me. Having a history is important, and having friends who know me for me is the most important.

Identity: everything. nothing. something else.


Spoiled: part 3

Now, flash forward…

I am sitting here on my couch, writing this while a track omnium is about to begin in New York City. I am registered for that omnium, but am instead writing a blog post in my underwear and looking up new roads to explore on Google maps.

Why am I back to riding, not racing?

I love racing. I desperately want to race. But, the state of women’s racing makes me sad, frustrated, disappointed, often angry and a bit heart broken. My heart is on the track, but I’m not there because I’d rather ride my road bike on beautiful Hudson Valley roads than feel guilty about crushing cat 4 women in a women’s open field (yes, really. All women racing together, pro and beginner alike), or frustrated that while I love supporting beginner racers (I volunteer to coach a beginner program!) it means I have to soft pedal for the first lap of a team sprint when I’m paired with one of those newer women, or gritting my teeth to block out the more than vaguely insulting commentary from the infield, or downright angry when the women’s races are modified yet again to be further shortened to ensure that the program finishes on schedule. Yes, there are two very strong sprinters racing today, but that’s hardly a field. For me, the modifications for the women’s open field race program that went out last night weren’t going to make for a fun, challenging or useful day for training. And, if it’s none of those things, then why go to the race? Ten miles into my road ride, I’ll be able to brush off the disappointment and frustration of the morning, and then I’ll get in some quality training and finish the day tired and happy instead of swearing that I’ll never make that same mistake again.

Many race directors, and even some women racers, have blamed this type of behavior (choosing not to race races that are most likely to be disappointing/frustrating/not enjoyable) for the state of women’s racing; the cancellations and the last minute schedule changes.  It isn’t uncommon for the women who do show up to get a 30 second lecture on everything that the women’s field lacks—at the start line, no less!—sometimes only a breath after being thanked for registering. This is the problem: blaming women racers, not the women racers themselves. The idea that female athletes should pay to spend their day racing events out of an obligation to do so, regardless of event quality or field equality, is massively problematic. That model makes racing a chore or a duty, not a joy. This is the opposite of the pre-race excitement and love of the sport that I had felt while racing in the men’s field. Showing up at a race out of a sense of obligation, with no idea what the schedule might be changed to, and a high likelihood of being belittled or berated by the race director or male attendees because of the lack of field size or perceived quality is not happiness. For me, it quickly became dread. And, my dread became particularly strong for one venue where there was a near guarantee of verbal harassment—I started going to sleep wishing for weather to cancel the races the night before, and waking up desperately trying to talk myself through just getting out the door. Worst of all, racing unhappy out of a sense of duty does not make for good racing.

Why does all of this seem to affect me so much more intensely than so many other women racers?

My answer is, “because I’m spoiled.” I was spoiled by men’s racing. I got a taste of what it feels like to know your race schedule, to know you’ll be challenged, to know you’ll have a full field to race in, and to know that there will be people cheering for your race from the sidelines (cheering really does have an awesome, strengthening effect when you need to find courage for that last effort!).

In my day-to-day life, I walk that line between being “she’d” and “he’d” depending on the circumstances. As I’ve relaxed and stopped trying to “pass” as anything other than myself, more and more frequently I have a hard time telling how I’m being read. Still, I do have the overwhelming privilege of passing as a guy professionally and in many other settings where I don’t wear spandex. This makes it all the more jarring to be treated so differently than the other guys when it comes to racing.

“Oh, woe is me! I have male privilege for part of my life and it hurts to give it up!” Pretty arrogant, right? But, it’s true. I am spoiled. The more pressing question, though, is: why aren’t we all outraged at the treatment of women cyclists? Why does anyone accept this? Sadly, I think most men are happily oblivious and lost in their own worlds, and most of the women who do object will eventually leave the sport.

We, men and women alike, should be outraged by the very concept of open women’s fields. Just the idea that there is no difference between pro and beginner women is horrifyingly demeaning to the experienced women, and creates a phenomenal barrier to participation for beginners, who are often lapped once or multiple times or pulled from the course before their finish.  We should also be outraged by the idea that it is okay to impose last minute schedule changes on the women, and usually only the women, including cutting racing times and drastic shifts in formats. Changing an event from longer group races to shorter sprints (feasable for small field sizes) implies that all racing is the same and makes the assumption that women don’t specialize.

Yes, this is the point where you can tell me I’m wrong and you can certainly recite the litany of defenses for all of these behaviors: not enough women to split the field, costs too much money, the women are too slow (or, as one race director put it, “tick tock”), nobody wants to watch women’s racing, women don’t sprint until the last lap anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you shorten the race, etc. Maybe you’ll even throw in a judgment about my quality as a racer, or attempt some character assassination to discredit my statements. I’ve been called, “the problem with women’s racing”, made the butt of running jokes, and been declared persona non grata when I’ve challenged decisions about shortened races and seemingly punitive choices for race format changes, and I know I’m not the only member of the women’s field who has felt this sort of lash-back on protesting changes. I might be a sensitive guy, but I didn’t misinterpret, misquote or misremember.

Here’s the thing, though: I am also a race director, so the whole, “well, then YOU run your own races” argument doesn’t work here, because I do. Sometimes there are simply not enough women to run some formats of track races, and there is no perfect answer for what to do about it. There are ways to go about reformating a race without enough registrants that makes it fun and interesting, and ways that are just lazy. And, what ever happened to asking the women registered for the races what they want? Ask them, and be respectful. What a radical idea!

If we start listening to women racers about what they want, and what they need in order to make an event fun and challenging, then maybe we will have less women choosing to ride instead of race, and thus be able to fill the women’s fields. 

For now, I am choosing to ride instead of race, except for a very few select events that I trust will allow me to race happy. For me, self-care means choosing to avoid races that will fill me with dread of harassment the night before, and make me sad/frustrated/angry the day-of. Without self-care this sport becomes unsustainable. In my first year of racing in the women’s field, I developed in leaps and bounds and learned a huge amount about myself. But, I wasn’t ready to face the realities of women’s racing when I petitioned for my change of license.

Sometimes I wish I could just be happy for a race, any race of any length and any format, and roll with the last minute modifications and demeaning justifications of how women are too slow/boring/under-qualified/scarce for equal racing time or prizes. It would be a lot easier to sign up, and then show up to races if I could just stop being so outraged and disappointed. And, I’d certainly be a lot more popular.

I am conflicted because I very badly want to race. I want to enjoy the rush of the sprint, the thrill of closing a gap, and the satisfaction of knowing I pushed myself as hard as I could. But, self care is important. If I don’t take care, how do I continue to spread the love of this sport to the new racers come spring? How do I continue to love this sport at all? So, I’ll keep my love for cycling and spend my weekend riding happy, not racing sad or angry.

Photo credit Robert Lai

Spoiled: Part 1

I came into women’s racing spoiled.

Prior to racing in women’s races, I spent a couple of years racing exclusively in men’s races.

Racing in men’s races was awesome in my first year racing. Awesome; that was my world. Every weekend I was gauranteed to have plenty of race options, and would gleefully plot out destined-to-fail race strategies with my cycling buddies, then load up the car and go race! I never expected much, except to have fun, win some preme lap prizes, and enjoy the momentary illusion of grandeur that every novice racer feels while an announcer is revving up the small crowd of spectators (family, friends, passerby) during my repeated and glorious but doomed fliers off the front of the crit. It was awesome. Cat 4 or 3/4 races generally had modest payout, and that seemed fair. I mean, what wasn’t fair about it? I was there to race my heart out, and knew that when I went to race we (the cat 4 guys) would get our 45 minutes of glory and microphone feedback buzz out on the course. It was pretty straight forward: “There’s a sweet race this weekend!”, says my new teammate John. We register. We race. We leave to go get food, and make sure to get back just in time for the start of the pro men’s race.

After a 4am, half delirious and hurried disclosure one race morning, John knew I was not male. But, I was determined not to be treated differently, and he never told and nobody else ever said anything… There were no rules being broken. Anyone can race in a men’s race – that much I knew.

I admit to being pretty oblivious to women’s races.

Was there one on the schedule? When was it? What categories were racing? What was the payout? Was it fair?

If you had asked me that first summer of racing, I probably wouldn’t have an answer for you.  Like most racers signed up for the cat 4 races, I was so caught up in my own race day routine that I couldn’t see past my nerves, attempts to focus on warmup, and carb cravings.

There were women who raced in the region who I admired. They were fast, sometimes far faster than me! And, I felt bad that there were so few of them in the races – It must be hard to keep on showing up when you’re one of the only ones. I knew there were issues with women’s races being dismissed as boring or slow, and was adamant that as a good feminist, I would counter any statement to that effect. I didn’t want to be one of them though, not at that point. A race with 3 up to maybe 15 or 20 racers didn’t seem like much of a race, and the announcers were out to lunch – sometimes literally, they were taking a lunch break at that point – and the lack of narration made it impossible for the casual spectator (watch the race for 30 seconds, talk to friends for 2 minutes, watch the race for 30 seconds… and so on) to follow the race.

That blissful oblivion was while I was content in the cat 4 men’s field, still a new racer only a couple of months into my first summer of USA Cycling membership….

Stay tuned for part 2: How I got there and why blissful contentment stopped working.

Discomfort. Betrayal. Acceptance.

Personal reflection at the close of the year. 

Bodies and discomfort.

Competitive cycling is a sport that forces you to inhabit your body; to engage muscles for that opening snap of force in a sprint, or to make yourself breath while pushing through the lactic acid burn.

There is no place for dysphoria in bicycle racing. Testing that statement was a large part of my 2014 racing season – I would be caught off guard by a  “ladies” or a misplaced catcall from the sidelines. And, in those few moments of ceasing to inhabit my body, the race was gone. I had missed the move. Struggling to bring myself back to the present, traveling at a speed of 20+ mph on two skinny tires, I would be left to contest a mid-pack finish.

Since the start of the 2014 season, my gut reaction to being called a “lady” has finally caught up to my academic and philosophic resolve to not correct people at bicycle races. It has gotten easier. I asked to race in the women’s field, and it has been one of the best (and, dare I say, transformative) experiences of my life. I do not wish for women’s racing to change to accommodate me. It is my place to be uneasy and incongruent.

It’s true. I don’t stand out in a field of women on bikes, where many have short hair and low enough 2014-12-13 20.32.03body fat to not have much of a chest. And, these days, I’m finding that that’s alright. In life outside of bicycles, there are many things that I do that cause some gender confusion. The short hair, slightly gravely voice, plus added glitter nail polish alone sometimes has me read as an effeminate gay man, the BFF type you’d go get a manicure and talk about boys with (for the record, I’m always game for that). Eyeliner, worn when I’m feeling a bit vampy, dramatically pushes me out of “he” territory, far past the gender-confusion-hesitation checkpoint, and into the definitive “ma’am” category at the grocery store.

My identity discordance with racing in the women’s field is my discomfort to own, and I’ve come to embrace that itchy, squirm-inducing, surreal and often hilarious place of being an androgynous, female-bodied, guy racing in a women’s field. Not male, but one of the guys. Yet, a different kind of guy.

Body betrayal.

2014-12-20 13.58.17

I won’t dwell here. Hurt, rage and negativity is not a healthy place to live.

Yet, just when I come to that place of embracing the discomfort of discordance, perhaps still basking in the joy of having pushed my physical limits in a race, I see the photo evidence. And, my body betrays me. Those are my hips and waist? I have curves? I might even look downright feminine. Sometimes I am shocked at what I look like in photographs, because it is so different from how I see myself in my own mind. Is that really me?

Oh, yes, it’s me. And, when I force myself to look harder, I see the tough, muscular legs of an athlete, as well as those hips that I can’t seem to abolish. So, I might as well start coming to terms with it.

Body acceptance.

Competitive cycling forces you to care for your body. You cannot train hard on a consistent basis without practicing sincere self-care: sleeping enough, eating to fuel your workouts, self massage and stretching of crunchy, tired and knotted muscles. If you neglect these things, your training will break you. You will become ill or incur a disabling injury. And, because of your self-neglect, you will fail to reach your potential. Additionally,  and perhaps most importantly, one must practice being emotionally kind to yourself and believing that you CAN do it, no matter what the “it” of the day is – those intervals that make me vomit every time, finishing strong on the hilliest of road races, or racing in a field shared with world champions.


In the genetic lottery, I am extraordinarily lucky to have been dealt a tremendously athletic body, one that CAN do it. I have always been muscular and fast. As a kid, I gleefully beat the boys in my class at foot races or push-up contests at school. Even at ten years old, I recognized that while I felt like one of the boys, I was different. That difference made the accomplishment all the more significant.

As I’ve come to accept this difference, it has become increasingly important to me to be seen as a female bodied person on a bicycle. To be seen otherwise, either in racing or just along for a ride, is to undervalue my strength, tenacity, talent (?), and countless hours of training. All is not equal in cycling. And, I don’t just mean social differences in the way racers are treated. Bodies matter. Anyone who claims the contrary has likely never experienced the challenges of being the only female bodied person on a training ride with similarly skilled and conditioned male racers. Remembering and re-accepting that I am physically different from the rest of the guys, that I am physiologically female, has helped me to come to a place of appreciation for my body and what it is: capable, powerful, and fast. To measure myself, and be measured by others, on the spectrum of female athletes allows me to appropriately value my effort in training and performance in racing.

I am kinder and fairer to myself now. I still choose to place extraordinarily high demands on myself physically. And, in all arenas of my life, have almost immeasurably high standards for my own performance. But, I take the time to massage the perpetual dull ache of training out of my legs, and I am thankful for the ability to ride a bicycle…. very, very fast.

It’s a process. Gender is mutable. Bodies may be uncomfortable places to live, but they matter.

Disappearing: Reflections on 2014 Nationals x2

2014 USA Cycling Collegiate Track Nationals, although abbreviated due to my clinical schedule, was the 2nd set of nationals I’ve attended this year. (See the race report on the Yale Cycling blog here.)



Being a trans person competing at a national event, under a new and poorly defined policy of inclusion, can be nerve racking – to say the least.

Will the officials ask questions? Will there be a problem at racer check in? Will there be an issue with other racers? Will there be problems with bathroom facilities?

What if somebody asks questions?

Or, alternately: What if nobody asks questions? What if my presence in the women’s field goes unnoticed?


At Collegiate Road Nationals in May, it was the latter, except for a few confused officials and parents/coaches of other collegiate athletes. Luckily, I had the best friends and support crew a guy could ask for at Road Nationals, and those confused people were deflected the moment they started asking awkward questions. Deflections successful, I was left with what to do about largely blending in to the women’s field – nobody asked any questions (the officials at check in had apparently been primed), and I made new friends within my race field rather quickly – in the way one does when faced with the most grueling of races against the highest caliber of competitors on a truly world class course (2014 Collegiate Road Nationals was a test run for the 2015 Road Worlds courses). Finally, nobody tested me for the presence of testosterone (if they had, they would have found none). I was even interviewed on the news along with a few other members of the women’s field, and recruited to be in a commercial about cycling events made by the City of Richmond VA. No questions asked.

During the road race, complete with numerous cobble stone and belgian block segments, my companions in the chase group in the road race encouraged each other by saying things like, “Go, girl! Nice pull!”, “Common, keep up the pace, ladies!”, as we pulled back fragments of the splintered breakaway group ahead of us. I offered no corrections. How could I? And, why would I? The middle of a national event is not the place to interject my identity politics, and the middle of legs-on-fire suffering is hardly the place for an educational conversation about trans identities and semantics. I asked to be in this field, and there I was. And, in those moments, it is the sentiment that mattered – encouragement is encouragement, camaraderie (until the finish line draws near) is camaraderie.


A failing breakaway attempt disolves…

At Collegiate Track Nationals, my experience was largely the same. I saw many of the same excessively talented women I’d raced with at Road Nationals, exchanged inside info on who was dangerous and who to watch during the races, and went about my pre-race preparations. At the start line, while waiting for my time trial start, the announcer had a bit of a hiccup with my name. All over the microphone, he declared that he was unsure as to whether “Travis” was my first or last name, since it was a funny name for a girl, before going on to read the rest of my bio, using the expected feminine pronouns.


I had debated writing, “I prefer masculine pronouns” into the final question on the racer bio form, where it asked for a piece of interesting information about the racer. However, I decided against this, sticking with my previous decision to keep racing about the racing and identity politics off of the track during competition. Instead, I wrote, “I’m terribly afraid of cats”.  So, “she” and fear of cats it was on the loud speaker at the start line. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my fiance, Brandon, cringing just off to the side of the infield.  Afterwards he said, “I wanted to go correct him… I’m sorry.” I answered, “It’s ok. He couldn’t have known.”


At Collegiate Road Nationals, during my 50 minute time trial, I was almost jarred out of the deepest of pits of sufferring to laugh at a particularly roudy collective of frat boys standing in one of the islands on the course, yelling, “Yeah, beautiful lady!!!”. And, then again, as the course made a 180 and returned in the opposite direction. Nevermind gender identity. I was wearing a sweat soaked speedsuit, wearing an alien-like time trial helmet, and working hard enough to have drool and snot streamers trailing down my chin and onto my chest. Yeah, beautiful lady? Is this what we yell at female athletes?

After Collegiate Road Nationals, while contemplating what it means to blend in to a women’s competitive field, I came back to an excessively honest and slightly cruel statement made by the Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference director at the start of the 2014 season, “You don’t physically stand out in the women’s field”.


Despite my flat chest, the hint of peach fuzz (hair follicles are forever) and perpetually-preteen voice, I blend in to the women’s field seemlessly. Does that mean that I de-transition every time I attend a race weekend? Every time I go to racer check in or go to the start line, I expect to be called “she” and “girl” and “ladies”, and accept that drag.

Oh, I’ve never met a girl Travis before. Oh! And, I like your nailpolish! Have a good race!

So, in a way, yes. I do become a different person every time I present myself to the world as a guy in a women’s race – I become a part of a field of female bodied people, collectively women. Although, I personally identify as a guy, the gender of my racing category is “women” and the default pronoun is “she”.

I’m a guy, and I’m a part of women’s cycling.  I become invisible and all-too-visible every race day.

Not A Lady

As one of the first posts of this blog project, I thought I’d share a blog post I wrote early this spring and shared on the blog of the Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference, where the first explicitly trans* inclusive policy in competitive cycling in the USA debuted.

This post was written midway into the season, at a point where most of the athletes were aware that something was up, but weren’t clear on what was happening. A policy statement had been issued by the conference director. And, there was an athlete who was racing in a baggy fitting kit, in a different field than in previous years – me. The primary purpose of this piece of writing was to provide clarification to the collegiate racers who I surrounded myself with every weekend, plus a touch of education.

Notably, this was at a very different time in my life. At the time of this preface update, it has now been two years since I came out as being physiologically female despite having lived as a guy for years. 

A lot has changed for me in those two years. I have lived in the liberal northeast for 3 years now, and I have the freedom to be a gender nonconforming person because of it. While I was in a less accepting part of the country, working in the hypermasculine position world of Paramedicine, I did not have much choice. I put away all the sparkly nailpolish, wore baggy and classically masculine clothes, and made a concerted effort to pass every single day. It was a very clear safety issue.

Now, the sparkly nailpolish and eyeliner is out in full force (yes, even at work!). And, with the option to be gender flexible, now that it’s safe, I’m finding that is where I am happiest. I’m a guy at work, and will always be one of the guys for most things socially. But, I get to be myself. And being me means living somewhere in that grey zone. I prefer to walk that fine line between being masculine and feminine  – although sometimes it’s a nuisance (where’s the bathroom!?). I don’t have to hide anymore. I get to wear clothes that fit me, including short shorts and tight speedsuits. I get to have a past that includes years of gymnastics and Girlscout camp. I get to have conversations about practical things like how hormonal birth control effects training and racing performance. And, sometimes I want to revisit my riot grrl past and wear big boots and a miniskirt again, and I can do that too. 

I no longer have any preference at all about pronouns. Now that I’ve stopped trying so hard to pass as a guy all the time, my identity has come back to somewhere closer to center. I’m finding that pronouns from strangers are about 50/50 either way, often within the same conversation or sentence, and I’m down with that. Even further, there are many circumstances surrounding cycling and athletic issues where it is so important to me to be known to be female, because women’s cycling visibility is so critical.

Basically, it’s complicated. I’m a guy, and I’m female. And, I don’t care about pronouns. I do care a lot about gender equality, and that means all genders. Roll with it.


This is collegiate cycling, and we’re all pretty smart. The day before the season kick-off, many of you read the announcement and blog post about transgender cyclists. Yes, I am such a cyclist, and for now the most public and visible. It took a week or two for most ECCC’ers to start asking questions or making comments and then they started trickling, and then rushing, in. I can’t and won’t answer each individually but I do want to clear up a few details, and to help the community learn how to best interact with and include transgender riders.

It’s Not What You Think

First, I want to thank and congratulate you, ECCC, on your generally positive response and support of my racing in the women’s field this year. Together we are proving that we as a community are able to welcome and include everybody, including transgender athletes. As a whole, you have bowled me over with your efforts to demonstrate acceptance. The last few weeks a fair number of you have approached me and voiced your outright support for my racing, the new ECCC policy on transgender racers, and USAC policy revisions underway. Thank you. Your support means a lot to me personally and it gives me great hope that cycling as a sport that can be accepting of all identities and bodies.

Second, I want you to know that I do not identify as a woman. I am not transitioning from male to female, which is a logical conclusion that many of you have assumed. I still truly and sincerely appreciate the effort from those of you who have made attempts to clearly and loudly demonstrate the application of “she,” “woman,” “girl,” “lady,” and other feminine identifiers to me when you thought that was what I wanted. Thank you for making the effort to validate what you thought was my identity.

I was born female. I transitioned to living as a guy because I find it to be the most comfortable and best fit on a day to day basis. I present as a guy in my academic and professional life as well as socially. For personal reasons, years ago I opted not to follow the traditional, linear, route of physical transition, and have no intent on engaging in any physical transition in the future. After extensive medical expert review and testimony that I have no competitive advantage, and a change in its previous policies on this issue, USA Cycling granted me a license to race in collegiate women’s A and category 3 non-collegiate races. I requested recategorization in search of a level playing field: Despite extensive training, and racing for several years now as a guy, my physiology would otherwise consign me to forever struggling to hang on in lower category men’s races, rather than enjoying a safe, well-matched, experienced pack where I can continue to develop my abilities as a racer – just like everyone else.

Identities are complicated. There are a wide range of gender presentations beyond the binary. I’m a guy, although not a particularly masculine guy. I prefer masculine pronouns and other gendered words: He, his, him, guy, and so on. Even though I’m racing in the women’s field, because that makes the most sense for me in athletics, that does not change my identity. I’m not asking for everyone to get it right all the time; good intentions count for more than perfection. Nor am I asking the women’s field to change for me—I’m the one who asked to be here, and I can’t express how honored I am to race alongside a group of truly talented, fast, elite women. I’m also not asking for the positive cheering from the road side to change. But I am a guy, and efforts to remember that when you interact with me are appreciated. I realize it’s complicated and trans identities are a new concept for many people, but words & behaviors do matter.TravisTempleCrit

Turn 2 in the 2014 Temple Crit. Photo by Matthew Hall Photography

Boundaries, Respect, Privacy
Being such a new concept to much of our community, and perhaps the first time you’ve met a trans person, many of you want to ask questions. Many also simply want to express your support. In doing so, please remember that I’m a person too, and my reasons for being at races are the same as yours: I’m here to race bikes, talk about bikes, cheer for people racing bikes, eat too many cookies after doing bikey-things, and other antics involving bikes and people who race them. I like making new friends, especially smart ECCC people who can talk medicine/chemistry/art/linguistics/physics and freely relate those topics to bicycles. I find all of those topics far more fun and compelling than gender issues.

Moving forward, it’s worth making a few points about interacting with transgender people, including me and any other such members of the community in the future:

1. We cannot be your gender studies class. We cannot be your source of information about trans people, and it’s not fair to ask us to be. There are many great books and Internet resources available. Increasing your awareness and being a better ally is an awesome goal. But you shouldn’t place that burden on the individuals you hope to support.

2. Being transgender is not an open invitation for anyone to discuss or scrutinize your body, or for strangers and acquaintances to ask intensely personal questions.</em> All of the same personal boundaries and limits on what’s polite and appropriate to ask or discuss apply to transgender people as they do to everyone else. We all deserve the same respect and privacy; as much as spandex will allow.

3. Despite what TV and pop culture imply, transgender people are not all hypersexual creatures placed on earth to satisfy your curiosities.</em> It is not ok to tokenize and sexualize us just as it is not ok to do the same to women, minorities, or any other group at a bike race or elsewhere. Again, everyone deserves to be treated respectfully, regardless of gender, identity, sexual orientation, ethnicity, or any other trait. All of the same rules apply as with approaching any other person that you think is attractive: Check your motivations, remember that attraction may not be reciprocal, NEVER touch without consent, and “no” means no.

4. Not all spaces are equally safe. Do not assume that because a trans person is publicly so in one environment that it is acceptable to transfer that visibility to other parts of their life, or to draw attention to them in other contexts, particularly less-than-safe places. There may come a time when the ECCC becomes the very first place where a new trans person feels comfortable in presenting as their gender identity, but you shouldn’t then export that knowledge outside the community, such as by announcing it at that truck stop diner on the way to/from a race. Not all environments are equally accepting and safe.

5. If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.
All of those boil down to one basic point: Transgender people are people, and all people should be treated with respect, courtesy, and kindness.

Bigger Than Us

Most importantly, I asked for this recategorization because it was time for a new precedent to be set. I want all people to be able to experience competitive cycling, collegiate or non-collegiate, regardless of their gender identity or how it matches their body.

I confess to not being very brave. It took me 6 years, including an undergrad degree and most of a masters degree, to finally show up at a cycling club meeting. So much ECCC time lost! It makes me incredibly sad, frustrated, and angry to remember the feeling of looking in from the outside, scouring the internet for a policy that didn’t exist, or ANY sign that thinking I’d be welcome at a race wasn’t laughable. Thankfully, the world has come a long way in six years. Cycling is now ready.

This is important. It’s not about me, and it’s not about the ECCC. It’s about making cycling accessible to all people. Remember the first club or team ride you went on, or your first race? Remember the butterflies in your stomach? The feeling of insecurity and fear of being too slow/out of shape/new/whatever insecurity you have? Maybe how self-conscious you were the first time you wore cycling spandex? These and all of the other social issues that come with sports are even more daunting for gender minorities.

You and I both know how cycling has changed our lives, our bodies, and maybe even our souls. Everyone should have an equal opportunity to experience joy, speed, and suffering on a bike. Simply by continuing to make the ECCC the awesome, inclusive community that it is becoming, with respect and welcome for all genders, colors, religions, and orientations of people, you can help make that happen.

Joining the Conversation

I just want to race my bicycle. And, I want to do it fairly, on a proverbially level playing field.

That’s what I said in the beginning, when I petitioned USA Cycling for a change of my competitive license to reflect my being physiologically female.

I do still want to race my bicycle.  And, I’m now ready to more publicly enter into the conversation about trans inclusive policy in cycling and sports.

When I came out as trans*, it turned the sleepy murmurs of future policy and inclusion from abstract thoughts to real and imminent needs. Yet, at that time, I felt it was best to pursue the issue primarily as a personal concern,  keep as low of a profile as possible, and keep it about the cycling. After all, that is what I want; to ride and race my bicycle. I love cycling. Anyone who has spent any amount of time around me knows I have a one track mind; cycling, bicycles, riding, racing. I dream of bicycles and I daydream of bicycles. I don’t have similar warm fuzzy fantasies about fine print and policy, but I need it if I am to have the same opportunities to race my bicycle as non-trans* people.

My interactions with USA Cycling leading up to my change of licence were largely pleasant, if sometimes anxiety provoking. I provided the necessary information for legal and physician review, and with those documents shared my hopes for a transparent and publicly searchable national policy. Yet, while I provided feedback, I largely stayed out of the meat of the policy conversations of the Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference. And, I have thus far not entered into the public conversation on the issues, outside of my personal statement in the blog post, “Not a Lady“. I enjoy my privacy, and whatever modicum of discretion I’ve managed to hold onto over the course of the year. As stated in the above blog post, I don’t even particularly enjoy talking about trans* issues.

Why do I want to enter into the conversation now?

Because policy change is important. USA Cycling has made an important step in the right direction with their adjudication of my license change. And, we need to continue the conversation about trans* inclusive policies if we are to continue moving forward in a meaningful way. And, there must be trans* voices included in that conversation. A policy that is created in the absence of key stakeholders is unlikely to be a valid policy. Too often, policy about and for the inclusion/exclusion or regulation of trans* bodies are drafted by cisgender people, with only a convenient sampling of trans* people’s feedback.

So,  lets keep this conversation moving in the right direction. It’s time to stop letting others speak for us, and start doing the talking ourselves. If there’s a conversation about trans* bodies in sport, it ought to feature trans* people as prominent voices.

I would ideally like this blog to feature other trans* voices on the topic, in addition to my own. I may not perfectly agree with all trans* opinions, but I want them heard.


So, if you’ve got something to say on the topic of trans* people’s participation in competitive cycling, please:

1. Read up on the progress thus far, and try to understand some of the issues inherent in this sport.

2. Use the attached form to tell me in brief about what you’d like to write about.