We did it!!!
A couple months ago, I started looking for a spring half-marathon trail race for me to do and the only one I could find that was within reasonable distance for me (and not racing on paved roads) was the one in Fruita, CO. It looked perfect: a timely date for me, a gorgeous location, spectacular landscapes and ideal weather. So I went to register but found only the usual two binary options of “Male” & “Female” for gender. So I reached out to the organizers and explained my situation as a non-binary athlete and person who officially has an “X” gender-marker on their IDs. I asked if there was any possibility for me to register in a different category that would recognize me as non-binary athlete (& individual). Their reply was a polite and slightly vague dismissal, along the lines of “we’re working on this for the future but for now we only have the two given categories”. So I wrote back asking clearly, “Does this mean that if I want to register I must pick either “M” or “F” and cannot register otherwise?”. The reply came more clear: “Yes, that’s correct”.
I felt the white-hot fury rise inside me. The discrimination on the basis of gender was so blatant to me it felt like a slap in the face. And my first thought was, “I cannot run this race because I’m non-binary”.
Then, as I talked about this issue a few days later with a European non-binary friend who also runs, all of a sudden my attitude shifted and the thought came to me: “Yes, I CAN run this race! I CANNOT REGISTER for it but I CAN RUN it. And so I WILL RUN it!”.
The white-hot anger had turned into the red-hot anger of the warrior in me: the anger shifted from being passive and self-destructive to being a force that gave me the energy to ACT. I knew, however, that I couldn’t do this by myself. I couldn’t drive to a place almost 300 miles away where I don’t know anyone, and show up to run a half-marathon in the desert with ~2,000 feet elevation gain on technical terrain with no support (also because by not registering for the race, I would not have a bib like the other runners so I might be denied hydration and/or assistance if I needed it on the trail).
Well, I am blessed with wonderful friends, nearby and far away. So I was able to do it.
Friends from all over sent me their support with text messages, advice, tips, and even swag I could wear for the race.
And some friends nearby actually went to Fruita with me. And our weekend adventure was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.
The non-binary friend who joined me carpooled with me and we caravaned with my other friend who joined with his family. We traveled together and when we got to our destination the evening before the race we all had pizza together and sat down to discuss logistics for the race and do craft work for our activism. My non-binary friend & I had already started discussing logistics and the possible scenarios and outcomes on our drive, so I had already realized that they had a sense of the importance as well as risks of what we were doing. But I was still unsure to what extent my cis-male running buddy was going to “be in on this” apart from shadowing me on the trail (if we got to race). But as we sat around eating pizza, it became very clear how everyone there was super involved and committed to the cause. My buddy’s wife and my non-binary friend, who would not race but wait for us at the start/finish line, had done & continued doing research about our civil rights when protesting this way, checking details of the location and of this particular type of activism (like previous examples of activism in running). When I discussed logistics of the race itself with my buddy, I said clearly that they might not even let us start and in that case I would oppose passive resistance by sitting on the ground with a protest sign, but I also clarified that I didn’t expect him to do that part and asked him how he felt about it. And he simply said, “If that happens, I’ll stand close to you to help make sure the runners starting don’t run over you. I’m here to protect you”. And then after dinner, we all sat around brainstorming phrases for the signs and writing the signs — including my friend’s daughter drawing rainbows and non-binary & trans flags everywhere!
The next morning, we had to be shuttled to the start of the race with everyone else because there was no parking at the trailhead. So my buddy & I got there just in time to start. I was so nervous, my mouth was parched and my heart was racing. But my buddy was right beside me and the rest of the crew was nearby with the signs and all their support. My buddy & I got into the crowd of runners (there were a few hundred) and started with everyone else. I was scared: scared the runners around us would be hostile, scared the organizers would stop us at the start, scared we would be flagged at the aid stations along the trail. But none of that happened. And after the first mile or two, my body started going from “anxious mode” to “race mode”. I got into my pace, with my buddy shadowing me and telling me every mile we gained — “3 miles; 4 miles; we’ve been going for 45 minutes, it’s time for your first energy bite; 5 miles, 6 miles, 7 miles”…
It felt so good, to be grinding miles and having the support of my buddy. I was fighting a battle but I was not alone: neither alone there on the trail, nor when I got to the finish line.
Once we passed 7 miles (so we had done more than half the race) and the second aid station, I really knew we had this. And so at that point I knew we’d go with the plan we had for the scenario in which we got to run the whole race: at about 12 or 12.5 miles, we’d stop briefly for me to put on the trans flag (that another friend had given me) as a cape to wear for the last 1-1.5 miles & across the finish line. And that’s exactly what we did. And boy, did it feel amazing, to be running with that cape…!
A finish line had never felt so far away to me and yet also so close… We could see it from the top of the hill, the last downhill which also hid a last gentle but treacherous uphill that we weren’t expecting. My legs were really tired by then — it had been a very taxing race course. But the joy, the sense of empowerment, the pride (& probably also the runner’s high from the chemicals coursing through my body) kept me going. As I approached the finish line, my buddy’s 10-year-old daughter showed up on the side of the course with the hand-held progress-pride flag I had brought for the occasion and she handed it to me: and I ran the last quarter mile and straight across the finish line wearing the trans flag as a cape and waving the pride flag high up in the air.
It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
And what made it even more beautiful was that I wasn’t doing it by myself nor only for myself: I was doing it with the support of loved ones, with the support of kind people who believe in this cause — we were all doing it for a higher, greater cause, with the hope that next year non-binary athletes will be allowed to register officially for this race and run it and be awarded fairly, getting the official recognition they deserve.
Yes, I did this for myself, for sure, because I’m not going to let someone tell me I cannot run a race only because I’m neither an “M” or an “F”, or that I have to pick “M” or “F” to be allowed to run the race: i.e. I’m not going to let them discriminate against me on the base of gender (which is what this organization effectively was doing at this race). But I did it for all other non-binary runners who might want to run this, too — this race or any other race where there’s no official category for us, yet. And I know that my friends & I also did it with the belief of making this world a better place, with real inclusivity because, as one of our signs read, “Gender is a spectrum — Running is for everyone”.
The Little Prince and the Fox 