On August 19, in a hotel lobby in Budapest, Hungary, professional runner Nikki Hiltz opened a text from their mother to find a quote often attributed to Ana茂s Nin: 鈥淎nd the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.鈥� Hiltz鈥檚 mother had sent an inspirational quote before every race since Hiltz ran for the University of Arkansas. But Nin鈥檚 words still felt special to the 29-year-old middle-distance runner, U.S. national champion, and American record holder鈥攁nd so did the day.

In just a few hours, Hiltz would compete in the 1,500-meter semifinal at the World Athletics Championships. Sitting in the lobby beside partner and fellow runner Emma Gee, they began to tear up. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know why I鈥檓 crying,鈥� Hiltz said as Gee hugged them close. But Hiltz knew exactly why.

March of 2021 was the last time Hiltz had remained tight in a bud. That month they came out as transgender and nonbinary and began using they/them pronouns. (Hiltz continues to compete in the women鈥檚 category.) Two years later, in June 2023, they became the U.S. national champion in the 1,500-meter race and, just 13 days after that, ran a 4:16:35 mile at the Monaco Diamond League, an American record. 鈥淭he year 2021 was when I made the decision that I couldn鈥檛 hide anymore,鈥� Hiltz says. 鈥淏ut maybe there was a two-year delay in the blossom.鈥�

In Budapest, Hiltz took the starting line clad in red, white, and blue. Beside them, some of the best athletes in the world blew out nervous air, shook their legs, and stared stoically forward. When the camera landed on Hiltz, they waved and blew a kiss, a tattooed arm catching the sun. During the final lap of the race, Hiltz fell behind, finishing in 4:00:84鈥攖heir second-fastest 1,500-meter, but not good enough to advance to the final.

鈥淚鈥檓 still pretty proud of myself,鈥� Hiltz says. Before the World Championships, they鈥檇 decided on a goal much bigger than a podium finish. 鈥淚 wanted to go to the World Champs, compete, and be that representation,鈥� Hiltz says. 鈥淭here鈥檚 nothing like sports. Look at us athletes. We鈥檙e ambassadors for our countries. We love each other, we root for each other, and we鈥檙e from all over the world.鈥�

The power of representation isn鈥檛 lost on Hiltz, especially as a trans person in 2023. This year, a slew of anti-trans legislation was pushed around the U.S., each new bill landing like a gut punch to the LGBTQ+ community. By May of 2023, at least 520 anti-LGBTQ+ bills had been introduced in state legislatures, according to the advocacy group Human Rights Campaign.

Despite the menacing sociopolitical atmosphere, Hiltz has persevered鈥攁nd is far from alone in doing so. In July of 2023, Quinn, a mononymous 27-year-old Canadian soccer player, became the first out transgender and nonbinary athlete to play in the FIFA World Cup. It was not the first time Quinn made history on the world stage. In summer 2021, they became the first out, trans-nonbinary athlete to compete in the Olympics, and the first to win a gold medal.

After the World Cup, Quinn helped launch the See Them, Be Them initiative, providing mentorship for teen girls and gender-diverse youth. The goal: to inspire young athletes, especially at an age when 82 percent of Canadian girls drop out of soccer. 鈥淲e need more opportunities for girls and gender-
diverse soccer players to see their future in the sport,鈥� Quinn wrote.

Both Quinn and Hiltz are careful to point out that their experiences do not represent those of all trans folks. 鈥淚 compete as the sex I was assigned at birth, but I don鈥檛 want to be the poster child for every trans person,鈥� says Hiltz. 鈥淚f you are a trans woman, and you want to compete in the women鈥檚 category, I am so going to support you.鈥�

Whether or not transgender women should be allowed to compete in the women鈥檚 category has become a cultural flash point. In 2023, a 27-year-old cyclist named Austin Killips became the target of anti-trans ire. On April 30, she became the first trans woman cyclist to win a professional stage race sanctioned by the UCI, road cycling鈥檚 international governing body. Killips鈥檚 win spurred criticism from media outlets and social media warriors alike. In response, the UCI banned trans women who transitioned after puberty from competing in the women鈥檚 category at any UCI-sanctioned event.

To a policy that effectively ended her career, Killips responded with broader concern. 鈥淚 won鈥檛 be able to sleep at night if I鈥檓 not fighting for the next woman who deserves a shot at everything this sport has given me,鈥� she wrote in her Substack newsletter, Estro Junkie. When 国产吃瓜黑料 spoke with Killips in late June, she quoted a passage from Simone Weil reminding her 鈥渢o respond to criticism in a way consistent with the world you want to see,鈥� Killips said. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 impart harm and expect it to resolve a conflict.鈥�

The prospect of that future world remains uncertain. For Killips, Hiltz, and Quinn, it鈥檚 impossible to know what the policy landscape will look like in the coming years. What they do know is that sports provided a sense of belonging from an early age. They want other kids to feel that, too.

The post Against Great Odds, Trans Athletes Persevere appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

At the start line of the Falmouth Road Race in August, a smattering of languages cuts through an otherwise monolingual field. A hum of nervous chatter blends with the rhythm of the Atlantic Ocean, drumming the Cape Cod shore. Then, Spanish, and lots of it.

Thirty runners stand at the ready, clad in black singlets with red equal signs across their chests. These athletes are all part of , a nonprofit running organization composed mostly of immigrants. A few wrap their arms around each other. Some laugh. Others shake out their legs. While any onlooker might notice camaraderie in this crew, they won鈥檛 understand the full extent of these runners鈥� bonds. Many Stride for Stride athletes would do anything for each other. In some cases, they鈥檇 even give a kidney.

The Beginning of a Dream

Stride for Stride was founded by Tom O鈥橩eefe, not an immigrant himself but, rather, a 50-year-old social impact entrepreneur with a background in business development, known for his viral Twitter account, . O鈥橩eefe started BostonTweet to uplift local businesses during the 2008 recession. Such was the mindset with which he proceeded to co-found Flutter in 2015鈥攁n organization that empowered folks to donate to local charities鈥攁nd launch various other social impact projects.

O’Keefe also brought this mindset to his first starting line. Upon completing the seven-mile Falmouth Road Race in 2018, O鈥橩eefe was struck by the feeling of invincibility that comes after pushing one鈥檚 body across the finish. But alongside glee was a less positive feeling, a disappointment of the high registration cost, and the race participants鈥� overwhelming whiteness. He sought to make road races more diverse and accessible. Later that year, he launched Stride for Stride, with the goal to buy race bibs for immigrant, BIPOC, and low-income runners.

鈥榃e鈥檙e Part of a Family鈥�

In 2018, Estuardo Calel, a runner from Guatemala and an acquaintance of O鈥橩eefe鈥檚 from the Boston running scene, became the first Stride for Stride sponsored athlete. Calel shared news of the nonprofit with his friend and fellow runner, Jessica Colindres, also from Guatemala.

Colindres, a marathoner, preschool teacher, and mother of two, often couldn鈥檛 attend her dream races due to the high cost of registration. After contacting O鈥橩eefe, Colindres and her husband, Douglas, became the second and third sponsored athletes, and today, Colindres has completed 65 races, including 12 marathons and 24 half-marathons. Before joining the team, Colindres and her husband 鈥渕ight be able to buy one race bib, not two,鈥� she says. 鈥淣ow, we run together more, we run in more races, and we feel more freedom. And we鈥檝e made very close friends.鈥�

Today, Stride for Stride sponsors 368 runners from 26 countries and has spent $146,705 in bib purchases. The largest contingent of runners reside in Boston, although the team extends to New York City, Miami, and other cities in the U.S.

鈥淭here are runners on the team who I don鈥檛 know personally, and yet somehow we still feel connected,鈥� says Karen Mejia, a Boston-based runner, social worker, and mother of two, originally from Honduras. Local runners will often host out-of-town teammates in their homes.

鈥淲hen [teammates] come to Boston from New Jersey and New York, we feel like we鈥檙e part of a family. We take care of each other.鈥�

RELATED: Running the Boston Marathon for the First Time

Over the past five years, O鈥橩eefe has supported a growing roster of athletes through a combination of financial sources, the most lucrative being charity partnerships with the New York City Marathon and the Boston Marathon. Stride for Stride has also received grants from the Boston Athletic Association and REI (the latter of which 鈥渞eally helped us get through the pandemic,鈥� O鈥橩eefe recounts). Individuals can donate online, and some organizations give race proceeds or free bibs to the nonprofit. O鈥橩eefe built a structure positioned for growth, while the runners built something more akin to a family than a team.

鈥淎 lot of immigrants come to this country totally alone. They don鈥檛 know anyone, and they don鈥檛 speak the language,鈥� says O鈥橩eefe. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 imagine how scary that must be.鈥� To find a community of people with 鈥測our passions, who speak your language, and who understand your struggles鈥t鈥檚 beyond what I can understand.鈥�

Although he cannot fully understand the depth of these runners鈥� bonds, O鈥橩eefe is bound by them. He runs with the Boston-based athletes every week, races in his Stride for Stride singlet, participates in team traditions like the post-Falmouth bonfire, and commits his life and career to Stride for Stride. The nonprofit has become O鈥橩eefe鈥檚 full-time job, and the runners are his extended family. (In 2022, Calel asked O鈥橩eefe and his wife, Bridget, to be godparents to his twins.)

Finding a Match

In 2020, O鈥橩eefe was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease (CKD). O鈥橩eefe needed a kidney, or he鈥檇 have to go on dialysis, a treatment during which the average lifespan is 5 to 10 years. Soon, he had 10 percent kidney function, and was wrecked by fatigue鈥攖he main symptom of CKD鈥攕o severe that he鈥檇 sleep for two hours every afternoon and fall asleep by 9:30 P.M.

, 90 percent of people with kidney disease don鈥檛 know they have it. Not everyone experiences the telltale sign, 鈥減roteinuria,鈥� or foamy urine. Plus, the main symptom of CKD is fatigue, easily attributed to other ailments. O鈥橩eefe urges anyone with proteinuria, unusual fatigue, or other symptoms to get checked by their doctor.

When Boston-based Stride for Stride athlete, Jorge Rosales, heard that a family member was rejected as a donor and O鈥橩eefe still needed a kidney, he called Tom immediately.

鈥淚 have one for you,鈥� said the 44-year-old father of three and car mechanic from El Salvador. Rosales contacted the hospital to begin the testing process. So did Colindres. Soon afterwards, Mejia did, too. For Rosales, the decision was a no-brainer. During the early months of the pandemic, he watched as O鈥橩eefe launched another donation-based program, , which purchases supermarket gift cards for families struggling to buy groceries.

鈥淚 saw everything Tom was doing to help people during the pandemic,鈥� says Rosales. 鈥淗e was always worried about [Stride for Stride runners], asking us how we were doing. He鈥檚 one of the kindest people I鈥檝e ever met. I鈥檇 love to help with anything he needs.鈥�

When reflecting on her decision to undergo the vetting process, Colindres expresses similar sentiments. 鈥淚 cannot explain how I see Tom and [his wife], Bridget. There are no words.鈥� Colindres鈥檚 voice quivers, and she looks up at the ceiling. She throws her hands in front of her face in a T-shape. Time out.

By August, 2023, Rosales had undergone five months of testing, including two MRIs, a CT scan, countless blood tests, and meetings with social workers to confirm his wish to donate. One last test would decide whether he was a match.

In early October, he received a call from the hospital: the final test result. Hands shaking, he called O鈥橩eefe to deliver the news that would either save his life or make it markedly more difficult. The two padded their conversation in pleasantries鈥攖he weather, the miles run that morning, the races upcoming that fall鈥攂ut eventually, Rosales鈥檚 voice broke to a more serious tone: 鈥淭he doctors called and I鈥檓 100 percent compatible,鈥� he said. O鈥橩eefe released a breath like a deflating balloon, heavy and forceful against his lips.

Action from Intention

According to a administered by the Running Industry Diversity Coalition (RIDC), 93 percent of running organizations express a commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion, but only 70 percent of these organizations have DEI goals, 41 percent track their progress, and 14 percent publish their goals for the public. If this data provides any indication, far too many running organizations consider inclusion within the confines of an Instagram square or pithy marketing campaign.

Stride for Stride, however, is powerful because it rejects such a narrow approach. It also rejects the notion that DEI can be a bandwagon, that companies can hop on in 2020, then hop off when a trendier ride comes along. Stride for Stride serves as a reminder that efforts at inclusion must be seen, heard, and felt by the folks they seek to serve most directly. They must question norms and constantly strive for better.

On Saturdays, the Boston-area Stride for Stride contingent gathers for a long run. Together, 鈥渨e all speak Spanish; we speak at the same time,鈥� says Mejia. 鈥淪o, I feel [bad] for Tom.鈥� (O鈥橩eefe claims to not speak Spanish very well but plans to take more lessons while recovering from his transplant.)

鈥淚t鈥檚 fine, it鈥檚 totally fine,鈥� O鈥橩eefe interjects, laughing. For their non-Spanish speaking teammate, runners seldom feel the need to translate. Which is to say, runners know that Stride for Stride belongs to them.

RELATED: Meet the People Making Running More Inclusive

Still, something else burgeons beneath Stride for Stride鈥檚 intended outcomes鈥攖he languages spoken, bibs purchased, and charity dollars earned. There鈥檚 a unique closeness that comes from pushing oneself to physical limits beside a teammate, falling so deep into the pain cave that one鈥檚 labored breath becomes inseparable from the other鈥檚. Such bonds are often intrinsic to the culture of high school and college sports teams, but can too often be lost after adulthood. Stride for Stride reminds of one of the simplest elements of the sport, the 鈥淚’d give a kidney鈥� sort of bond running can create.

In early January 2024, both O鈥橩eefe and Rosales are set to undergo surgery鈥擱osales to lose a kidney, and O鈥橩eefe to gain one. When asked how he is feeling, Rosales breaks into a wide grin.

鈥淚鈥檓 excited!鈥� he exclaims. As Rosales speaks over Zoom, he sits at home in Boston, a picture of himself, his wife, and their three kids on the wall behind him. Below the frame lies a cursive scrawl that spells 鈥渇amily,鈥� a word that spans far beyond the five people in the photo, thanks to Stride for Stride.

鈥淸Rosales] keeps saying he鈥檚 excited, which shocks me,鈥� O鈥橩eefe says. 鈥淗e鈥檚 doing this amazing thing, taking an organ out of his body, and he鈥檚 excited?!鈥�

Once the two recover, O鈥橩eefe and Rosales both plan to race a marathon, side-by-side, Rosales鈥檚 kidney filtering the very blood that pumps through his teammate鈥檚 veins.

The post He Built a Community of Runners. One Athlete Donated a Kidney in Return. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

鈥淚鈥檓 only taking press opportunities if we talk about Simone Weil essays,鈥� says Austin Killips, referencing the 20th century French intellectual and activist. It鈥檚 a joke, but not entirely. Although Killips has recently captured much public attention as a prominent transgender athlete, the 27-year-old cyclist prefers to keep a low profile鈥攁nd would much rather talk about her favorite philosopher than herself.

On April 30th, Killips made history: she became the first transgender woman cyclist to win a professional road stage race sanctioned by the sport鈥檚 international governing body, the Union Cycliste International, when she was victorious at the 254-mile, five-day Tour of the Gila in New Mexico. Killips crossed the final finish line with her mouth wide open and fists raised in celebration. But soon afterwards, she faced an onslaught of online attacks, both via Twitter and news outlets like the New York Post and OutKick.

Notably, tennis player, Martina Navratilova, took to Twitter, expressing her disapproval and misgendering Killips in the process. 鈥淲omen鈥檚 sports is NOT THE PLACE for trans identified male athletes,鈥� she wrote.

But Killips was well within her right to compete. Until recently, the UCI, cycling鈥檚 global governing body, stated that a transgender woman may compete if she has suppressed her testosterone to 2.5nmol/L for a 24-month period. Killips abided by these rules, but that didn鈥檛 stop her adversaries from speaking out. While the UCI originally defended Killips, the governing body changed its tone after the race concluded, announcing plans to revisit the rules later in the summer. On July 14th, the UCI released a new policy: starting on July 17th, transgender women who transitioned after puberty will be banned from competing in the women鈥檚 category at all UCI-sanctioned events.

In response to a policy that will halt her career, Killips stayed calm and thoughtful. 鈥淚 expected to feel more defeated in the wake of this but I keep coming back to how much joy I鈥檝e found in cycling,鈥� she wrote in her Substack newsletter, Estro Junkie. 鈥淚 guess what complicates all of this is the sense that it is fallout from something I did.鈥�

To Chris Mosier, a multi-sport athlete and well-known transgender rights advocate, the impetus behind the UCI鈥檚 tone-change is clear: 鈥淭he UCI is buckling to political pressure and sending a message that transgender people are not welcomed in the sport of cycling,鈥� he says. Notably, the UCI鈥檚 policy on trans male cyclists has engendered no debate: trans men may compete upon providing written and signed declaration of gender identity to the UCI Medical Manager, a rule in-line with the policies of other sports.聽 To Mosier, the outsized response to Killips鈥� win sends an obvious message: trans athletes may compete, but not win. 鈥淭rans athletes train hard just like any other athlete, and if a policy allows us entry, it should also allow us to do the very best we can on that day,鈥� he says.

For Killips, and all elite transgender athletes, the landscape is rapidly changing and continually uncertain. When I met with her over Zoom, at the end of June, the UCI had yet to release their newest policy ban on trans women, and she still felt 鈥渃autiously optimistic鈥� that they would uphold her right to compete in the women鈥檚 field.

鈥淚t鈥檚 certainly difficult and confusing to feel like the living test case of the rules,鈥� she says. As Killips spoke, she sat at home in Rhode Island, clad in a trucker hat, geometric earrings, and a muted orange button-down, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. It was late-morning in Rhode Island, and a soft glow came through the window. When she鈥檚 not traveling, she lives in a house owned by Nice Bikes, a nonprofit with the mission to support women and LGBTQIA+ professional cyclists. (Killips has historically received financial support as one of six Nice Bikes athletes). The rent-free lodging is not part of any contract but, rather, a testament to the relationship Killips has built with her team. It鈥檚 a living arrangement reminiscent of a sitcom: a ceramics studio in the basement and a revolving door of professional cyclists and artists who love each other like family.

Throughout our conversation, Killips brought a philosophical bent to each topic, whether it was cycling, media discourse, or queer coming-of-age. Often, she began speaking on one topic and drifted to another: a discussion of policies affecting transgender folks led her to ruminate on state-sanctioned harm against vulnerable communities, which led her to reference various books and films. Killips thinks deeply about the way people of marginalized identities are perceived and politicized against their will, and also about the solidarity that exists in spite of all of that. 鈥淲e find ourselves in other people,鈥� Killips says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why death and loss are so destabilizing, and also why being in a community has this incredible power to recreate and shape us.鈥� To her, the recent discourse on transgender athletes cannot be understood in isolation from history. And yet, she never anticipated she would play such a central role within it.

After receiving her GED, she moved to Chicago to attend Shimer College, a liberal arts school with a nontraditional approach to higher education, known for accepting promising students without high school degrees or standardized test scores. To Killips, Shimer was a 鈥渕agical island of misfit toys.鈥� There, she found a community of rigorous thinkers who were 鈥渃onstantly talking about everything they were reading. Kids wouldn鈥檛 shut up about [German philosopher] Hegel,鈥� she recalls, smiling. It was a community that affirmed all parts of Killips鈥揵oth her gender identity and penchant for deep, philosophical inquiry. 鈥淚 remember leaving school feeling grounded, and in a much better [mental] place than when I started,鈥� she says. At the same time, she took a job at a local bike shop and bought a fixed-gear bike, which she used for transport and enjoyment. 鈥淭he bike was an Unknown Combat,鈥� she recalls, scrolling through iPhone photos to jog her memory. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 even know if that brand exists anymore,鈥� she adds, laughing.

After her second year of college in 2017, Shimer closed and integrated with another school. So, Killips dropped out and traveled to Portland, Oregon, where she enrolled in trade school for bike mechanics and began training more seriously as a cyclist. When she returned to Chicago at the end of the summer of 2017 she got a job at another bike shop, and upgraded to a Felt Bike, more appropriate for her enhanced mileage and speed.聽 In 2019, her friend and fellow mechanic, Lauren Wiscomb, encouraged her to enter a cyclocross race, the Half Acre Cycling鈥檚 CX Eliminator in Chicago. The format鈥攃yclists race laps on grass, mud, and dirt, and must often dismount and run鈥攁ppealed to Killips. She entered 21 more races in 2019, including the Illinois State Cyclocross Championships.

To an onlooker, Killips鈥� rise to competitive cycling may appear fast. In just her first season, 2019, she won eleven cyclocross races. And yet the roots of her cycling career can be traced back to when a teenage Austin donned a pair of rollerblades and discovered the unique sensation of pushing her body in the outdoors. It鈥檚 the same passion and love for the training grind that drives her today. 鈥淲hen I鈥檓 doing intervals or racing, I think about how special it is to be engaged in a process that is so physically and psychologically taxing that any problems of the material world melt away,鈥� she says.

Since that first cyclocross race in 2019, Killips has always raced in the women鈥檚 field. She started hormone therapy before her first competitive season. Like many transgender people, Killips identified as trans long before undergoing hormone treatment, and there was no clear point when she 鈥渃ame out.鈥� (Importantly, many trans folks choose to not receive hormone treatment or other gender-affirming care). When Killips reflects on her transition, she focuses less on timelines and medication, and more on the intricacies of gender and identity. Not always does a person鈥檚 gender fit neatly into the checkboxes found at race registration, nor stay the same throughout time, she points out. 鈥淕ender and sexuality are fickle, funny things,鈥� she says.

Killips began to catch the eye of sponsors after her 2019 success in Illinois cyclocross. At the end of 2020, Killips was contacted by Max Pratt, technical director at Nice Bikes, with a sponsorship offer. In early 2022, she quit her full-time job as a mechanic, and began working part-time for online coaching company TrainerRoad and focusing more intensely on cycling. In the summer of 2022, she quit that job and turned her focus entirely to racing. With regards to her financial stability, 鈥淚鈥檓 scraping the razor鈥檚 edge,鈥� she says, laughing. She has been able to support herself thanks to relationships with Nice Bikes, bicycle component manufacturer SRAM, and Hunt Bike Wheels. She hopes to acquire a more sustainable team contract in the future, which could offer more security than her current set of sponsorships. But the controversy surrounding trans athletes complicates an already challenging career as an elite athlete.

One of Killips most vocal critics has been Inga Thompson, retired Olympic cyclist and ten-time national champion. Following Killips鈥� win at Tour of the Gila, Thompson took to Twitter, accusing the UCI of 鈥渒illing off women鈥檚 cycling.鈥� Over the phone, Thompson told me she was 鈥渃oncerned for the future of the sport, the grassroots of our sports. We鈥檙e watching children walk away.鈥� Thompson鈥檚 claim that girls are dropping out of sports due to an influx of trans women remains unbacked by research, and neglects the real factors proven to threaten girls鈥� sports, such as unequal funding and resources. It also ignores the dire impact of exclusion on trans girls.

According to data compiled by the Trevor Project, a nonprofit dedicated to preventing LGBTQ+ youth suicides, over 50 percent of transgender and non-binary youth in states across the country considered suicide in 2022. In Arkansas, where anti-trans legislation has proliferated, 59 percent of transgender and nonbinary youth considered suicide, 68 percent experienced symptoms of depression, and 83 percent experienced symptoms of anxiety. Importantly, the impact of excluding trans people鈥攊n sports and society鈥攇oes beyond mental health, contributing to an epidemic of fear and violence. According to a 2018 study in the American Journal of Public Health, transgender people are over four times more likely than cisgender people to be the victims of violent crimes.

As a young trans person, Killips wasn鈥檛 sure if she鈥檇 live to adulthood. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 think I鈥檇 exist at 22 or 23,鈥� Killips recalls. 鈥淚 just couldn鈥檛 conceive of it.鈥�

Thompson and other vocal critics of trans inclusion want to make the current debate appear to be about preserving the integrity of women鈥檚 sports, says Wiscomb, now the head mechanic at Nice Bikes. 鈥淏ut if we鈥檝e learned anything from women in sport, we should have learned what it feels like to not be included,鈥� she says. When Wiscomb speaks about Killips, her voice is assured, and pride is palpable in her words. She is most struck by Killip鈥檚 intellect鈥斺�渟he just stimulates this part of my brain,鈥� she says鈥攁nd the two discuss literature and philosophy as often as they discuss bikes. Wiscomb watched Killips develop from a fellow mechanic working diligently to get faster, to an early-career professional athlete 鈥減utting her heart and soul into every workout,鈥� and into the champion she is today.

At the end of May, Wiscomb watched Killips take second place at the Belgian Waffle Ride gravel race in Vancouver. Belgian Waffle Ride has grown into one of the largest gravel series in North America, with six races. 鈥淲atching her go from Austin, my friend who I drove to a gravel race, to my friend who is on a podium was pretty surreal,鈥� she recalls. In pictures, Killips stands on the podium with her head held high, and her hand on the back of first-place winner Haley Smith. While Wiscomb always knew Killips risked public criticism as she improved in the sport, 鈥淚 was hoping Austin could just show up and race her heart out,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ecause that鈥檚 what Austin deserves to do.鈥�

On June 11, Killips participated in the Belgian Waffle Ride event in Asheville, North Carolina, and scored an emphatic victory, finishing the 131-mile race with a four-minute gap on second-place rider Paige Onweller. After the race, the Belgian Waffle Ride Instagram was flooded with hateful comments. Onweller wrote online that, 鈥淚n the future, I feel a separate category is appropriate,鈥� for transgender riders.

In early July, Killips received some bad news: her win at Belgian Waffle Ride prompted the race organizers to change the rules for future events. Going forward, the female category will include only 鈥渞acers who were born female.鈥� On the same podium where Killips had stood in May, a toothy grin and arms around her competitors, she鈥檇 no longer be able to race in alignment with her gender identity. When I call Killips to discuss the change, she stumbles with words, as if trying them on for size. She鈥檚 not sure how she should comment, or whether she wants to comment. Can she have more time to think? Would that be okay? It鈥檚 a non-answer that, in a way, says more about Killips than any definitive answer could. She meets affronts with care and measured thinking. The only thing Killips does hastily is bike.

鈥淭hat part of Austin that is incredibly analytic and passionately introspective, that鈥檚 what allows her to come off as calm and collected,鈥� says Wiscomb. During our interview, Killips instead attributed her even-keeled mindset to Simone Weil. 鈥淭here鈥檚 this essay, 鈥榁oid and Compensation,鈥� that I come back to often,鈥� says Killips, pulling a book off the shelf behind her. She begins to read aloud, tracing her finger along the page. It鈥檚 a passage about the futility of vengeance. 鈥淭he only way to respond [to criticism] is to act in a way consistent with the world you want to see,鈥� she reflects. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 impart harm and expect it to resolve a conflict.鈥�

Then, on July 14th, the UCI announced their new policy, dropped its bombshell rule, effectively banning Killips from all sanctioned bike races. The rule cuts her off from both her passion and her livelihood. Two days later, she took to her seldom-used Substack newsletter, Estro Junkie, to share her thoughts. Killips wrote about the fleeting nature of elite sport, how her love for cycling developed amidst controversy, and her respect for competitors. 鈥淭he gratitude I feel when I reflect on my experience is so overwhelming,鈥� she wrote. 鈥淣othing can take away the friendships [cycling] has given me and the moments I鈥檝e shared with so many people that I love dearly.鈥�

鈥淚 thought my project was to be the best bike racer I could be but I鈥檓 making peace with it evolving into a shape I never expected,鈥� she wrote. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 get to choose where these things take us and that鈥檚 okay.鈥� Aside from her newsletter, Killips has remained relatively quiet. She seldom responds to media requests, or replies publicly to anti-trans speech. To her, there will always be something uncanny about the attention she has received. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think a person is meant to be perceived that much,鈥� she says. And yet she knows, for better or worse, she will continue to be perceived鈥攁nd critiqued, questioned, and politicized. Recently, however, she has begun to reconsider how she engages with it.

鈥淚f I am in a position to agitate for what I feel is an important injustice, I don鈥檛 think it would be right to not take that up, in some capacity,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 just don鈥檛 know what that looks like yet.鈥�

The post Austin Killips Just Wants to Ride Her Bike appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Note: this article includes discussion of eating disorders and eating disorder recovery. To seek help for yourself or a loved one, please reach out to the 听听

The video opens with Allie Ostrander, clad in a cutoff t-shirt and hyperventilating. It鈥檚 June of 2021 and Ostrander has a message for her fans. The words are delicate, though, and fear is palpable. She pauses, breathes deeply, and begins to speak.

鈥淵esterday marked five weeks, for me, of intensive eating disorder treatment,鈥� says the professional track runner and three-time NCAA steeplechase champion. At the time, she is in a partial-hospitalization program, and 鈥渆ating disorder鈥� is a diagnosis she has never shared publicly before. But her silence is about to end: the YouTube video will eventually amass 93,000 views.

Nearly two years later, 26-year-old Ostrander continues to take fans along for the ups and downs of recovery. Her outspokenness trickles into her professional career, as she recently signed a new sponsorship contract with , a company that supports her mental health advocacy in addition to her racing career. Her openness introduces an important question for athletes, coaches, and anyone involved in the sport of running: what role does transparency play when it comes to eating disorder treatment and prevention?

Eating Disorders and Runners: The Facts

Eating disorders are common in endurance sports. suggest that up to 47 percent of elite runners may suffer from clinical eating disorders. Far from 鈥渇ad diets鈥� or 鈥減hases,” eating disorders are serious, life-threatening mental and physical illnesses. Though research is evolving, the best available evidence shows that they stem from a complex overlay of social and psychological What we do know for sure is that eating disorders do not discriminate. They affect people of all genders, races, ethnicities, ages, religions, sexual orientations, body shapes and weights. The earlier an athlete (or anyone) seeks treatment, the greater their likelihood for recovery. And treatment can be dire: eating disorders rank second, only to opioid addictions, as the mental health condition with the highest mortality rates.

Over the years, various professional runners鈥攕uch as Mary Cain, Molly Seidel, and Amelia Boone鈥攈ave shared their stories and raised awareness. Mary Cain鈥檚 2019 launched somewhat of a #MeToo Movement for sports鈥攁thletes sharing their experiences, not only with eating disorders, but also with coaches and programs that cultivate unhealthy behaviors. Still, in a sport ripe with disorder, Ostrander鈥檚 decision was unique: she shared her story in the early throes of treatment.

鈥淚 was feeling pretty alone,鈥� Ostrander reflects. 鈥淚 had heard stories of people who had gone through recovery and come out the other side stronger. But I hadn’t heard anything about the middle-of-the-road details鈥攚here things got hard, where they struggled. All I had heard of was the rainbows on the other side.鈥� Of course, Ostrander clarifies, recovery is individual, and she would never fault an athlete who chooses not to share.

Kylee Van Horn, a sports-oriented registered dietitian nutritionist聽 (RDN) and founder of FlyNutrition, who specializes in working with athletes in eating disorders and low-energy availability recovery, believes transparency can serve a positive role in recovery.

鈥淓veryone鈥檚 eating disorder journey is personal and unique,鈥� she says. 鈥淪ome may find it triggering [to share] or get caught up in the comparison trap,鈥� which may impede recovery. Overall, athletes must ask themselves: is sharing now supportive of my recovery? If the answer is yes, the outcome is almost always positive鈥攆or the athlete, and for their fans.

Paula Quatromoni, DSc, RD, an associate professor of nutrition at Boston University, agrees.

鈥淭hose who share their stories often say that it helps them stay motivated for recovery,鈥� explains Quatromoni, who is also the chair of the Health Sciences Department at Boston University. 鈥淭his transparency saves lives when it educates and builds awareness鈥t allows some to recognize their own behaviors as problematic and leads them to seek help.鈥� However, seeking help is only the beginning.

A Long Process

Runners often speak of eating disorder recovery like they speak of race day. For both, we assume a clear start and finish. As fans, we know a common story: a young athlete struggles with various injuries. Perhaps they drop away from competition for a bit鈥攎aybe months, maybe years. When, or if, they return, the athlete shares that they underwent eating disorder treatment. Just like in a race, we think, finished, done. As runners, we know mile markers. We know race distances and water stops. We plan to dress for rain, for snow, or for sun. Though eating disorder recovery involves none of that鈥攖here are no neatly measured courses or clear finish lines.

鈥淚t鈥檚 such a strange misconception,鈥� reflects Ostrander. 鈥淭hat if someone goes to treatment, that means they鈥檙e recovered. Or, if someone’s body changes, that means they’re recovered. But it鈥檚 one of the more difficult mental illnesses to recover from.鈥�

Difficult, indeed.

According to the , 60 percent of individuals who undergo professional eating disorder treatment will make full recoveries. In other words, 40 percent don鈥檛 recover, or don鈥檛 fully recover. And this statistic does not account for the folks who never receive professional help.

Furthermore, eating disorder professionals disagree on what 鈥渞ecovered鈥� even looks like, and whether to use that term. 鈥淧eople don鈥檛 usually say 鈥業 am recovered from an eating disorder.鈥� They say 鈥業 am in recovery鈥� because it is a perpetual state that people move in and out of,鈥� Quatromoni told . 鈥淭hey continue to deal with it pretty much the rest of their life, but they鈥檝e learned how to manage the thoughts and manage the impulses.鈥�

Regardless of the term you use, reaching a healthy state is possible. It requires work. It requires time. But after all the work and time鈥攁fter all the ups, downs, wrong turns, and curving roads鈥攖he person each athlete is meant to be awaits. And that person is always worth it.

Plus, the alternative to recovery is far too dangerous. Eating disorders overlap with (RED-S), a condition characterized by insufficient input to match output energy, missed periods, and recurrent bone injuries. The potential impact of RED-S includes decreased metabolic capacity, dangerously low heart rate and blood pressure, long-term heart damage, GI disorders, poor immunity, worsened mental health, and a heightened risk for suicide. To decrease such outcomes and encourage runners to stick with recovery, we must set clear expectations about the process.

Enter athletes like Ostrander.

In lieu of the road race, she suggests another metaphor for recovery: 鈥淭hey say it takes half the time of a relationship to get over that person,鈥� she explains. 鈥淲ell, an eating disorder is like a really abusive relationship. If you’re in an eating disorder for 12 years, like a lot of people are, like I was, you can expect full recovery to take five or six years, or more.鈥�

Here lies another rarity of Ostrander鈥檚 story: she continues to bring fans along for the journey, even though she never treats recovery as the central facet of her personality. In her college days, Ostrander gained a following not only for her talent and work ethic, but also for her humor. In 2019, after winning her third NCAA steeplechase title, she told an ESPN reporter about the brutal race conditions: 鈥淚鈥檓 so hot right now. And not like in the attractive way. I feel like I鈥檓 really low on the scale in that department.鈥�

Now, on Ostrander鈥檚 social media, she intermixes mental health content with zany reels and photo dumps. She speaks of challenging herself with foods she previously feared, like ice cream, and competing at the U.S. Olympic Trials in 2021 during the early days of recovery. She adopts a miniature dachshund, Georgie, and invites fans along for the car ride to get him. She completes a three-mile uphill time trial and brings fans into the pain cave, too. She dances, laughs, and competes in arm-wrestling matches with her partner (鈥淚t鈥檚 like I鈥檓 on iCarly and someone keeps hitting the 鈥榬andom dancing鈥� button,鈥� she writes). Here lies that specific brand of vivacity and quirk that fans have come to expect of Ostrander. Only now, it鈥檚 interspersed with mental health advocacy.

An Inaccessible Process

Importantly, Ostrander鈥檚 recovery story is just that: her story. To truly treat eating disorders with the attention and transparency they deserve, we must be clear about their breadth. Contrary to the common eating disorder narrative鈥攖hat they affect small-bodied, white women鈥攖hese illnesses can affect anyone. And the expectation that athletes with eating disorders 鈥渓ook a certain way,鈥� only harms those who don鈥檛 fit the stereotype.

鈥淢any people in certain demographic groups鈥攑ersons of non-female gender, people of color, people in bodies that don鈥檛 appear thin or 鈥榮ick enough,鈥� those in the LGBTQ+ community鈥攁re missed or invalidated,鈥� explains Quatromoni. All athletes face impediments to eating disorder care. Many athletes don鈥檛 recognize their own behaviors as disordered, but rather consider them signs of dedication. Further, much shame surrounds mental illnesses, and many coaches and athletic programs overlook, even promote, disordered eating. For athletes of the demographics listed by Quatromoni, these barriers are compounded by bias.

In the future, Quatromoni hopes eating disorder screenings will become the norm in athletic programs. With such tools, eating disorders could be detected in an equitable, unbiased way. Even so, access barriers would remain. Currently, few health professionals are trained in eating disorder care, and eating disorder treatment remains unaffordable and not well reimbursed. 鈥淪imply put, 鈥榓ccessible to all鈥� feels like an unattainable goal right now,鈥� says Quatromoni. 鈥淏ecause access to care is insufficient, inequitable, extremely costly, and challenged by discriminatory practices.鈥�

Is There Hope?

Take the statistics on the prevalence of eating disorders in runners, and the prospects for recovery. Add up the widespread health consequences of RED-S, and the barriers to detection and treatment. It鈥檚 hard to not feel dejected about the state of eating disorder recovery for runners. But one should not despair completely.

Recent years have brought an influx of media attention to the topic of eating disorders and athletes. Lauren Fleshman鈥檚 a dual memoir and reckoning on the harmful systems that impact women runners, reached the New York Times bestseller list in early 2023. Research into eating disorders and RED-S has also increased in recent years. Notably, the Stanford FASTR (Female Athlete Science and Translational Research) Program, launched in 2022, aims to close the gender gap in sports science research, empowering women to learn about their bodies and grow into lifelong athletes. Furthermore, an organization called is working to break down systemic, healthcare, and financial barriers to eating disorder treatment.

For Ostrander, progress came in the form of a contract and a sleek collection of trail running apparel. This February, she signed with her new sponsor, . When , the brand identified her as a 鈥渃ontent creator, mental health advocate, and world-class athlete.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檝e spent the past two years building an identity for myself that isn鈥檛 athletics-centered,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 wanted a brand that supported me in that.鈥�

Far beyond writing a pithy tagline, NNormal will support a mental health project of Ostrander鈥檚 choice鈥攁n agreement that鈥檚 built into her contract. NNormal joins a growing list of outdoor footwear and apparel brands placing a premium on athletes鈥� social impacts and personal wellbeing. At least on paper (and often in practice) these companies challenge the win-at-all-costs, performance-or-bust ethos of more traditional contracts with an intent of partnering with individuals who are more than just athletes.

Creating a sporting environment where eating disorders are rare, and recovery is accessible, may seem like an infeasible goal. Though certain realms of research, media, nonprofit and for-profit work provide some assurance. Perhaps most encouraging of all are the individual athletes sharing their stories and pushing for a better culture. At the end of her , a teary Ostrander says, 鈥淚 do not want the next generation to feel the way that I feel.鈥� As she and other runners continue to share the realities of eating disorder recovery, we move closer to granting that wish.

The post Allie Ostrander鈥檚 Radical Transparency appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

During her intern year of medical residency in 2013, while working at a Veterans Affairs hospital in Nebraska, Dr. Emily Kraus found herself unable to climb a flight of stairs.聽She was training for a marathon, and her running performance had also declined in recent weeks. She mostly attributed her fatigue to the realities of the intern year鈥攖he long shifts, sleepless nights, and nutrient-poor聽hospital meals. But on that day, her symptoms became hard to ignore. She paused, leaned over the banister, and took a few moments to catch her breath.

When she followed up with her doctor to get blood work done, she was diagnosed with an iron deficiency. After searching for information on supplements and training protocols, Kraus quickly realized there was little information on how to safely return to training as an anemic female runner. In fact, there was little information on female runners鈥� physiology, period. 鈥淚 felt silly, because I was interested in sports medicine, so I thought I had a good understanding and knowledge base,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut I was caught without adequate resources to navigate this.鈥� Kraus eventually found the right supplementation and nutrition regimen to increase her iron levels and return to her previous level of training, but only after a frustrating process.

Throughout her residency, Kraus worked with many female athletes, treating their injuries and witnessing the misconceptions they held about their bodies. These experiences, along with her personal health challenges, eventually led her to ask deeper questions about the gaps in female-athlete research. After completing her internship in Nebraska, Kraus finished her residency at Stanford, in California, where she began a career in sports medicine. In January, she teamed up with to launch the (Female Athlete Science and Translational Research) Program, which focuses on the gender gap in human-performance research, empowering female athletes of all levels and backgrounds to achieve longevity in sport.

Both Kraus and Roche have dedicated much of their careers to understanding female-athlete physiology鈥擪raus as a sports-medicine physician and clinical assistant professor at Stanford, and Roche as an epidemiology PhD candidate with a medical degree from Stanford. They鈥檙e also both accomplished endurance athletes: Kraus is an avid marathoner and cyclist, and Roche is a professional trail runner and coach, a five-time national champion, and a six-time member of Team USA. With Kraus as program director and Roche as lead researcher, the FASTR team plans to upend the current landscape of female-athlete research and build a healthier women鈥檚 running culture in the process.

鈥淚t鈥檚 about doing the research,鈥� Roche says. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 also about how we frame it, talk about it, and empower female athletes through that research.鈥�

It鈥檚 well established that women are grossly underrepresented in sports-science research. A 2014 review of 1,382 exercise medicine studies found that only were women. Isolate sports-performance studies, and the gap only grows: women accounted for a mere of study participants.

According to Kraus and Roche, studies too often exclude female athletes due to the complex nature of the menstrual cycle. Hormonal changes that occur throughout the menstrual cycle health variables, from resting heart rate, to recovery metrics, and even the metabolic system. 鈥淚 became frustrated as an athlete and as a coach, seeing that we鈥檙e doing really awesome exercise physiology studies,鈥� Roche says. 鈥淏ut oftentimes we can鈥檛 generalize or apply them to female athletes.鈥�

When studies on male subjects are generalized to women, it can lead to misconceptions among female athletes and their coaches. In distance running, this includes misguided notions of what a female athlete鈥檚 body 鈥渟hould鈥� look like and strict philosophies on how women should train and fuel. (One example of this is fasted training, which on women鈥檚 hormonal systems.) The impacts of such training approaches can be risky and in some cases can lead to the development of the female athlete triad or 聽(relative energy deficiency in sport), two related conditions characterized by under-fueling, poor bone health, and a range of other physical and mental health consequences. Kraus notes that depression and anxiety symptoms are commonly found in athletes with low-energy availability and other components of the triad and RED-S.聽鈥淎s a clinician, when I have an athlete come in with low-energy availability, I鈥檓 also talking to them about mental health,鈥� she says.

To abate these risks, FASTR proposes a threefold approach: identification, intervention, and translation. Through multiple research projects, they will identify risk factors for bone-stress injuries and other conditions faced by female athletes. Then they will intervene by improving the available screening tools and resources to prevent under-fueling and bone-stress injuries. Finally, they will translate this research, making information on fueling, recovery, mental health, and injury prevention accessible to all athletes, coaches, and medical practitioners.

For one project, FASTR plans to collaborate with to compare the two screening questionnaires currently used to identify athletes at risk for the triad and RED-S, to determine when these tools are most effective and how they can be improved.聽At the same time, they will analyze the various protocols doctors are using to safely guide athletes back to sport after experiences with RED-S or the triad. They hope to create a more streamlined plan that all clinicians can use to help athletes return to sport and prevent future under-fueling and bone injuries.

Kraus and Roche are committed to including all types of women athletes in their program: NCAA athletes, high school athletes, cis women, and trans women. 鈥淚nclusion has got to be the default in every single sport environment,鈥� Roche says. 鈥淭his is a human-rights issue.鈥�

One of the program鈥檚 first initiatives is the FASTR , a series of educational videos aimed at female high school runners. The rationale behind these videos, Roche explains, is to present FASTR鈥檚 research to the intended audience in an approachable way: 鈥淗ow do we get these findings into the hands of young athletes, parents, coaches, and people who could use the information most? How do we fill that translation gap and make the research accessible?鈥� The videos include perspectives from role models of diverse athletic backgrounds鈥攑rofessional athletes, sports-equity activists, and other leaders in sport. Among them is , an ultrarunner known for her body-politics activism.

鈥淭he media often acknowledges the cosmetic things鈥攖hat I鈥檓 a Black athlete, or that I鈥檓 an athlete of size,鈥� Shauntay Snell says. 鈥淏ut I am also an athlete with disabilities. When you have many layers to your athletic journey, it鈥檚 harder to see yourself represented.鈥� Through her FASTR content, Shauntay Snell hopes to foster a sense of belonging among younger athletes.

To the FASTR team, research cannot realize its full impact if it鈥檚 not communicated in a way that empowers female athletes. 鈥淩unners sometimes get the notion that female-athlete physiology is a nuisance or a burden,鈥� Roche says. 鈥淚鈥檓 excited to see the research become more inclusive of female athletes but also more positive鈥攑eriods are powerful, female-athlete physiology is strong, and there are cool things happening to our bodies.鈥�

Last fall, the University of Oregon women鈥檚 track team became the latest in a long lineup of collegiate running programs to face and an environment that enabled disordered eating. The FASTR team envisions a better collegiate running culture鈥攐ne in which female athletes are celebrated for their diverse bodies and a premium is placed on nutrition and long-term health.聽To this end, one of FASTR鈥檚 projects will expand on an existing program: the Healthy Runner Project.

The was launched at Stanford and UCLA in 2016, to evaluate whether a nutrition intervention could improve bone mineral density and decrease bone-stress injuries in varsity distance runners. In the original study of 114 women, athletes underwent a nutrition assessment, which included a web-based screening survey, one-on-one meetings with a dietitian, and a DEXA scan to measure bone density. With the help of the dietitian, athletes set nutrition goals, such as adding snacks or increasing the nutrient density of snacks and meals they were already eating.

, a 2020 Stanford graduate and six-time all-American who now runs professionally for Puma, remembers the Healthy Runner Project as routine. 鈥淚t didn鈥檛 seem that unusual,鈥� she says. 鈥淗earing that this is less common at other schools definitely makes me grateful that we had it in place.鈥� After promising preliminary results at UCLA and Stanford, FASTR is in the early stages of expanding this project to other PAC-12 schools. The team hopes that a focus on nutrition and long-term health can become routine in all collegiate running programs.

On paper, FASTR鈥檚 aim is to lessen the gender gap in sports-science research. But Roche and Kraus are also asking聽bigger questions. Can something as historically rigid as medical research have a broad and inclusive effect: longevity for all women in all sports?

Looking ahead, 鈥淚 hope there are more runners,鈥� Kraus says. 鈥淭hat means women are staying healthy and they鈥檙e not dropping out of sports or getting discouraged because of injuries, body changes, or other factors. It means they are more informed about their bodies.鈥�

鈥淚 just want to make sport a fun and safe environment for everyone,鈥� Roche adds. 鈥淚 want science to inform best training practices so that people can enjoy sport for a long, long time.鈥�

The post A New Program Aims to Close the Gender Gap in Sports Science Research聽 appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.