Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 5

College is a word I have always used to mean “University”, but there are folk out there with lower sights. It is a bit like the word “student”, in that it is applied in my opinion to the wrong group.

To me, a student is not “any school child” but someone who studies by choice or enthusiasm. There are child students just as there are notionally adult schoolboys. I was always a student, and when I moved up I did so to a University, not a school with a clever name. I studied French and linguistics, finally learning the mechanics behind the rhythm of authors who held me wrapped and rapt in their pages, as opposed to those who had better PR than prose. I took my fiddle with me, of course.

My degree fell apart in the final year as my inner conflict caused what was, in essence, a breakdown, and after a while on jobseeker’s allowance (what a weasel of a name) I drifted into public service and Customs. I don’t know who the uniform was made for, but it certainly wasn’t me. I soon had my first run in with The Management, in the form of the Surveyor.

“What does the uniform code say about hair length, Jones?”

“Nothing, sir, it merely specifies beard length. It says they must be neatly trimmed. Hair just has to be tied back, and mine is, as you can see”

“You know that is only in the case of women.”

“I don’t think so, sir. I know Andrea has a rather prominent moustache but as far as I know she never trims it”

“You know exactly what I mean”

“Yes sir, I do, and I would remind you in all politeness that discrimination based on gender is rather illegal. If my hair were dirty, or got in the way, I would do as you wish, but it isn’t, and it doesn’t, and the one prop forward who grabbed it got a smack in the mouth for his sins. Mind you, I did get my nose broken a little later in that game, so honours were probably even”

I won that exchange, and my reputation on the field in inter-regional games went a long way towards keeping the counterparts of my earlier bullies away. To me, rugby worked as a catharsis; in my hopelessness at my situation, I found myself doing more and more things that were frankly self-destructive. There had been no more suicide attempts, but I tackled like a Samoan*, probably as an alternative to more obvious self-harming rituals such as cutting.

For a while I had been a heavy drinker, for much the same reason, but I had controlled that with hard logic and sheer bloodymindedness. It was now twelve years since I had signed up, and that was my other sauce–I mean source–of strength. I was a member of a team.

That was what brought me back from the edge. In a rugby team, there are very well defined roles, positions of play, that need particular physical and mental attributes. Work was like that. We were all different, but we gelled as a team should, each having a forte, and we worked to keep the team running as an entity. I had moved three hundred miles from home with the job, and this was my surrogate family. Yes, I know it all seems a bit too easy, but that was the thing. My commitment to the team ended my engagement to the bottle. I still drank, and sometimes got drunk, but it was now a choice rather than a need.

I had also found, as with rugby, that I was good at it. Nothing earth-shattering, no Mentions in The House, but talented where it counted. Apart from my willingness to get physical when necessary, I found that I could usually avoid the rough stuff, or even a simple complaint, just by talking to the person involved. Perhaps as a by-product of my odd mental situation, I found it easier to empathise and persuade than some of my hairier-backed colleagues.

I was by this time seeing a lot of Sally. She was one of a tiny circle who knew who I was, all of them being involved in some way with my transition, for that was what I was finally working towards. I had been undergoing electrolysis bit by bit when I had enough time off to recover from the “sunburn”, and through Sally and my G.P. I was on a cocktail of medications that were slowly altering me. Not yet to the point of being obvious, as long as I kept my jumper on and my tits wrapped tight, but it was getting close to the point where it would become apparent that I was changed and changing.

I had been preparing for the real life test for some months, building up a simple wardrobe both of things that were decidedly feminine, such as my sports bras, as well as more unisex things that would serve me on both sides of the divide. My first foray outside as myself was a sort of inverse streak. Instead of stripping and running, I dressed and rode. Nothing spectacular; I simply wore mountain bike shorts instead of my usual lycra, a bra under an Oska the Aardvark top, and a pink scrunchy for my hair. With my deepest black shades and my highest heart rate, I did twenty quick miles on the Allez before diving in the back door.

I am still unsure as to whether I had maxed my heart rate through speed or through terror, but it became a ritual. I had found that the elastic bandages I was using to bind my chest were interfering with proper breathing, and without a bra my nipples hurt, particularly once I had worked up a decent sweat.

That sweat was also the way I got out of showering after rugby. I wore cycle shorts under my kit anyway, and by wearing my body-protector under my cycle top I was able to keep all my extras hidden away even when playing. I simply explained that as I was going to get sweaty on the bike, why shower twice?

One day, while going through a pre-training ritual of strapping myself away before hauling on the tight black top that served to keep studs from my skin, I had one of those little moments.

No, neither a sexual thrill, nor a hot flush, but a glimpse of the depth of the waters I was swimming in, and the realisation that I was now in a current stronger than me. It was a river in spate, and if I succeeded in swimming it I would be carried far down the other side. Everything would be new, all would change. So trite a thought, but it was the first time the beast Reality had turned to bite me in the bum. All the psych sessions, all the medical checks, none had really brought home to me the scale of my decision as much as the simple understanding that I would never be in the changing room with the team again. Or smell Dave’s pits after a game…..a win on points there, then.

*The Samoan team is renowned for its offensive tackling. They take their man so hard that it takes a special kind of courage, or insanity, to keep coming back for more. Search for Brian Lima, nicknamed “The Chiropractor”

When Wales lost a world cup match to what was then “Western Samoa” a spectator was heard to say “Bloody good job we weren’t playing the whole of Samoa”