1. I - A Good Day at the Track 2. II - Ch... Ch... Ch... Changes! 3. III - Who's That Girl? 4. IV - Ma, Ma, Where's My Bra? 5. V - New Girl in School 6. VI - I Want a Boy-Toy! 7. VII - Good Night, Sweet Principal! 8. VIII - To Be... A Girl, or Not to Be... A Girl? 9. IX - You're a Doll, Baby! 10. X - There's No Such Thing as Bad Publicity! 11. XI - Move Over, Ally McBeal! 12. XII - The Good, The Bad and The Really Ugly 13. XIII - The Dream is Alive 14. Epilogue

I — A GOOD DAY AT THE TRACK



"58...! 59...! 60...!" Coach Bradford called out the times as I ran past.



Right on schedule. One lap down, three to go. Tilden was just where I wanted him, two strides in front of me. Already we had broken away from the rest of field. With 3/4 of the race still in front of us, the real running wouldn't start for a while yet. But in the mile, you don't want to wait too long to make your move.



My name's Jack Lind. I'm a 17-year old high-school senior. I guess you could consider me a pretty ordinary guy, except for one thing: I eat, breathe and sleep track and field. My specialty is the mile run and today I'm trying to do something no high school boy has done in 34 years: run a sub 4-minute mile.



Coach Bradford and I had been plotting this for months. I live in Milford, a quiet little farm town in upstate New York — about halfway between Binghamton and Syracuse. I'd been running cross country and track for my school since the 7th grade, but only in the last couple of seasons had my times improved to the point where a lot of people were starting to take notice.



I finished last year with a personal best of 4:12 for the mile — which had led to a third place performance at the state championships. Over the summer and through the fall cross-country season, my training had become more intense than ever. But what had really made a difference was finally getting my growth spurt. In less than a year I had gained 3 inches in height and my stamina had improved tremendously as well.



Tilden and I passed our coaches to complete the second lap. He was still two strides in front and I was more than content to draft off him for a little longer. Two more laps to go. We had completed the half-mile in just over two minutes, so my goal was still in sight.



Ten days ago, I had run a 4:05. I was racing on a cinder track, with no competition to speak of. I'm not trying to be arrogant; it's just that in the local athletic district of which Milford was a part, I was 30 seconds faster than anyone else.



But it was that performance that had convinced Coach Bradford the time was ripe for my attempt at the 4-minute mile. The first major invitational of the year was Cortland, a larger college town about an hour's drive away. More than 30 schools would be competing. Unlike any of the schools in my district, Cortland boasted a high-performance synthetic track, which would provide a superb surface for a fast time. Also, the stadium was equipped with electronic timing, which was a must for any record to be valid. Stopwatches were not acceptable for the national books.



Plus, Tilden would be there.



Kevin Tilden was the fastest high-school miler in New York. He had won the race for the state title last year, the one where I finished third. He had already improved his personal best of 4:07 earlier this season, which (along with my 4:05) was enough to raise eyebrows of track fans across the country. Quite a number of people were looking forward to this match up.



Tilden and me most of all.



It's very hard for track athletes, particularly middle and long distance runners to achieve their best times unless there is strong competition. Both Tilden and I wanted to use this meet, and each other, to reach new levels of excellence. My coach and I, however, were keeping our plans for the 4-minute barrier to ourselves.



Halfway through the third lap now. I could sense Tilden was slowing a bit — the pace had been torrid. The third lap is the most critical in a mile run. Races were often won or lost during that 400-meter stretch, even though the fans might not realize it. I could accept the slowing pace, and then I could set up a tactical run from here to the end - hanging behind Tilden until the final homestretch, then 'kicking' it on in.



If I settled for that, I might win the race — but I would not break any records. I had to maintain this speed if I wanted to get below four minutes. That meant I would have to move past Tilden now.



So I did. This was not a championship competition, just a mid-season invitational. There was no title on the line. But I really wanted that time! I shifted to a higher gear, ran past Tilden, and moved quickly back to the rail as soon as I was legally ahead (you aren't allowed to cut off other runners when you pass — you need at least two steps).



Tilden was now behind me, which meant he could draft off of me, allowing me to force a path through the air for him. It sounds silly, but drafting is a common technique in many sports, from speed skating to cycling. However, if I could get far enough ahead, then he wouldn't gain any advantage.



The three-lap time — 3:01. That meant I would have to run a 59-second quarter for the last lap to break the barrier. My legs were feeling a little burn, but my lungs were strong, and I concentrated on maintaining a steady stride. Behind me, I could sense Tilden fading as I picked up the speed.



In 1965 Jim Ryun, America's greatest miler, ran a 3:55 as a high-school senior in Kansas. Ryun went on to break the world record for the mile with a 3:51 and also earned an Olympic silver medal in 1972.



In 1966 and 1967, two other high-school athletes broke 4 minutes with times of 3:59 — Tim Danielson and the legendary Marty Liquori. Since then, no high-school boy in the United States had run the mile in under 4 minutes, let alone approached Ryun's record of 3:55.



A stretch of more than 30 years. I was determined beat that streak.



Two hundred meters to go. Tilden had fallen far back, but there were several hundred fans and even some press making a lot of noise, encouraging me. My lungs were burning now and I had to focus on keeping my pace smooth.



Distance running is very psychological. Often, the race is won not by the fastest, but the strongest, the one who can best master his pain when every nerve in his body is crying for relief.



Just like mine were now.



One hundred meters to go. God, it hurt! But everyone was screaming for me, Coach Bradford loudest of all. Believe me, it makes a difference to have that support. I gritted my teeth, swallowed down my stomach, and plunged the final steps over the line. Gasping, my hands on my knees, I raised my eyes to look at the scoreboard clock.



3:59.5.



I'd done it! A huge roar went through the crowd as it sunk in. I was immediately surrounded by a mass of humanity, and nearly knocked off my feet by Coach Bradford. Since he doubles as the football coach and goes in at 6'3, 240 — it was quite an impact. But I managed to keep my feet while I tried to catch my breath.



A feeling of elation swept through me as I realized what I had done. Not only had I just become the fastest high school miler in the country, I was the fastest in the last three decades. And I still had half the season in front of me!



Everyone was talking at once. Tilden came up and congratulated me. He'd come in at 4:04, his best time ever. But I could sense his disappointment — I knew what it felt like, since he'd defeated me the year before. He'd have other chances, though — when we met again at the state championships. I knew he'd be hungry for another try.



But for now, this was my moment. I shook so many hands, I felt like a politician. Gradually, though, the excitement died down, and we moved off the track. It was time for the girl's mile — and Milford had a pretty good runner in that race, Becky Barton. I had a lot of respect for her and the rest of the girl's team — I didn't want all the chaos of my performance to interfere.



Still, while watching Becky run from the stands, I was mobbed by coaches, athletes and fans. In addition, two of the local papers had reporters, trying to get a recap from me. I kept one eye on the track while I described everything that was going on. Next to me, Coach Bradford was reciting how our strategy had been planned. I broke off for a moment to cheer Becky on as she entered the homestretch. Kicking hard, she crossed the line in third place, with a time of 5:13.



A fine time for her — and a new school record for the Milford girls. We all cheered loudly as she smiled up at us. I was still fielding questions, but I yelled out my congratulations to her. She and I, along with all of the distance runners (half-mile, mile and 2-mile) were a close community — a team within a team.



This was common among tracksters. Sprinters, hurdlers, jumpers, throwers — we all rooted for each other, but our events required such different styles of training that we bonded most with those who practiced and competed by our sides. Of course, the fact that Becky and the other girls looked so cute in their tight running briefs didn't hurt either.



It seemed as though my race had generated an infectious energy for all of our competitors. Milford had many top three finishes, along with excellent times and distances. Best of all, Hal Turner, one of my closest friends, won the two-mile in 9:36 — which was sure to be a contending performance at the bigger meets later in the year.



It was a great bus ride home. Needless to say, Coach Bradford was in a very good mood. Everyone was singing, cheering and recounting the stories of the meet. Milford had finished 3rd in the team standings — which was all the more impressive considering many of the schools were two or three times our size. Becky, Hal and the rest of our distance crew traded jokes and basked in the atmosphere of accomplishment.



We arrived back at the Milford high school campus, where my mother was waiting to pick me up. Everyone said a final goodbye and Coach Bradford told us to report for a light workout tomorrow. We still had some small meets before the big competitions at the end of the season, and he wanted our training to peak at the right time.



I got in the old Civic with my mother.



"How did it go?" she asked.



"I did it! I broke 4 minutes!"



"Congratulations."



And that was it. My mother and I definitely had a rocky relationship. She had divorced when I was very young and she'd never remarried. Since I had no siblings, it was just the two of us. Sometimes that makes family even closer. Sometimes not.



In my case, I loved my mother very much, and I knew she loved me back. But we had struggled throughout my teenage years. She worked very hard as an administrative assistant in a local factory, and she had a lot of expectations for me — academic achievement, excellent colleges and so forth.



I made good grades — I was even on the honor society. But I was a notch below the best students in my class. That hardly bothered me, since track was my priority. I was already being recruited by many colleges and I just didn't have the same intensity about studying. My mother felt differently, though. She believed my classes should come first and track a distant second. This frustrated me, of course — she didn't seem to take my running seriously, or appreciate how important it was to me. It was the age-old conflict between the generations: the parents have one vision for their children — the kids have a different one for themselves.



"So how was your English paper?"



"A-"



"What went wrong?"



"Hey, A- is a pretty good grade, Mom."



"Pretty good is not going to get you into the Ivy League."



"But I've already got two Ivy League coaches recruiting me."



"After-school activities are not the stuff of a successful career. I'm glad your hobby is going well for you — but it's no substitute for true academics."



I was too incensed over her dismissal of my running as a 'hobby' to point out that as long as I got in, who cares what criteria were used? When would she ever respect my effort? I finished the ride in silence.



We lived in an old farmhouse about three miles from town. We fixed a quick spaghetti dinner (all distance runners love pasta for 'carbo-loading'). Mom and I made small talk about the office — we avoided school and track. Tired from a long day, and the emotional high of the race, I showered up and hit the sack.



The next morning, I rode the school bus in — the only way I was going to get my own car was to work for it, and I wasn't giving up running for an after-school job at McDonalds. While at my locker before first period, a pair of slender, feminine arms encircled my waist and a warm body, smelling sweetly of soap and lilacs pressed against me. I smiled and turned around, looking into the lovely blue eyes of Sue Wendell, my recently acquired girlfriend.



"Congratulations!" she said — kissing me quickly. Then, not so quickly.



"Thanks, sweetie." nuzzling her neck in return. At least she appreciated what I did.



I still couldn't believe my good fortune. Sue was a very pretty, petite young woman, as close to the ideal All- American girl as one could get. She was a superb student, an excellent field-hockey player, a cheerleader and president of the school class. She was easily the most popular girl in school — but not because she belonged to the right clique. Instead, she... transcended cliques, forming true friendships with jocks, nerds, bangers, Goths and all the rest.



How did she do this? Because she was the most honest person I'd ever met. There was no pretense about her and she never judged people by what category they might be in. To borrow from the film, she was the anti-Heather.



I'd always had a crush on her — along with every other guy in the school. But while I never expected it to come to anything, we had been very good friends for years. Study buddies, school activities and so on. But about two months back, I'd asked her to a movie — I had no ulterior motives, yet something clicked that night. As we said goodbye, I had leaned over to kiss her cheek — she had turned her head and our lips met. We both felt the shock of the unexpected contact, looked at each other, then kissed again. And again.



Turned out there was something there after all. We started dating regularly, and I was very, very happy. I'd never made it past second base with her — which was just fine with me. I was more than satisfied with what I had — and that lack of pressure made us quite comfortable with each other.



There were only a few months to graduation — so I didn't know what kind of future we had — we were content to take it one day at a time. I smiled down at her, delighting in how her light brown hair framed her face. She was wearing a set of the low-riding jeans that had been so popular with girls lately, and I could just glimpse the lace waistband of her panties as I bent to kiss her again.



She laughed and gently pushed me away. "Time for class, Jack — we don't want to be late."



And so began an excellent day of school. I received all kinds of congratulations and slaps on the back. A track athlete, even one who could run a sub-four mile, was not going to be in the same league as a star quarterback or pitcher. This was true for both high-school and the 'real' world. Nevertheless, I had made the local TV news and was featured in the papers — so teachers and students alike were according me a new measure of respect.



Long about lunch, I turned a corner and nearly bumped into Andy Marks. He glared malevolently at me, then he walked away.



The Federation has the Klingons. Bond has Goldfinger. Kerrigan has Harding. And I have Andy Marks.



There's one like him in every school — Marks was an all-around bully and equal opportunity offender. He led a group of similarly challenged twits who delighted in the pain they caused others. Physically, when they could get away with it. Most of the time, they specialized in taunts, pranks and general cruelty. Just like predators stalking a herd — they had a knack for spotting the weak, the outcast, the emotionally vulnerable. Then they would pick, tease and threaten until whatever sick satisfaction they required was fulfilled.



Do I sound bitter? Oh yeah — I had been a regular target of Marks myself, until my senior year. But as I mentioned earlier, I'd picked up several inches in height, and I had become a bit of a jock myself. Once both my size and my status had improved, Marks eased off. Like most bullies, he lacked the courage to face someone who could fight back.



Plus, with Sue Wendell on my arm, I felt damn near invincible.



So he left me alone. I finished classes and went to the locker room to change for practice. Hal was already there - he waited while I got ready.



"You and Sue are looking good together — are you two still as wholesome as ever?"



"A gentleman never tells."



"Which usually means he's not getting any."



"Hey, I've got all I need. Speaking of such things, I've noticed Becky making eyes at you. Any possibilities there?"



Hal grinned. He said nothing, but I knew he had a little thing for Becky Barton. She'd broken up with her last boyfriend a couple of months ago and his interest was definitely piqued. Hal and I were both rather shy with girls, so we spent a lot of time speculating about the female of the species. We'd had some dates and kissed a few ladies in our day, but girls were definitely a mystery to us — more so (we thought) than for most guys.



I finished lacing up my shoes (which seemed a little loose for some odd reason). We hit the track behind the school, where we met up with the rest of the distance running corps. The sprinters were in the weight room, the jumpers and throwers on the runways — so we had the oval to ourselves. Becky and the rest of the girls finished their stretches (always fun to watch), then we began our workout. I noted with amusement that Becky and Hal did the warm-up jog together. They even looked alike, both tall, slender and with dark hair. They were certainly on their way to couplehood.



The centerpiece of my training for the mile was the 400- meter run. Coach Bradford and I had designed a 'ladder' program — where I would run single laps at an increasing pace, trying to build quickness and endurance. Often, I would set myself against a sequence of runners, starting with Hal (whose speed was nearly close to mine), then against the girls -- where a pair of them would run 200- meters each while I did the full 400. This way, we all pushed each other to a higher level of training than we could have achieved on our own.



Today, though, I seemed to be struggling a little. Hal almost beat me for the first 400, and I found myself having to reach a bit deeper in the later stages of the workout. I chalked it up to being tired from last night's race — I'd rest a bit and come back stronger tomorrow.



That night the phone rang while Mom and I were eating dinner. I picked it up — it was a reporter asking about my race. I spent about 10 minutes recounting the event for her - both play-by-play and background. 'Color', the reporter called it. She was very nice and wished me good luck as we finished the conversation.



"So who was that?" my mother asked. "Another local paper?"



"Sports Illustrated."



And I had the satisfaction of seeing Mom's eyes widen in surprise. Even though she tried to conceal it, I could tell she was impressed. Maybe I was finally getting through to her.



"Are they going to do an article on you?"



"Nothing that elaborate. It'll just be a couple of paragraphs in the back of the magazine."



I played it nonchalantly — I didn't want to oversell it. I'd have to break Ryun's record to get a full page with picture, but even so, just to get mentioned in the nation's premier sporting journal was making me feel as though all my effort was paying off.



The next day, though, my practice times were even slower - I felt strong but I couldn't reach my usual speeds. Hal beat me for the first series of 400s and Coach Bradford was a bit concerned. I did a full speed workout mile under the clock — my time was 4:22. Now, I never run as quickly in practice as I do in a race — but I should have been able to get at least 10 seconds faster, even on my own.



A little worried, I went home and did the usual shower- homework-dinner routine.



By the following day it was clear that something was really wrong. My clothes seemed to be fitting a bit oddly — I wondered if I was losing weight. And during practice — my times were slower yet. Not only was I finishing well behind Hal, but in my run against the girls relay, Becky actually matched my pace for the second 200 meters. There was no way a girl runner, however fast, should have been able to keep up with me. Coach Bradford called me over.



"Are there any symptoms at all, Jack?"



"No, Coach. That's the weird part. I feel perfectly fine. No soreness or muscle cramps — and I'm not tired. I just can't seem to get up to my normal speed."



"I think it's time you saw Doc Gilroy. Something's got to be causing this. If you don't have an injury, it might be mono. We've only got four days before our next meet."



The possibility of mono was daunting. The bane of high school athletes, mononucleosis was a blood disorder that completely sapped a teenager of all energy. Someone with mono was in no serious danger as long as they got proper medical treatment. But mono could last for weeks, even months. And kids with mono ended up so exhausted they couldn't even summon the strength to get out of bed, let alone compete in sports. If I had mono, my high school track career was over. So it was with some trepidation that I made an appointment with the doctor.



Despite the town's small size, Milford actually had a pretty respectable medical clinic. Headed up by Doc Gilroy, the staff had a good reputation and was well liked by the community. The Doc, as everyone called him, was a classic version of the country physician, with silver hair, a kind, patient face and a reassuring bedside manner. He poked and prodded at me for a while, making little jokes and asking about my symptoms. I mentioned mono — he said not to jump the gun (an apt track analogy), and drew some blood. The clinic had its own lab and he told me the results would be back the next day.



The following morning, Sue and I chatted before class. I was concentrating very hard not to let my worries about running sour our mood as we made a date for the weekend.



"A movie again?" I asked her — smiling into her blue eyes.



"Sure. We'll rent something from the video store."



"Don't you want to go out?"



Sue was no couch potato — she usually preferred activities for a date — bowling, class parties, dances, etc. Milford was hardly a cosmopolitan hotbed, but there was often something going on. Of course, I had the usual ulterior motive of any teenage boy. There are a lot of quiet rural roads around town...



"Actually, my family's gone until Sunday — they left me behind to housesit for a couple of days — so we'll have the place to ourselves."



She smiled at me impishly, then turned and walked away - while I stood there thunderstruck. Was she implying what I hoped she was?



Of course, I wouldn't presume to know the mind of a girl. Still, maybe she really was ready...



It was with a lighter heart that I went to the clinic for my follow-up appointment. I was surprised to find my mother there — apparently, the doctor had called her in. My elation over Sue faded as we both were escorted into the Doc's office.



Strangely, Doctor Wilson was in his office as well. An attractive, 40-ish woman with short blond hair, she was the town OB/GYN. Why would she be here?



The Doc entered the room. Both had serious looks on their faces, yet they didn't seem to radiate too much tension.



"I take it it's not mono." I said.



"The tests came back negative." he replied.



My mother spoke, a look of fear on her face. "It's not something terminal, is it?"



Doc smiled. "No, nothing like that. Jack is in excellent health. But I'd better let Doctor Wilson explain."



The woman spoke for the first time. "Have you heard of Gender Biomorphism?"



"Sure." I responded. "It's that weird syndrome that turns boys into gir- Oh my GOD!"



I fell back into my chair. I managed to gasp out: "Don't tell me..."



"I'm afraid so, Jack." Dr. Wilson replied. "The tests confirmed it — the transformation is already well underway."



I was in utter shock. I couldn't even begin to grasp this. HIV or cancer would have been less stunning. I'd never even considered this. I was going to be a... a girl? No freaking way! Frozen in place, I felt like I was disconnected from my body. I could hear the conversation continue — but as if from a great distance.



"Are you sure?" my mother asked. "I've not heard of a case around here."



Doctor Wilson replied. "Jack is the first in the entire county. As soon as we got the results from the initial run we rushed them to Syracuse. They verified it independently. Jack is becoming female — same as the others."



The others. Dear Lord. Gender Biomorphism, or GB for short, had been around for several years now. The first cases had been documented in such sterling publications as the National Enquirer and Weekly World News. Gender-bending was long a staple of the supermarket tabloid set. Most folks, including myself, just laughed. But when the Center for Disease Control verified the existence of the phenomenon, everyone took notice. By the time the 60 Minutes crew did their profile, no one was laughing anymore.



I tried to remember what I had heard. Somewhere around 6000 boys across the country had been affected — with a few hundred more each month. There was absolutely no pattern - nothing to track its spread. GB could show up anytime, anywhere. It was just one of its many mysteries. Girls were not affected, only boys changed. And only teenagers seemed to fall victim — there had been no recorded cases in anyone over 18.



My mother had a shocked look on her face. "How... how long does he have?" I realized it was like asking the doctor how much time I had to live. I felt the same way.



"The transition should be complete in about 3 days. As you may know, it's a gradual process until the final stage. The body prepares slowly at first — chromosomal, skeletal, etc. Then, it's like an asymptotic curve — the more dramatic, visible changes happen in just a couple of hours."



Dramatic. Visible. That would mean... breasts.



Among other things.



Oh, God, no.



I felt myself grow dizzy as my breathing increased. The doctors quickly had me lower my head and gave me some water. My hands were shaking — I glanced at my mother. Her face was drained of color, and I wondered if she was feeling faint, too.



After I calmed down, I was ready to continue.



"How?" I asked.



"You mean how did you get it?" Dr Wilson looked at me. I nodded.



She continued. "We don't know. As you may already be aware, GB has defied the best scientific minds on the planet. There is no common vector, no path for us to follow — so there is no way to predict where it strikes next, or why."



"Is there anything that can be done?"



"No. We've tried a variety of responses on other boys - hormone and gene therapies, metabolic rate reductions, and so on. Nothing works, nothing even delays the impact. No matter what the treatment, every boy affected becomes female."



And so I asked the final question. "How female?"



Dr Wilson paused for a moment and looked at me sympathetically. "Completely. In fact, after GB has finished with you, there will be no way for even a doctor to tell you were once a boy."



I sat there in a state of glum amazement. The Doc spoke. "There's no easy way to put it, Jack. I've known you and your Mom for many years so I know how strong you both are. Here's a time when you will need that strength."



He spoke again. "Jack, the reality is this — by Monday you will be a girl."



Silence among all four of us. It was just too bizarre to comprehend.



"So how do we prepare?" my mother finally asked.



"I've already made arrangements for Jack to be enrolled in the Gender Reorientation Seminar up in Syracuse." Dr Wilson replied.



"You mean Girl School?" I snorted derisively.



"That's the colloquial phrase for it — but don't mock it. GRS is a valuable tool in helping you to transition."



I'd read about GRS as well. After it became apparent that GB was not going away, and was impacting an increasingly larger number of boys, many states set up special facilities for those affected. At first, GRS clinics were just isolated places to endure the physical change in private, away from the media and other vultures. Later, more sophisticated support services were added, including psychological counseling and even training in such feminine activities as cosmetics and hair-styling.



Hence the derogatory name: Girl School. And now I would have to attend. I shuddered.



"Will he be in any pain?" Mom asked. She still had a worried look on her face and I was reassured by how much she cared.



"None — although there is considerable disorientation during the final stages, no one has reported anything like pain. Chances are, he'll be asleep during the end."



'The end' — good way to put it.



They continued their conversation for a few more minutes - setting up the details of where and when I would report to GRS. Meanwhile, I just sat there — still unable to get my mind around it all.



In the car, my mother and I were quiet. Both of us remained in a state of shock. There were other emotions at work, too. For me, my shock was mixed with horror. Everything, EVERYTHING, about my life was going to be different. Friends, family, school — hell, even my very voice would... change. And I felt certain it would be a change for the worse. It was just too overwhelming to accept.



Like me, I could sense my mother had other feelings besides shock. As I caught her glancing at me, I could see sympathy, worry and... curiosity. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was.



What kind of girl would I be?



I wasn't sure of the impact of GB on appearance — that is, did the boys affected come out looking like their mothers? I took a long look at Mom while she drove. You know how it is as a teenager — it's next to impossible to judge the attractiveness of one's own parents. I mean, c'mon, who can imagine their folks as real people? They're just Mom and Dad.



So for perhaps the first time in my life, I really looked at Mom, the way a male would stare at a female. And I had to admit — she was pretty. Very pretty. About 5'6". Fine, collar-length, medium brown hair, big blue eyes, smooth skin, full breasts... oh God.



Would I look like that? I remembered overhearing her bridge-club friends complimenting Mom on her attractiveness. Once, Hal had remarked that my mother was a 'babe' — which gave me the creeps. Kind of like when Candace Bergen played Garth's mom on Wayne's World — and was drooled over by Mike Meyers. I'd felt the same way Garth had — she was my mother, not a... a woman!



But now I realized that I might very well end up with a similar appearance. And that really depressed me. I didn't want to imagine myself as a female — but looking at my mother was creating a picture in my mind of what was going to happen to me.



We arrived home — I just sat down on the couch, too overwhelmed to move. Mom sat down next to me and put her arms around me. I let her do so. We didn't hug often — but now I suddenly felt a deep need to be comforted.



She spoke. "Jack, I'm not going to insult you by saying I understand what you are going through. I really can't imagine what it's going to be like. But I want you to know I love you, I'm here for you and I'll help you in every way I can."



"Like taking me bra-shopping?" I said bitterly.



"You know that's not what I meant."



I sighed. "I know, Mom, and really, I am grateful. It's just too much to accept. I can't even begin to cope with this."



"I'll help you — you are my child, whatever your gender, and come what may, I'll accept you for who you are."



"That's sweet, Mom, and I know you mean it. But that's the problem. Just who am I? I mean, being a boy, growing up as a guy — that's all I know. More to the point, that's all I want to know."



"I'll help you to learn. And you may find — if you give it a chance — you might even like it. I enjoyed being a girl and I've loved being a woman even more. There are advantages, you know."



"Like wearing short skirts on hot days?" I said, a bit mockingly.



She chuckled. "That's one of the minor ones. Actually, I've always felt there's a certain kind of... magic with femininity that men miss out on. Of course, I might be biased."



"Gee, do you think?" I muttered.



"Look, Jack, I'm not trying to say things will be the same. We're both realists. Your life will change. Our life together will change — but it doesn't have to be a nightmare. There are worse fates that being an attractive young lady."



Maybe she was right. I mean, how bad could becoming a girl really be? Sure, I'd need some new clothes and new running shoes and...



Oh no. Running.



And suddenly it came crashing down on me. Now I knew why my workout times had been getting worse.



I was turning into a girl. And girls are slower than boys. A lot slower...



That meant that I, too, would be slo... oh God. I sprinted for my room and fired up my computer.



I'd long since memorized the high school, national and world records for men's track and field. I could tell you the history of who had been the world's fastest miler for the last century. I was nearly as expert on all the other events, too, from the 100-meter dash to the javelin throw. Track was practically a religion for me — I'd been running competitively since I was 11. Just like other kids poured over NFL and NBA stats, I studied the IAAF (International Amateur Athletic Federation) record books. And I dreamed of my own name being written in. But I'd never paid much attention to the women's marks. After all, it had no impact on my career. I would never compete against them, so their records were not a goal for me. But as I got on-line and looked at the side-by-side comparisons, I realized with a sinking heart just how different the men's and women's standards were.



100-meter dash:



Men, Tim Montgomery: 9.78.



Women, Florence Griffith Joyner: 10.49.



It got worse as the distances grew.



400-meter run:



Men, Michael Johnson: 43.03.



Women, Marita Koch: 47.1



And then I came to the mile. I already knew the current men's record, of course — my hero, the god of the mile: Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco and his amazing 3:43. Then I saw the women's time: Svetlana Masterkova of Russia.



4:12.



Jesus Christ. A few days ago, I'd run a 3:59. I was just a high-school boy who had never competed in an international race. And I was already nearly fifteen seconds better than the fastest woman miler ever.



In 1954, Roger Bannister of England did what sports physiologists argued could never be achieved — he broke the 4 minute barrier for the mile. In the five decades since then, some 300 men around the world had followed in his footsteps, lowering the record by a remarkable 17 seconds. I'd just joined that elite club myself earlier this week - which only added to my hunger for more.



But now...



No woman had done it. Not even close. If I became a real girl, then I would never run a sub-four mile again. No matter how hard I trained, how much pain I endured, my body would not achieve such speed. Not as a female.



And just like that, all my dreams were gone.



I know you may have trouble understanding where I'm coming from — but if you have any athletic background of your own, especially as a kid, you've probably indulged in a little fantasy while working out or competing. You know, pretending you are in the NBA finals against Jordan; catching the winning pass in the Super Bowl; hitting a home run off Randy Johnson in the World Series. It helps to intensify the experience, makes it more fun. And for a lucky few of us, our fantasies can become reality.



I'd had many of them during the years of long, grueling workouts. It kept me running — that kind of dreaming. And for track and field athletes, we had our own Super Bowl, every four years.



The Olympics.



That was the one time where track stars could reach the fame of big league athletes — with names like Bruce Jenner, Carl Lewis, and Michael Johnson. And I had dreamed of joining them — racing El Guerrouj to a gold medal and world record in front of an audience of billions. And best of all, there was a chance — just a chance — it might have come true for me.



But now that fantasy was dead. Once I was female, I would be lucky to finish on the same lap as the Olympic men's champion. Even if I ran the mile ten seconds faster than any woman before, I'd still be utterly outclassed by the guys.



I felt an emotional pain that seemed to reach my very soul.



Maybe... maybe this wasn't really happening. Maybe there had been a mistake after all. Still in my room, I took off all my clothes and studied myself carefully. Like any athlete, I knew my body well. And I couldn't avoid what I was seeing.



It had already begun.