Triathlon, while possibly not as inclusive as it can be (although I've competed in the same event as blind athletes, I have yet to participate in an event with anyone who requires, e.g., a handcycle), is a remarkably inclusive sport. Races are segregated by how fast you are in the swim. That's it. If you can do 750m in 15 minutes, you will start with a bunch of other people who do the 750m in about 15 minutes. The majority of amateur races are non-drafting, so there's no requirement for the kind of bike skills you can only learn by being in a club (I was not permitted to join the clubs I approached as I only have one eye). On exiting the swim, it is normal for spectators (most triathletes have friends or family along) to cheer loudly for every competitor. It's a race, but it really is about participation. It's normal for triathletes who are unable to compete for injury reasons to marshal on races. There is no body shaming, which is a huge plus point in the sport's favour -- you look at televised sports and see whip-thin athletes running insane speeds, and then you go to an amateur event and see every body shape under the sun just getting round the best they can. There are events specifically targeted at beginners (I once saw some first time racers stopping for tea from a flask and to get changed in T1 on a super sprint) and events aimed specifically at women, some of whom go on to be regular faces on the circuit.
This, at least, is my experience in Scotland.
Women generally are not encouraged in sports the way men are. There is a degree of hesitation to overcome, some of which comes from not having the innate audacity that society impresses upon straight white men in particular. Women look at something like audax, which is well outside the normal scope of things most people consider easily achievable (never mind enjoyable), and if they don't see other women visibly participating, then they don't have that natural "Of course I can do it and it might even be fun," reaction.
I'm a member of a couple of women-only cycling groups on bookface, as well as Audax Ecosse and Audax UK bookface groups. The nature of the conversation is completely different because the challenges are completely different. In the women-only groups, conversations are about needing to find a bike that fits, and a saddle that was designed for them, and shorts that aren't designed for some rail-thin Italian model who inhales dust and sunbeams in her morning hot yoga class in lieu of breakfast. They're about needing to overcome the social pressure not to be out on their own in case something happens to them. They have responsibilities in the house and home that limit the amount of time they have available to spend on the bike. They want encouragement, not sarcasm. They don't want to be made to feel stupid for asking basic questions. They want, in short, the kind of kindness and consideration that you offer to fellow humans you don't know very well, not the kind of banter that can be found in groups where everyone knows that one guy who used to carry a tin of rice pudding in his bottle cage and everyone has different opinions about which version of a specific audax was the best one, and shared memories of huddling in a bus stop in the pouring rain n the Welsh mountains in 1983.
I could see a women-only audax attracting the kind of women who have recently discovered cycling, are realising that they can do more than they imagined, and see a bunch of other women doing something that they previously hadn't considered possible.
I should also point out that the thought of doing an entire event without some of the crap I've had to put up with from men on rides (not triathlon), is quite appealing. For example, on the Edinburgh-St Andrews one year, I had a man start to overtake, glance down, then do a double take. "I didn't know women could ride fixed," said he, as if my vagina was responsible for changing gears and would implode if not given something to do. I yelled back over my shoulder to my husband, at that moment probably wondering where he could hide the body, "Darling, surprise! You're not gay!"
Sam
