April 16 , 1966
A firsthand account of Bobbi Gibb ’ s historic run .
Abridged from Wind in the Fire by Bobbi Gibb , Revelle ' 69
“ It is a girl !” “ A woman ’ s running !”
“ Are you going the whole way ?” asks the lanky man beside me .
“ I hope so ,” I respond , laughing .
The weight of responsibility presses on me . Failing to finish will end up setting women back . People will say , “ This is why we don ’ t let women run . Women really are not capable of these things ,” And the door will be slammed even more tightly .
IT STARTS WITH ONE More than 175,000 women have completed the Boston Marathon in the half-century since Gibb first crossed the finish line .
Barren trees , still wrapped in winter gray , brush the April sky with pastel shades of mauve and lavender . Runners in brightly colored clothes mill among the trees , clustering and talking in groups . The reality hits me — this is a real race and real people ; they really do not allow women . There are policemen here who can arrest me . I have no idea what I am getting into . My greatest fear is that I will be stopped , prevented from proving that a woman can run twenty-six miles .
I trot slowly around the town getting the lay of the land . Next to the common I find a little hollow , which smells dank and dusty with last year ’ s leaves . I crouch down , hidden in the bushes . The dead litter rustles under my shoes . My heart is beating fast inside my warm sweatshirt . I feel the restless energy in my legs and thighs . I wait , poised , ready to leap .
The bang of a gun drifts across the light spring air and a cheer goes up from the spectators . The mass of runners springs forward with a roar . I wait until about half the pack has gone and then leap out of the bushes . My legs unfold and my feet hit the pavement running hard . The physicality of other runners surrounds me — the flailing arms and legs , the intense concentration , the heat , the sound of soft , strong foot falls on the road .
I hear the men talking to each other in hushed tones .
“ Is that a girl ?” “ It sure looks like one .” I turn and smile .
The men are friendly and supportive . “ We won ’ t let them throw you out ,” they agree .
I reach my arms up and pull the sweatshirt over my head . For a second , the crowd is silent .
“ It ’ s a girl !” a woman screams from the crowd .
“ Hey , at a-go girly !” says a man . “ Go get ' em !”
We speed on through Wellesley , where the women at the college have been listening to my progress on the radio . When they see me , the intensity of their screaming increases .
“ There she is !” “ A woman is running !”
Some of them are crying . One woman has several children clinging to her ample overcoat . “ Ave Maria !” she shouts , tears streaming down her face .
We run over the bridge across Route 128 like a herd of wild animals . People cheer and clap . “ Heartbreak Hill ,” I hear from another runner . “ It ’ s a killer .” We ’ re on Route 30 — seventeen miles . I feel great , though I ’ m not used to running on pavement and my shoes are chafing . We start to climb .
The incredible strength and endurance it takes to run a marathon , to live a life with integrity . You are surrounded by other people running , but no one else can do it for you . You have to do it yourself . I watch the patterns and sparkles in the pavement , and I am filled with a sense of their beauty .
The road goes up , as do we . Pace slows as runners strain . I feel the edge of fatigue for
24 TRITON | FALL 2016