Unfolding events have a funny way of shaping narratives that, at first glance, catch your attention. They grab the (deserved) headlines, and yet it doesn’t take much inspection—something many sadly fail to do—to realise that “first” sometimes means “second”.
Katherine Switzer (whom we have actually covered in our DWC 100 Women feature) and, more importantly, Bobbi Gibb, fit this perfectly. Switzer is renowned for being the first official female runner in the 1967 Boston Marathon and was famously tackled mid-race by an organiser who tried to stop her once he realised she was not a man. And finish she did.
But the uproar from that assault opened up a discussion about women not only competing with men, but competing at all. It took a few years of campaigning, but it culminated in her competing in the 1974 New York City Marathon, finishing in 3:07:29—first in the women’s category and 59th overall.
Yet none of this was likely to have happened if it were not for Bobbi Gibb.
She had formally requested to run in the 1966 Boston Marathon and received a letter containing the following line:
“Women are not physiologically capable of running a marathon.”
The 1960s had seen huge social changes, but now that the Second World War was a memory, many women were seen—and by many, expected—to return to the traditional roles they had performed for centuries. Anything outside of these “norms” was still frowned upon, and the conversation often turned to indecency or sexualisation. Yes, there had been women who had run such distances before—in the Olympics, in fact—but as far as those in charge were concerned, it was unbecoming. The media often smeared these women too.
Gibb was an accomplished runner (though largely unseen by the public eye) but had never taken part in anything that could be considered “official”. On the day of the race, despite not being an official entrant, she took her place wearing a hooded jacket and set off, allowing the faster runners to take the lead.
It wasn’t long before the men running alongside her realised she was not one of them, but they assured her that they would make sure no one stopped her. Those actually in the race were with her all the way—the polar opposite of the men who ran the race.
Along the route was Wellesley College, a women’s university, and they had heard that a woman was running. Many lined the streets waiting for Gibb to pass by and, when she did, they erupted into cheers—something that spurred her on. And she needed it, because her mind, which had been anxious yet thrilled, was now fixed on finishing and pushing through the pain barrier.
Three hours, twenty-one minutes, and forty seconds later—amid the roar of the crowds at the finish line—she crossed it, beating two-thirds of all the competitors. She was even greeted by Massachusetts State Governor John Volpe and taken to speak to the press.
Unfortunately, she was barred from attending a post-race gathering by the very men who had run with her (and invited her), because “no women allowed.”
She ran again in the 1967 Boston Marathon, alongside Switzer, but it was Switzer who gained the fame as the first official female entrant—something that did not sit well with Gibb, despite her being welcomed this time around. Gibb was the first, whether official, unofficial, or otherwise, but somehow Switzer stole that glory.
Still, Gibb had changed things. In 1972, women were officially allowed to run with a number.
Bobbi Gibb: the woman who raced for herself—and raced for the right
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