Gibb started quietly training for the Boston Marathon in 1964, often using the Middlesex Fells Reservation near her home to run away from judgmental eyes.
“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a coach, no books, nothing. I didn’t have any way of measuring distance, so I just went by time. My boyfriend would drop me off on his motorbike and I would run home,” says Gibb.
In 1964, her parents went on sabbatical to the UK, leaving 21-year-old Gibb their VW campervan. With a summer ahead of her and a longstanding dream of seeing more of the country, she packed up the van and spent the next 40 days moving slowly from the east to the west coast.
“At night, I would sleep out under the skies, and each day I would run in a different place. Over the Berkshires, along the Mississippi River and across the Great Plains, over the Rocky Mountains and the Continental Divide, and down into California – before jumping into the Pacific Ocean – all in one summer. That was my training for the 1966 Boston Marathon,” says Gibb.
A few months before the marathon, she applied for a runner’s number to be one of the 540 that would eventually start the race, but was rejected with the now famously curt assessment of women’s physiological capabilities.
“I realised that this was my chance to change the social consciousness about women. If I could prove this false belief about women wrong, I could throw into question all the other false beliefs that had been used to deny women opportunities,” says Gibb.
Four days before the race, she boarded the first of several Greyhound buses and arrived at the family home 72 hours later.
Her mother drove her to the start line the morning of the race that would catapult her into the limelight.
“My dad thought I was nuts and refused to come. I was wearing my brother’s Bermuda shorts, a swimsuit underneath, and a big sweatshirt with a hood that I pulled around my head,” says Gibb.
After running a few warm-up miles she returned to the starting area, where she did her best to hide by creeping into a set of bushes nearby.
When the starting pistol cracked, Gibb loitered, allowing the faster runners to move down the road before joining the moving crowd.
“Very quickly, the men behind me could tell that I was a woman – probably by studying my anatomy from the rear,” says Gibb. “I was so nervous. I didn’t know what would happen. I thought I might even be arrested.”
Her fears were unfounded. Instead of hostility, camaraderie quickly flourished. When it became clear she needed to take off her sweatshirt or suffer the heat in it, she expressed her fears of being ejected from the race to the men around her. “We won’t let them,” came their unified assurance.
“There was this myth that men were always against women, but it wasn’t true. Those guys were great, upbeat, friendly and protective; they were like my brothers,” says Gibb.
Buoyed by the companionship, Gibb removed her outer layer and ran freely and proudly – her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side. Spectators lining the street – men, women and children – applauded her as she passed, with news of her participation spreading along the course via radio bulletins.
As she approached Wellesley College, a women’s university on the route, pandemonium erupted. The momentous event was described 30 years later by Wellesley College President Diana Chapman Walsh, who was present as a student spectator that day. , external
“Word spread to all of us lining the route that a woman was running the course,” she said.
“We scanned face after face in breathless anticipation until, just ahead of her, through the excited crowd, a ripple of recognition shot through the lines, and we cheered as we never had before.
“We let out a roar that day, sensing that this woman had done more than just break the gender barrier in a famous race.”
“The women were crying and jumping up and down. One kept shouting ‘Ave Maria, Ave Maria’. It was an emotional moment for me,” says Gibb.
Gibb was not only blazing a trail, she was doing it quickly. She ran the first 20 miles at a sub-three hour pace, but with her newly-bought men’s running shoes cutting into her feet, her speed began to drop.
Her race had changed. Anxiety over being pulled out by officials was now replaced by that feeling all too familiar to any long-distance runner – painful determination and a longing for the finish line.
As she made her way through Boston, spurred on by the tremendous noise that accompanied her, Gibb still had no idea how close she was to the end.
“I didn’t know where I was or how far I had left – I just gritted my teeth and ran,” says Gibb.
Turning right on to Hereford Street, the noise seemed to ratchet up, and a final left on to Boylston Street revealed the finish line that she had been dreaming of for so long.
Gibb completed her first Boston Marathon in an impressive three hours, 21 minutes and 40 seconds – faster than two-thirds of the competitors.
A now iconic image shows her running alone, her face grimacing as she nears the finish line. On both sides, spectators crane their necks, ignoring other runners passing by, desperate to glimpse the first female finishing the storied race.
Crossing the line, she was greeted warmly by Massachusetts State Governor John Volpe, who shook her hand and offered his congratulations before being ushered into a hotel room where the world’s press waited breathlessly.
After the interviews, the group of men she had been running with invited her to join them for the traditional post-race stew, but as they reached the door, Gibb was barred from entry: “Sorry, men only.”
It had been a day of dramatic change, but any notion of true equality was still a distant dream.
