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At eleven forty-five, we made our way toward the officials who were checking bibs, and we tried to get lost in the crowd of excited runners. The smell of liniment was so strong it stung my eyes.
With a pounding heart and sweat streaming down my face, I went first, the hood of my sweat jacket pulled up and my trembling hands inside the pockets. The official, a middle-aged man with a clipboard and a scowl, noted the number, checked it off on his list, and nodded for me to move through the gate. Jess was next. And finally, it was time for Francie—or Frank, as her registration packet said. The official noted her number, checked it off, then raised his head to examine her more closely.
His eyes took in her face, and his gaze traveled down her body, lingering longer than necessary on her chest. “Hey, you’re a girl,” he blurted. “You can’t have a number.”
She drew herself up to her full height of five feet four. “I’m a woman. And you can plainly see that I do have a number.”
He studied the determination on her face. “I’m sorry, but you can’t run with a bib. You’ll have to take it off.” He shook his head. “Those are the rules, and I’ll get in big trouble if I let you through.”
The two stared at each other while runners behind muttered, “Aw, buddy, let her through. The race is about to start.”
He shook his head and said more forcefully, “Stand over there, and take off that bib, or I’ll have to call security.”
I could tell by how she gathered herself that Francie was thinking of pushing through and taking her chances with security, but she hesitated. The hesitation was her undoing. She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh then nodded, about to cry. She deliberately didn’t glance in our direction. Turning away, she said to the official, in a loud voice, “I’ll do what you say, but it won’t be long until women will be welcomed in this race.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, it won’t be today.”
Jess and I had been waiting on the other side of the fence. I wasn’t proud of it, but part of me wanted to join the pack and run the race with that precious number on my back. But of course, we had prepared for this possibility, and so I held back my tears, knowing what I had to do. Jess and I nodded in agreement, and he stepped back toward the official. “I can’t believe I’ve lived to see the day when a black man can do something that a white woman can’t. If she can’t run, then I won’t run, either.” He started to unpin his bib. I pushed back my hood and shook my long hair out loose. The official’s eyes got big.
“Look, I never said she couldn’t run. She can run, along with your other friend here.” He gestured toward me. “But they can’t have bibs. The two women will have to leave them with me.”
The three of us unpinned our bibs and handed them to the official. I held onto mine a little longer than necessary, and the official had to pull it out of my hands. I was going to have to say goodbye to number 303, and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. It took all of my restraint to keep from punching that man in the nose, but eventually, I opened my fingers and allowed him to take the bib. My shoulders slumped in defeat.
The official looked uneasy. “And, uh, without bibs, you can’t be in this section. You’ll have to wait until all the numbered runners have started, and then you can run as bandits. If you want, you can wait over by that telephone pole.” He pointed to his left. “There’s already a girl over there.”
Crushed and holding back tears, the three of us shuffled off the course. A pretty young woman smiled at us. “Good try.”
Francie rubbed her eyes. “All our work, for nothing. We’ve been training for this day ever since we read about that girl getting assaulted last year. It’s not fair to keep us out.”
The young woman nodded, an expression of disgust on her face. “I know. It’s not fair. But you can still run the race. It’s my third time.”
I examined her more closely. “I’ve heard about you. I even saw your picture in a magazine. Aren’t you Bobbi Gibb?”
She laughed. “Well, there you are. I got a lot of publicity in 1966 as the first woman ever to run the entire race. But the press forgot about me last year when Kathy and Jock tussled.” She shrugged. “I just like to run. I’d rather do it with a number, but what’s a number, really? Can a number make you an official person or the lack of one take away your satisfaction in running?”
We pondered this. Francie said, “No, of course not. But I want to be counted as official and not kept out. I’m tired of being treated as a lesser being.”
Bobbi squinted at me. “Did I see you on television last fall, running the mile on your high school track team? That was groovy. You were great.”
“Thanks. But I didn’t win.”
“Who cares? You competed, and that’s what matters.”
I started to reply that winning was important, but before I could, we heard the pop of the gun that signaled the beginning of the race. We watched as the mass of runners began to move, slowly at first.
When nearly everyone was past, the stranger said, “Showtime. Nice to meet you. See you at the finish line.” She took off from where we stood, nearly a hundred feet in front of the starting line.
I started to follow her, but Francie held out her hand like a traffic cop. “Wait. Let’s go back and begin at the starting line. I want to run the whole thing.”
Jess laughed. “You won’t care in a few miles if you miss out on a few yards. But you’re the boss. Let’s do it.”
The three of us backtracked and held hands as we ran over the starting line. I threw a nasty glance back at the official who still held our bibs. He watched us, his face impassive, as we passed him. I was going to have to let go of my anger or channel it into my feet, because even without numbers, we were running the Boston Marathon. Only a couple of other women could say that. Despite the anger and disappointment, I did a hop and a skip when I crossed that starting line.
* * *
WE DROPPED HANDS AND concentrated on finding a pace among the river of runners. Even though we were at the back of the pack, we actually passed a few men with bibs as they tried to keep their feet from running too fast. Well-wishers lined the road, shouting encouragement. I’d never run in a crowd before, and I definitely hadn’t been the object of so much attention. People screamed at me, smiling, holding out their hands for a high five. I tried to smile back.
The three of us talked and laughed as we found our pace. In spite of the past few days, I felt good, strong. Alive. I strutted with pride, responding to the encouragement from bystanders. Many people yelled, “Go, girls!”
A woman with tears streaming down her face and a radiant smile waved to us. “It’ll be me next year!” she shouted. I smiled and flashed a peace sign.
Most people seemed to welcome our presence in the race, but a few guys booed when we passed by. One man holding a beer bottle even yelled, “Get back in the kitchen, girls.” And then he laughed and laughed until we’d passed him by. What a creep.
We ran out of Hopkinton and into Ashland. By that time, the field had spread out, and the runners were finding their paces. My breathing slowed, and my arms swung low. The road was flat and the running easy.
Exhilaration rose in me like a bubble, and I felt as if I could run forever. I sped up just to feel my legs run fast, but Jess grabbed my elbow. “Slow down, tiger. There’s lots of road up ahead. Our splits are right at ten minutes a mile.”
By the third mile, I was thirsty. I angled over toward the bystanders, many of whom held out paper cups of water. I grabbed one as I ran by and drank it without stopping, dropping the cup behind me. The road was littered with paper cups and orange peels.
“What’s with the orange peels?” I asked Jess.
“Those are for the elite runners, not for slowpokes like us.” He laughed. “Maybe somebody up ahead will hand us one. Are you hungry?”
I scanned my body and realized, no, I wasn’t hungry. I’d eaten a big breakfast at a restaurant when the bus had stopped for a break. And I wasn’t thirsty now that I’d drunk a little water.
Somewhere in mile five, we heard horns honking, and someone shouted, “Runners, move to your right.” We dutifully moved to the side of the narrow road. A flatbed truck rumbled past, the smell of diesel fuel fouling the air. It was the press truck, filled with cameramen aiming their cameras at the runners.
Jess groaned. “They see us now. You may as well smile.”
He was right. The truck slowed to our pace and hovered a few feet away. A journalist yelled at us to say something. Francie said hi to her mom, and I looked into the closest camera and said, “Hi, Reese.”
The man gave me a thumbs-up.
Another man yelled at me, “Why are you running the race since you don’t have a number?”
“Because I can,” I yelled back. “One day, women will be allowed to have numbers.”
The runners around me cheered, as did most of the spectators.
“When are you going to quit?” the reporter fired at me.
“I’m not going to quit. When are you going to start?” I snapped.
He nodded, pleased at the banter. Finally, the truck rumbled past.
The temperature was in the seventies, and I was warm. I moved to the side of the road and quickly stepped out of my sweatpants, flinging them into the crowd. Then I pulled off my jacket and threw it behind me. Francie and Jess did the same. Within a few seconds, we were running again. I felt much freer in my T-shirt and shorts.
“On the one hand, we have an advantage,” said Jess as he loped along. “We’ve been training in hot weather all this time, and most of the rest of the runners haven’t. We’ll do fine as it warms up.”
“But what’s the other hand?”
“We haven’t trained on hills. There aren’t many in our part of Florida. Not that the hills on the course are huge,” he hurried to add after seeing the expression on our faces. “But there are several hills. And they go up as well as down. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
I nodded. I was starting to feel a little tired. This was the sixth mile, less than one quarter of the way through. The euphoria I’d felt at first had disappeared like smoke, and in its wake was depression. I’d gone to so much trouble over the past year, merely to run down the road with a horde of men who couldn’t care less that I was there. I thought about the hours and hours that I’d invested in running. All to pound my feet along this course without even being a legal contestant—and without having the slightest idea what the consequences would be for running away from home.
I asked Francie, “Do you know what your mom wants to talk to me about?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“Is it about what happened with my dad?”
“I don’t think so. It’s probably about you running away from home. She doesn’t like that.”
There was nothing I could do about it at that point. After a few minutes, I said, “Is Kyle all right?”
“Far as I know. He’s toughing it out in boot camp and wishing he was still in college, I think. But he makes an effort to sound happy in his letters to Mom and Dad.”
I tried to imagine what boot camp would be like. Would Kyle have to run a long way, maybe with a pack on his back? I had no idea, so I just said, “Huh.”
By mile ten, we were running smoothly. Jess told us about some of the students he’d coached over the years. There were hundreds of them. Some of them had even run the Boston Marathon. “They were all boys, but if I were to go back to it now, I’d make sure there were girls, too.”
Francie said, “It sounds like you miss it.”
“I do. I surely do. Coaching you two has reminded me of how much. And speaking of which, I’ve been offered a job coaching track at Bethune-Cookman University.”
“Jess, that’s great.” I slapped him on his sweaty shoulder.
“Wait a second. I haven’t said yes yet. My wife and I are considering it. I make more money selling real estate, so we need to think on it some more.”
“Sure. It’s your life. But you’re a great coach. We wouldn’t be here without you.”
Soon we came into Natick, where the crowds were even bigger than the ones we’d seen so far. We passed fans who shouted encouragement with a beer in one hand and a pretzel in the other. I tried to ignore the increasing pain in my ankle and the blister on my left heel. Another blister was forming on the outside of my right foot. My knees were also beginning to ache. The asphalt seemed harder than what I was used to.
I heard faint echoes of a faraway din. “What’s that noise?”
“Oh, you’re going to like this. It’s the Wellesley girls. When you see them, maintain your pace. It’s easy to speed up, but don’t.”
“Yes, boss. Whatever you say.”
We laughed, but our laughter ended when we heard someone yell, “Amby Burfoot has just won the race with a time of two hours and twenty-two minutes.”
My heart sank. “Oh my God. The leaders are already finishing, and we’re only halfway.”
“Yeah, but don’t let your concentration slip. All we’ve got to do is finish.”
I listened to the slap, slap of our feet hitting the ground and asked hesitantly, “Jess?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you hurt anywhere?”
After a while, he answered. “Yeah. My left knee is killing me. I think I’ve got arthritis in it. And my left big toe hurts when I bend it. Which is with every step. But I’m handling it. You?”
“My ankle feels like an elephant’s kicking it. And I’ve got blisters.”
“Oh, the blisters. I didn’t count them. I’ve got at least three of them. Do you need to stop?”
“No, of course not. I just wondered if you hurt, or if it was just me.” I gave a self-conscious laugh.
“Child, every person on this course is suffering right now. You don’t have a monopoly on pain.”
“That’s good. I guess.”
Francie said, “Just about every joint in my body is screaming at me. I’m trying to ignore the pain, so don’t remind me.”
The noise had gotten louder and sounded like screeching. We ran over a small hill and to the gates of Wellesley College, where coeds lined the street on both sides, screaming their guts out. I heard shouts of, “It’s two girls!” I wanted to hold my hands over my ears to block out the racket. But that wouldn’t have been friendly. They meant their screams to be encouragement, so I ran through the tunnel of screeches with a smile plastered on my face.
“We’ve passed the halfway mark,” said Jess, sounding grim. “Now it gets hard.”
A little voice in my head said that I could quit anytime. I’d run half of a marathon, and that might be enough to get me a scholarship. But what if it wasn’t? What if, for lack of determination, I was doomed to be a farm laborer for the rest of my life? That was the worst fate I could imagine.
I ignored the voice and ran on. I saw a sign that read, “Route 16 East–Cambridge/Boston.” Taking that left fork gave me a lift.
The three of us weren’t talking so much anymore. The route was getting hillier. In spite of myself, my pace slowed. Picking up my legs over and over required more effort than I thought I could muster. I was just plain tired. Beside me, Jess was huffing like an asthmatic steam engine. Francie’s face was beet red, and her breath was louder than I’d ever heard it. We couldn’t help but slow even more when we reached the Newton Hills.
“There are three of them,” Jess reminded us between breaths. “The last one is called Heartbreak Hill. But the first two are just as hard.”
Going up the first hill, I struggled to catch my breath and slowed even more. Looking down at my feet, I realized I was running just a tiny bit faster than a walking pace. It felt totally ridiculous to be going so slowly, but it was the best I could do. I looked over at my friends. Francie’s mouth had dropped open as she gasped for breath, and her tongue stuck out a little, but otherwise, she seemed to be doing all right. Sweat poured down Jess’s face, and his shirt stuck to his chest. He was moving at about the same speed as we were. If I’d had enough energy to be amused at our glacial pace, I would have laughed. But it wasn’t possible.
Glancing around, I noticed that a number of the other runners had slowed to a walk. As slowly as I was moving, I was still able to pass them one by one, and I gave them a grin and a thumbs-up. My legs wobbled like Jell-O, though, and some very big blisters were just about to burst.
After the first hill, the course leveled out, and my pulse slowed. Jess was limping a little, but otherwise, he seemed all right.
“I told you this is where it gets hard,” he said after gulping down a cup of water. “But we’re on mile twenty. We got this far. We can finish.”
“Six more miles,” Francie said, gasping. “I don’t know...” But she kept running.
The second hill was another lesson in suffering but not essentially different from the first. To take my mind off the pain, I asked Jess, “Why are marathons more than twenty-six miles long? Why not twenty?”
“They were never twenty, but for a while, they were twenty-four miles. But the King of England wanted the marathon to start at Windsor Castle and end in front of his box in the Olympic Stadium. So he issued a proclamation making it twenty-six miles and three hundred eighty-five yards, and it stuck. Stupid, lazy king.”
I laughed, although it came out more like a croak. “I agree.” We were silent while we struggled down the second hill. Nothing mattered except that next step.
Next was Heartbreak Hill. The spectators were especially thick there, watching the runners battle with personal demons. I ran to the top with my teeth gritted and fists clenched. My blisters had burst, and something was sloshing around in my shoe. I didn’t dare look. At the summit, the crowd welcomed us like conquering heroes.
Toward the bottom of the hill, we were greeted with the street sign: “Boston.” Just seeing that sign gave me the energy I needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, we turned from Commonwealth Avenue onto Beacon Street. We made our way through cheering crowds that opened like a flower for us to pass through and then closed behind us.
After what seemed like an eternity, we rounded the corner onto Boylston Street and saw the long slope down to the front of the Prudential Building and a line painted on the road with the word, “Finish.”
Jess held back so Francie and I could limp over the line first. I felt nothing, not even relief, when I crossed the line. I was so depleted that I didn’t even feel human—more like an overtaxed machine that was close to falling apart. I had expected to be thrilled when I crossed that finish line. I’d thought about little else for the past six months and had pictured myself pumping my arms in the air and dancing a little jig when I finished, but none of that happened. All finishing meant was that I could finally stop running.
Our time was four hours and twenty-three minutes—almost exactly on schedule, with an average of ten-minute miles throughout. Somebody threw an army blanket over my shoulders, and a volunteer told Francie and me to report to the ladies’ locker room. There was a ladies’ locker room for a race that was limited to men? In spite of my exhaustion, I had to laugh. The volunteer pointed us to the Prudential Building’s garage. Inside, we got Band-Aids for our bloody feet and were pronounced otherwise healthy.
“How many women have you seen today?” I asked the doctor who examined me.
“Five,” he said, “counting the two of you.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“Nope. I didn’t ask.”
Francie and I shuffled back to the finish line to meet Jess. Laney waved from the bleachers, so the three of us climbed up to meet her. She hugged and kissed us all as though we were heroes.
I actually felt like a hero when she did that, and I was able to stand up straight and smile. Against all odds, I had made my dream come true. If the UF coach’s promise could be believed, I would be going to college.