On a sticky spring Saturday in New York City, thousands of women gather in clusters along tree-lined Central Park West. They wear tank tops and shorts or capris; their hair is up in ponytails, tucked under caps, Published: Nov 28, 2016 8:37 AM EST headbands, some sparkly, some not. Nervous chatter fills the air. Helium balloons arranged in the colors of the rainbow arch over the starting line. Young and old, slim and not so, white and brown, the women await the singing of the national anthem and the blow of a horn that will send them north and then east to loop the park for the Mini Marathon, a 10K that is the oldest women-only race in the world.
New Nike Commercial: Show Them What Crazy Can Do sports bra New York City Marathon Oiselle; a Garmin Vivo-ActiveHR that will measure my distance, cadence, and heart rate; and a black and pink bib number labeled “corral E.” Around me, women sporting the race’s tank top peer into their cell phones, adjust their earbuds. Kelly Zyblock, from North York, Ontario (Garmin Forerunner, Lululemon top and shorts), tells me she is in the city on vacation with her family and just happened to see signs for the race in the park. “It sounded like fun,” she says. “We’re staying in a hotel nearby, and I can run before my kids wake up and we start sightseeing.” A month earlier, Zyblock, 45, ran the Toronto Marathon in a PR 3:50. Today, she says, “Anything under 50 minutes would be good, right?” I pretend like that kind of ambitious goal doesn’t scare me. Of the record 8,833 runners, I’m among the nearly 200 women called “Crazylegs” doing this race for the 15th time or more; Julianne Grace, 78, of New Canaan, Connecticut, is here to run it for the 41st time.
Flash back to 1986, and I am lining up in Central Park for my very first 10K. Two years out of a women’s college (Barnard) and working as a receptionist at a children’s magazine company, I saw an ad in Other Hearst Subscriptions for the L’eggs Mini Marathon 10K. One lap around Central Park, 10 blocks from the one-bedroom railroad apartment I split with a friend of a friend of a friend. I signed up for the same reason most first-timers do: as an inexpensive goal to motivate me to get fit. (The entry fee was under $10; my yearly salary was $12,000.) I wore a cotton soccer T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, soccer shorts (I never played; they were just “workout” clothes), a white cotton bra, an Indian print bandanna, and gray Sauconys. My wrists were naked: It would be another four years before I got a Timex sports watch. “This will be fun, right?” I said to my boss Pat Berry, the editor of GoBots magazine, as we waited on Central Park West. I wasn’t there as an “athlete,” but to run as a much more preferable way to get fit than using Jane Fonda aerobics videos.
Ask me if I played sports or ran in high school or college, and I’ll say no. But the truth is, I do have varsity letters for the 1976 and 1977 Henry W. Grady High School track team. I loved the camaraderie of practice, but dreaded meets, where as the slowest runner on the worst team in the city, my main goal was not to get lapped in the half mile. I grew up in Atlanta, where Olympian Jeff Galloway would do two important things to put the city on the map of the first-boom generation of runners and to plant the idea of “running for fun”: He won and helped popularize the Peachtree Road Race 10K, one of the country’s first party races, which finished across the street from my high school.
And he opened Phidippides, a specialty-shoe shop one mile from my childhood home, where I bought my first pair of blue-with-yellow-swoosh Nikes (and many handfuls of mouth-puckering Quench gum). I didn’t come from a family of runners; I circled neighborhood streets with a local dad (no local moms ran). We talked about doing Peachtree, but I never got my act together before leaving for college in 1980. If we were considered weird (and we were), it was more because we were running at all than because I was a girl. Or so I thought. There was no way of knowing at the time that this would put me right in the middle of the first, second, and third waves of women taking over the roads.
Today it’s hard to believe that when Runner’s World magazine was founded in 1966, running was almost exclusively a sport for skinny young white men (and the magazine staffed almost exclusively by them) and would stay that way for a while. Even as we noted in 1978 that “more women are running than ever,” only 143,000 runners completed a 26.2-miler in 1980; 90 percent were male. Today, while there are still more men than women in marathons, women outnumber men in every other distance. “We own running,” in the words of Dimity McDowell Davis, cofounder of the Another Mother Runner tribe. Look around you at any race. In Running USA’s 2015 State of the Sport report, 10.7 million women made up 57 percent of finishers. In the half marathon, women ruled, with 61 percent of finishers. And running’s future looks female: Of the 15,631 respondents, ages 18 to 34, to the Millennial Running Study conducted by Running USA, 73 percent were women.
Women now may have much better-performing gear than our mothers (and grandmothers)—and hopefully a more equitable distribution of housekeeping chores—but our reasons for running sound remarkably similar. In 1977, Runner’s World sought answers from 50 of the best U.S. female marathon runners, who clocked times ranging from 2:38 to 3:00 (another relic of an earlier era). Their top reasons for running were “for fun,” “to get in shape,” and “to lose weight.” (The issue also featured a 10-year-old girl who ran a 3:01 marathon. Yikes!) According to the 2014 Women’s National Runner Survey, which polled 14,091 runners, the top three reasons women continue to run are to “stay in shape,” “stay healthy,” and “relieve stress” (“control weight” was reason number 4). “In a world that places increasing time constraints on women, running remains one of the most time-efficient activities.” Did we say that 35 years ago, or was it just yesterday?
It took me 10 years of sporadic two-and three-mile runs to finally sign up for a race—that 1986 L’eggs Mini Marathon (it would have different sponsors over the years). Then I ran the Peachtree Road Race (finally!) and several 3.5-mile Corporate Challenges with my coworkers at my new job at Rolling Stone. (Yes, I do note the irony of becoming a runner while working at a rock ’n’ roll magazine.) But the Mini Marathon was the mainstay on my calendar (as were the Adidas soccer shorts I wore for at least four years). Not because it was women-only, though it did help me recruit friends to join me. Nor as a competition: Honestly, I was more interested in “staying in shape” than being fast (my times were around 55 minutes). Running up Eighth Avenue to Central Park for practice runs, I’m sure I was heckled, but that would’ve been a problem walking or riding a bike, too. In the late 1980s, the neighborhood was full of porn shops and dive bars.
I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t then know my women-running history. I hadn’t yet heard of Kathrine Switzer, or seen the photo of Jock Semple attempting to wrestle her off the men-only 1967 Boston Marathon course. Though I graduated from Barnard College in 1984 (where I took dance classes instead of playing sports), I paid zero attention to Celebrities You Didnt Know Are Marathoners waving her cap in her victory lap of the first Olympic Marathon that women were permitted to run (sorry! But future Olympian Deena Kastor paid attention). I didn’t care about running as a sport. As a 10-year-old watching the Olympics in 1972, I was way more interested in Olga Korbut flipping on the uneven parallel bars than Frank Shorter winning the marathon (I must’ve known that local hero Jeff Galloway had run in those Olympic games, but really, where’s the Quench gum?).
But as a New York runner, even a noncompetitive one, I knew all about the charming, pony-tailed Norwegian school teacher named Grete Waitz, who’d win the Running Was His Life. Then Came Putins War a record nine times and the Mini Marathon four times during the 1970s and 1980s. Probably because she reminded me of Olga Korbut. Definitely she made running seem accessible (even as she was lowering the world marathon records, running 12 marathons under 2:30). I sought out her autograph at one of the Corporate Challenges she officiated. Possibly her image helped me agree to run the Running Was His Life. Then Came Putins War when challenged by a (male) colleague in 1989.
Running a marathon was odd enough for someone from a nonathletic family who worked at a rock ’n’ roll magazine. That it was odder still because I was female would occur to me only later. When I ran up First Avenue near the 17-mile mark of the marathon, I could hear spectators cheering me on. “Look! There’s a woman!” I would finish in 3:40, a good if not exactly Waitz-worthy time. There were nearly 25,000 finishers in 1989; I was 563 out of 4,688 women. A friend took a photo of me around mile 24 in Central Park. You can count nearly 30 people scattered around me; I’m the only woman. “Wow, a girl! Go, girl!”
That was the last time I ever got noticed for my gender. Because my next few marathons were slower (heat, injury, stupidity), and because here came the second wave of women runners. The Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K series, launched in 1983 to raise awareness for breast cancer, provided many women with an entry into running: a manageable distance for a good cause. By the mid 1990s, 150,000 women (and men) took part in nearly 50 U.S. events. While Team in Training, which started in 1988 to raise funds for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, wasn’t targeted explicitly at women, it certainly appealed to them: By the early 2000s, they made up 76 percent of participants. Women saw women running: My big sister signed up for the Women’s Distance Festival, figuring if I could do 26.2, she could do 5K. (She has since gone on to complete a marathon in every state.) When Oprah Winfrey ran the 1994 Marine Corps Marathon to celebrate her 40th birthday, clocking a respectable 4:29:15, she showed the world that “everyday” working women could conquer the distance. (Though a billion-dollar celebrity is hardly “everyday,” and though she then quit running. Her March 1995 RW cover was the bestselling issue until 2002.)
Still, it wasn’t until the 2000s that women really gained ground on men (third wave), and by 2010 passed them—a trend that continues today, thanks to better gear, more opportunity, and livelier connections. Today women-only boutique companies compete with corporate behemoths in a $67 billion active apparel and footwear market. Sports bras alone are a $1.2 billion industry. Women easily find one another through such groups as Another Mother Runner, Black Girls Run!, and Moms Run This Town. “There are so many ways to connect, whether on Strava, Facebook, or Twitter, you are acknowledged, and that goes a long way when you are in suburban wherever U.S.,” says McDowell Davis. Race organizers target destination events for running girlfriends, like the Disney Princess and Tinker Bell half marathons, and the Divas Half Marathon & 5K series. “Women tell me they love the specialness of a women’s race, and the lack of pressure to perform, and even the opportunity to get extra-festive or downright silly with a tutu and a tiara,” says Kathrine Switzer, who has lobbied tirelessly on behalf of women’s distance running. “We never did that in the 1970s or ‘80s. We were sensitive to looking more powerful, not allowing ourselves to be frivolous.”
At the start of the 2010 Boston Marathon, I noticed a seemingly small but infinitely telling detail. Because of its tough qualifying standards, Boston is arguably the most serious marathon for recreational runners, and consequently it attracts a dedicated hard-core crowd. Not frivolous. Not a lot of joking around. You are ushered into strictly controlled corrals based on your qualifying time. I’ve run it 12 times, the first in 1993, most recently in April. I now find myself near the back of the pack, in almost exclusively women-only corrals. And in 2010, I saw something I’d never expected to see in the historic (historically male) marathon: women runners wearing skirts. Skirts! “This is a good change,” says Switzer. “Women can do whatever they want now, and it’s okay.” If Jock Semple were still alive, he’d probably faint.
As I wait for the start of this year’s Mini Marathon, I look around at the sea of women and wonder, If we make up the majority of most race distances, is there even a need for women-only events anymore? Some say no. “I think the need for all women’s road races in the USA is far less than at any other time in the last 40 years,” says Mary Wittenberg, CEO of Virgin Sport and former CEO of New York Road Runners, which organizes the Mini Marathon. “How awesome is that?” The top 10 women-only races had more than 100,000 finishers in 2015, but the first on the list—the Nike Women’s Half Marathon in San Francisco, with 23,845 finishers—was discontinued this year. “Thanks to the pioneers who came before us, women are now largely comfortable with the concept of road racing with men,” says Wittenberg. Even young women who signed up for the Mini express some hesitation about the concept. “I was at first a bit turned off by the name, as it does register some misogynistic undertones,” says Liysa Mendels, 29, of New York City. “But I do understand that the name is a legacy and that it started as a pivot to feminize running in a way that has led to so much inclusion in our sport.”
The Mini thrives as a legacy race in a populous region. While participation dipped in the early 1990s and early 2000s, the number of women signing up has risen in the past few years. And women of the first (and second) running boom are now bringing their daughters. “It provides a fabulous opportunity for women of all abilities,” says Sonia Cargan, 46, of Hoboken, New Jersey, who ran with her 16-year-old daughter, Katie, who was doing her first 10K. “As for many other women, these events have helped me find time for me, introduced me to some great friends, and helped me stay on a fitter, healthier track. I hope Katie benefits in the same way.”
Nina Kuscsik, who won the 1972 Boston and New York City marathons, helped organize the first Mini, in which she placed third. She explains that the format has always appealed to the most competitive women because “they can compete against each other, not be lost in a sea of men.” The Mini typically hosts more than a dozen world-class athletes who run under 34 minutes. (The winner the first year clocked 37:01; the distance was six miles.) Local competitors appreciate the opportunity, too. “There’s a sense that you’re really racing everyone in a women’s race,” says Sophie Tholstrup, 31, a Brit living in Brooklyn who ran 45:12 in 2015. “You start to recognize people who are slightly faster than you and make it your aim to catch them next time!” Indeed the Mini is unique among the women-only races for its competitive spectrum from pros to walkers. “It’s a super important tribute to the women whose footsteps we follow in,” says Wittenberg, citing the addition of a girls’ race this year as “a fabulous chance to keep growing and celebrating.”
I ran the Mini Marathon 10 consecutive years, with coworkers, with close friends, and once with my mother and big sister, letting my streak lapse when I moved to the distant suburbs and focused on longer distances. After that first finish, 53:52 in 1986, my father took some of the balloons from the starting line, and I rode with them on my bike to my apartment on Ninth Avenue. I made note of it in my journal (in the painful words of a 24-year-old): “It was satisfying to have planned to run two months in advance, go through the necessary training, and see it through. I accomplished a physical feat.” This year, I was pleased to run 57:16 (which age-graded times turn into 48:16—yay!). When I got home, a dear running friend had tied a bunch of balloons to my bike in a neat tribute to my 30 years of running. Next year, I’ll get her to sign up for the race, too.
“The Mini started out as a celebration of women running,” says Kuscsik, “and it’s still an important celebration today.”
At the finish line, volunteers give participants a medal and a red, white, or pink carnation. Some see this as a relic of old-fashioned silliness; others appreciate the sentiment. “Coming together to push ourselves physically and to encourage each other is a beautiful way to celebrate our perseverance, our resilience in the face of those who still treat us as less than,” says Mendels. “We need to continue to tell ourselves and others that we are more than enough, and racing is such a beautiful way to do just that.”
