02/15/2026
Change happens due to liberal progressive folks. And the World is better for it!!
A race official grabbed her mid-marathon and tried to rip the number off her chest. She kept running.
April 19, 1967. The Boston Marathon. Mile four.
Kathrine Switzer, a 20-year-old Syracuse University student, was running strong when she heard heavy footsteps gaining on her from behind. Not another runner—something different. Urgent. Angry.
Then she heard the shouting.
"Get the hell out of my race!"
Before she could turn around, hands grabbed her. Race official Jock Semple lunged at her, trying to physically rip the numbered bib—261—off her body. His face was twisted with rage. In his mind, Switzer had committed an unforgivable offense.
She was a woman. And women were forbidden from running the Boston Marathon.
For over 70 years, the world's oldest annual marathon had barred women from participating. The official explanation? Women were too fragile for such distances. Their uteruses might fall out. They might grow mustaches. They'd embarrass themselves. The reasoning was absurd, but the ban was real.
Switzer knew all this when she registered. That's why she used her initials: K.V. Switzer. Not Katherine. Not Kathy. Just K.V.
Race officials, not realizing she was female, issued her bib number 261. She pinned it to her chest and lined up at the starting line like any other runner. When the gun fired, she started running. Simple as that.
For four miles, everything went fine. She was just another runner in a sea of runners.
Then Semple saw her. And realized. And snapped.
The photographs captured what happened next—images that would circle the globe and change sports history forever. Semple grabbing at Switzer. Her face showing shock and determination. And then, the intervention.
Switzer's boyfriend, Tom Miller, a hammer thrower, body-checked Semple out of the way. Other runners formed a protective barrier. Switzer stumbled but didn't fall. Didn't stop. Didn't turn back.
She kept running.
In that moment, shaken and furious, Switzer made a decision. "If I quit, nobody will ever believe that women have the capability to run 26-plus miles. If I quit, Jock Semple and all those like him will win. My fear and humiliation turned to anger."
So she ran. Through the pain. Through the rage. Through the knowledge that the whole world was now watching.
She crossed the finish line in 4 hours and 20 minutes. Official finisher. Number 261. First woman to run the Boston Marathon with an official entry number.
But Switzer wasn't actually the first woman to run Boston. That honor belonged to Bobbi Gibb, who'd disguised herself and snuck into the race the year before, in 1966. Two women. Two different approaches. Both refusing to accept that their bodies weren't capable of what men's bodies could do.
Both absolutely right.
The photographs of Semple attacking Switzer made headlines around the world. The image was undeniable—a race official literally trying to stop a woman from running. The optics were terrible for marathon organizers. The message was clear: this wasn't about protecting women. It was about excluding them.
Switzer didn't just finish that race and move on. She got angry. And she got organized.
For the next five years, she and other women runners fought to change the discriminatory policy. They lobbied the Boston Athletic Association. They organized. They ran anyway, whether officially allowed or not. They proved, marathon after marathon, that women could absolutely handle the distance.
In 1972—five years after Semple tried to remove Switzer from the course—the Boston Athletic Association finally dropped the ban. Women could officially enter.
Switzer didn't stop there. She led the charge to get a women's marathon added to the Olympic Games. Think about that: women weren't allowed to run a marathon in the Olympics until 1984. Less than 40 years ago.
When that first women's Olympic marathon finally happened in Los Angeles in 1984, it was the culmination of decades of women like Switzer and Gibb refusing to accept "no."
And Jock Semple? The man who tried to tear Switzer off the course?
He apologized. Publicly. And once the rules changed, he became one of the strongest supporters of women runners. The attack became reconciliation. The opponent became an ally.
Looking back at what she called "the great shoving incident," Switzer reflected: "These moments change your life and change the sport. Everybody's belief in their own capability changed in that one moment, and a negative incident turned into one of the most positive."
Today, 43% of Boston Marathon entrants are women. The idea that women can't run 26.2 miles seems laughable. Women regularly win ultra-marathons. They run hundred-mile races. They compete at the highest levels of endurance sports.
But in 1967—just 58 years ago—a race official tried to physically remove a woman from a marathon because her presence was considered impossible and inappropriate.
Kathrine Switzer proved it wasn't. Not by arguing. Not by asking permission. But by running. By refusing to stop when someone literally tried to force her off the course.
She kept running. And she changed everything.
The next time someone tells you that you can't do something because of who you are—your gender, your age, your background, anything—remember number 261.
Remember that sometimes the best response to "you can't" is to just keep going. Keep running. Keep pushing. Let your accomplishment be the argument.
Kathrine Switzer didn't ask for permission to run. She ran. And when someone tried to stop her, she ran harder.
That's how barriers fall. Not politely. But persistently.
