As the journey to Boston continues, today, more than ever, we honor the women who opened the doors for future generations to run the course.

After 70 years, in 1966, Bobbi Gibb became the first woman to run the iconic race, finishing in 3 hours and 21 minutes. She had to do it unregistered after the race director claimed that "women were not psychologically ready to run that distance."

A year later, Kathrine Switzer became the first woman to run the race officially, having to battle the ego of a straight white man named Jock Semple, who assaulted her several times along the course.

In 1971, Nina Kuscsik was officially recognized as the first female winner, becoming a crucial figure in enabling women to participate in other marathons.

Today, we celebrate those who, with guts and bravery, stood up for the future of women in the sport—those who broke not just records but the barriers of inequality. Those who fought through performance, showing the world that being a woman means strength, courage, and determination. Those who defied outdated notions of femininity.

Because when women race, we don’t do it against each other, but against something bigger. With each relay, we pass the baton to future generations. With each finish line, we break a wall.

Extended article coming soon in the next printed zine.
In the meantime, pace in peace ✌🏻

How many times was I going to say that again?
“Yes, I want to get out of the city and do trail running more often.”

How many times would I end up spending a Sunday doing the same thing again?
A loop around Dulwich or Brockley. Some sticky oats. Throw some Strava Kudos while I clean my coffee cup. Sit in front of my laptop like a puppet, prisoner of my own discipline and control, and re-create the same tasks from last week.

“Maybe I should change the website of Track&Record.”
“Maybe I should have gotten rid of the sofa and gotten an armchair instead.”
“Maybe I should think about where to eat next weekend when I’m seeing my friend.”

How many times would I excuse myself from plans, saying, “Yeah, sorry, I can’t go because I have to do some stuff”? What even is that “stuff”? Isn’t it just a strategy to break the day into bits that don’t really mean a thing? Three hours of the day are now gone, and I haven’t done much apart from writing down to-dos I will end up delaying—just spending time writing more tasks instead.

How many times was I going to say that again?
“Yes, I want to get out of the city and do trail running more often.”

Well, why don’t I just do it today? Why don’t I forget about “the stuff”?
Training has been a bit boring this week, so maybe I just need to switch the scene to find the joy of running again. I knew a week off my marathon training wouldn’t change my performance, but it could change my mind.

Got a train. Got the vest. Got a route. Got there.
And once I slid—one, two, three times—over the mud, the only task in my head was to stay there: mind my feet, not go too fast, embrace with my ears every bird singing, every leaf breaking, fight that nagging voice wondering if this would be enough for my weekly mileage, ignore the frustration of realizing yet again that I’m terrible at following a map.

I stopped a few times and contemplated the vast green forest, feeling helpless trying to capture those colors somewhere. Maybe sometimes I should just stay on the side, observing, recording with my eye and not with my phone. Guess it’s too late now that my gallery is full of pictures of trees, mud, and moss.

Came back reading Joan Didion on the train. Took a Lime Bike home and devoured some pasta. Posted some stuff on Instagram.

Did that trail run change my mind? Well, I was too tired to even process that.
Did I wake up the morning after thinking about one single thing? I did.
And what was that? Well, it was definitely not “the stuff.”

P.S – I really enjoyed listening to Sam Fender’s new album while running this morning. The first time I listened to it I was like “This sounds very similar to The War on Drugs” and then I found that Adam Granduciel has produced it.

Right after coming back from Spain, having spent the Christmas break there, I booked flights to go back for my dad’s 60th weekend, as my mum was planning to host a surprise party for him on Saturday.

I landed on Thursday night, and on Friday, taking advantage of the time difference with London, I managed to wake up a bit later and go for a fun 10K around Madrid to try my new and first pair of Cliftons, running past some of my favorite places where memories arose as I passed by.

I decided to do my long run on Saturday so I could enjoy my dad’s party without having to think about running the day after. From the moment I woke up, I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t think about it too much, but at the same time, I didn’t have any excitement to go out and run 24K, as much as I love running at home.

Got a couple of gels, put some bad gym music on, and left the house. It was icy cold, but the sky was beautifully clear. The route I took was the same as last time, and although my legs felt strong, my mind just wasn’t there. I had quitting thoughts I tried to ignore, but I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘Why am I doing this?’

I stopped briefly at km 13, caught my breath, tried to chill, and said to myself, ‘Calm down,’ then kept going. As I progressed, the little demons went away, but by the end of the run, I felt not just tired, but angry and annoyed at my performance and the lack of control over my head… although I didn’t punish myself for too long—I luckily don’t do that anymore.

Later in the evening, during Dad’s party, part of the surprise was that the former members of his rock band brought all their gear so they could play all night long. As in every gig, big or small, there was a written setlist stuck on the floor. Over the course of the evening, I realized they weren’t following it at all—some songs that were supposed to be at the end were played earlier, and vice versa.

That list reminded me of the written splits for a race, and I thought… ‘Well, sometimes you end up blowing the engine right at the end, or those first miles don’t go as slow as you wanted them to.’ And despite having a setlist, a pace plan, sometimes things go off course. What’s most valuable is not your ability to control, but your skill to jam.

We’ve witnessed many moments at the Paris Olympics this year that will remain iconic in the future. However, it’s sometimes good to travel to the past to remember that some victories have taken longer than four years to achieve.
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Mexico City Olympics, October 16, 1968: American athletes John Carlos and Tommie Smith take gold and bronze medals in the men’s 200m track final. As they stand on the podium to receive their medals, they bow their heads and raise their fists, each covered by a black glove, while the National Anthem plays.

But there is even richer symbolism in this moment in history: they removed their shoes and wore black socks to represent poverty, and their jackets were unzipped to show solidarity with blue-collar workers.

Even the Australian Peter Norman, who came in second, was also wearing the Olympic Project for Human Rights badge. Yet, the crowd booed the athletes as they came down from the podium.
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The race for inclusion is still ongoing, and despite the promise of unity the Olympic Games may represent, inclusion and equality start at home. It can be through protesting or raising your voice, but symbols and stories also have the power to do so.