Make Way For Gabby

By Deborah Bainbridge

I knew two things about Boston. Running was its heartbeat and ducks were always welcome. Momma had told me of that magical place when I was a duckling. As a grown hen, I shared the tale with my two daughters, Roxi and Sara, and our decision to move was unanimous.

Ten days after departing Rochester, we were gliding over Boston Public Garden. Our first week spent exploring was a dream come true.

This afternoon, sunlight glimmered on the rippling pond as people loaded into enormous swan boats. Sara swam near one for a closer look, but her wing tangled in its bowline. She flapped and flailed. But, the more she struggled, the tighter it cinched. Frantic, I pecked and pulled. Someone help me. The rope wouldn’t budge.

Splash! A tall man with lightning-fast fingers unraveled the knots and carried Sara to shore as I followed. You saved her. I nuzzled his hand. Then he flared her wing, revealing damaged flight feathers. My heart pinched.

That evening, as my family dabbled in the pond with our duck community, we overheard chatter regarding the incident. Comments ranged from “She’ll never fly again” to “I’ve seen them heal plenty during my lifetime.”

Sara’s eyes welled up. “You heard them.” She sniffed. “I’ll never fly again. And, if I can’t fly, I’m nothing.”

Roxi’s tail feathers bristled. “Don’t let those grumpy old drakes get in your head, sis.”

I lifted Sara’s bill with the tip of my wing. “You are a beautiful creation of God and so much more than your injured wing. Besides, you heard what the wise hens said. Don’t give up hope, dear.”

At sunrise, I set out for my usual morning flight. My first stop—the brilliant bronze statues of Mrs. Mallard and her eight adorable ducklings. Their migration story had been passed from generation to generation. Bostonians had dressed them in blue and gold.

“Mrs. Mallard, I could sure use some motherly advice.”

Mrs. Mallard just stared… as statues typically did.

I sat, mesmerized by her shiny gold tennis shoes when a brilliant idea struck. “That’s it!” I pecked her on the cheek. “Mrs. Mallard, you’re my hero!”

I flew to the rooftop of the Boston Library. People of all colors and sizes filled the streets, running together, while others cheered them on. My heart filled with anticipation. I’m from Beantown now. And Bostonians… run!

I jetted back to the pond, skidding across its surface, and announced, “I’m going to run the Boston Marathon next year!”

“That’s quite impossible,” a nearby drake ridiculed. “You are physiologically incapable!”

My tail feathers ruffled. “I’ll train. I’ll show you and my daughters not to be defined by what others say.”

“I’ll help you, Mom.” Roxi fumed. “Whatever you need.”

“Do you really think it’s possible?” Sara’s voice quivered.

“There’s more to me than flying. I can swim and run… so can you.” I puffed out my chest. “We’ll make the impossible possible.”

From that moment, running filled me with a sense of purpose, and even the heat of summer didn’t dampen my resolve. I trained as autumn painted the trees orange and red, as winter powdered the city in snow, and as spring prepared the flowers to bloom.

One frosty morning, on a visit to Mrs. Mallard, I discovered her dressed in running clothes.

The marathon is today! “May I borrow these?” I asked politely.

Mrs. Mallard simply stared.

I’ll take that as a yes. I put on her blue hoodie and shiny gold tennies. “Wish me luck!”

I huddled in the bushes near the start line in Hopkinton, tucking my head under my wing and sitting so my down covered my feet. A loud bang punctured the air, then people raced past.

I waited for my chance to slip into the middle of a group. The runners were focused and didn’t seem to notice my presence. I set my mind on the goal.

Time sped by as I concentrated on rhythmic breathing. When I looked up, I spotted the Natick Center spire in the distance. Unfortunately, I also spotted two race officials approaching. My heart pounded. Will they arrest me? Or just kick me off the course? I quacked as quickly as I could, explaining the importance of finishing this race, but they only stared with blank expressions.

A runner with dark hair stopped. “I’m Karen. What’s all the commotion, fellas?”

“This little duck’s goin’ quackers!” The bald official scowled. “She’s a chatterbox.”

“Let’s call her Gabby then,” Karen smiled.

I looked up at her, my eyes pleading.

Karen arched a brow. “I don’t speak Mallard, gentlemen, but I know that look. This little lady wants to run.” Karen tilted her head. “Anything in the rule book saying a duck can’t run the Boston Marathon?”

“Actually”—the white-haired official twiddled his bushy mustache—“there isn’t.” He tipped his hat. “Sorry for the hold up, ma’am.” He stretched out his hand, welcoming me onto the course. “Everyone, make way for Gabby!”

“Good luck!” Karen jogged away.

I rejoined the race, a new spring in my step. Running through the tumultuous echoes of Scream Tunnel at Wellesly College galvanized me even further. But that excitement wore off halfway up Heartbreak Hill where I learned how it got its name. Through sheer determination, the blue-and-gold final stretch welcomed me six miles later. I floated across the finish line as Roxi waddled my way.

Sara flapped her wings so hard, her feet lifted off the ground. She glowed. “I’m so proud of you, Mom! One day, I’ll fly. Until then… I’ll run!”

“Congratulations!” An elderly woman knelt beside me. “I’m Bobbi. Fifty-seven years ago, I became the first woman to ever run the Boston Marathon. And you… are the first duck. We ran for something bigger than ourselves. I know the obstacles you faced. May I?”

I bowed my head and she placed a blue-and-gold unicorn medal around my neck. My legs wobbled.

“Today, you made history. Today”—she winked—“you made the impossible possible.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Bainbridge is a Christian, wife, and mother who enjoys running, traveling, writing short stories, and cookies. She is thankful to her friends and family for their encouragement. She dedicates this story to author McCloskey (Make Way For Ducklings); artist Schön (Make Way For Ducklings bronze sculpture); friends Roxi, Karen, and Sara, whom she congratulated at the Boston Marathon finish line; and Bobbi Gibb, the first woman to run it, changing the future of women’s sports forever.

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