You Don’t Need a Crew or Pacer—But Having One Is Priceless

You don’t need a crew or pacers to run an ultramarathon.

But having one is priceless.

Next year I’ll be running 100 miles without a pacer (they’re not allowed), so in the back of my mind, I’ve been thinking about how to practice being more self-sufficient. But on October 10, when I toed the start line of the Kodiak 100 Miler, I wasn’t ready to be without my crew. I just didn’t know it yet.

One of my lifelong strategies for building empathy is to put myself in someone else’s shoes. I’ve used this skill in many areas of life—especially when Sam and I first started dating and had to learn how to co-parent each other’s children. I use it often now when I’m parenting Nora without her dad, asking myself, “How would Armando have handled this situation?”

After Kodiak, I asked myself a similar question: What would I have done if I were pacing Sam, and he was mentally struggling the way I was?

I don’t think it would have been pretty. I’m a fixer by nature. I want to say the right thing, give the right advice, make things better. But sometimes what people need isn’t advice—it’s someone who will simply be there. And that’s harder than it sounds.

For 49 miles, Sam listened to me complain, watched me cry, and never gave in. Often, he hiked a few steps ahead, probably avoiding eye contact on purpose. His job was simply to be there.

I didn’t want a pep talk. I actually dislike them. During the race, if someone nearby was chatting or laughing with their pacer, I often slowed down or let them pass. I just wanted quiet. I was in a dark space, and I didn’t want the usual lines people reach for in those moments— 

“You’re doing great.” 

“You can do this.” 

“You only have X miles left.” 

“We can walk the rest if we need to.” 

None of it helps when you’re in that place.

In those moments, does anyone really know what they need? I’m not sure I did.

But here’s what made Sam an excellent pacer that day:

• He didn’t give in to my self-doubt.

• He knew my needs better than I did.

• He just kept moving.

He comforted me with a hug when I needed it. He wiped my tears a few times. But then he turned and kept going. He never let me quit, even when I wanted to.

When I told him it didn’t matter anymore, that I didn’t care about the next race, he reminded me that wasn’t a decision I got to make that day. He remembered my own belief better than I did: You don’t get to quit on a hard day.

Not everyone has a pacer like that. Not everyone finishes their race. I’m deeply grateful that I did.

This post is dedicated to Sam—thank you for all you do for me, for the support you show by helping me get to these races, plan the trips, and then being out there on the trails beside me, even when your ankles hurt, making sure I get to the finish line. You’re one of a kind, and I love you.