Crew and Pacers

What a crew actually does

Strip away the coolers and the folding chairs and a crew has exactly one core job: make sure you have what you need for the *next* stretch of trail. That means water, calories, and a quick read on what's coming up — the climb, the heat, the miles to the following aid. Jason Koop, who directs coaching at CTS and has crewed elite 100-milers for years, puts the priority starkly: a runner "can forget almost everything else and still get to the next aid station," as long as they leave with fluid and food¹. Everything else a crew does is in service of that.

Counter-intuitively, the more elaborate your crew plan, the worse it tends to work. "The more precise your plan the less likely it is to work," Koop writes — a fatigued runner and a stressed crew can't execute a spreadsheet of exact macros at 2 a.m.¹ Pick a small handful of go-to foods and drinks you know your stomach tolerates, carry a couple of trained-tested alternates for when nothing sounds good, and give the crew general targets (roughly this many calories, roughly this much fluid) rather than a formula to compute on the spot.

The single biggest time leak in a hundred is the runner who sits down. A chair is a trap: it feels like recovery and it costs you minutes that compound across twenty stops. Koop's rule is blunt — "moving forward slowly is almost always better than being completely stationary," and he won't let a runner sit "unless it's necessary. And even in those cases, I will always give athletes a time limit — 'you have 3 minutes.'"¹ Treat that three minutes as a *cap on sitting*, not a target to fill: there's no magic dwell time to hit, and the good crews simply get you in, handled, and back on the trail as fast as the situation allows.

Crews need a chief. When you stagger into an aid station depleted and foggy, the last thing you can handle is three people asking three questions and pushing three different foods at you. Designate one trusted person to meet you, take a fast read of your condition, and direct everyone else. Andy Jones-Wilkins — a ten-time Western States top-ten finisher — keeps it to a phrase: "one only crew chief, one person in charge, no democracy."² Around the chief, it helps to have a logistics person who has worked out the driving, parking, and timing so the crew never misses you, and a communicator who asks the volunteers — nicely — for the information you need².

Give your crew the *why*, not just the lists. They should know your race goal — whether you're chasing a finish, a time, or a placing — so they can make good calls when reality diverges from the plan¹. Koop's framing is needs versus wants: water and calories are needs, and a runner can reach the next aid without anything else; the specific gel flavor, the backup shoes, the second jacket are wants. When a crew knows which is which and what you're racing for, they stop being list-followers and start being useful.

Two more things make crewing smooth. Be where the runner expects you, and be organized — make the runner come to a set spot rather than search a crowded lot, because every second they spend looking for you is a second added to a hundred-mile day³. And know that the responsibility is ultimately yours, not theirs: crews get lost, cars break down, a planned crew point turns out to be inaccessible. "Success is ultimately the runner's responsibility," Koop reminds us — so you must be able to reach the next aid station entirely on your own, every single time¹.

Pacers — when they're allowed

A pacer is someone who runs *with* you, usually over the back half, when a friendly voice and a second set of eyes matter most. But whether you can have one, where they can join, and whether they're allowed to carry anything for you varies enormously from race to race. There is no universal rule — and getting it wrong can cost you a finish — so the single most important thing is to read your specific race's current-year rules.

The broad pattern is that pacers typically join somewhere around halfway to two-thirds of the way in — roughly miles 50 to 65 — but the exact mile and the muling rule (whether a pacer may carry your supplies) are race-specific. Here is how three of the most storied American hundreds handle it; read the current rules for your race, and have your pacer read them too.

• **Western States 100** — One pacer at a time, allowed from Foresthill (mile 62) to the finish; if you leave Michigan Bluff (mile 56) after 8:00 p.m. you may pick one up there. Muling is expressly forbidden: pacers "may not carry water, food, flashlights, shoes, clothing, or other supplies" or give any mechanical or physical assistance. Pacers must be at least 18, register at Pacer Central, and wear a numbered bib matching yours; swaps happen only at designated points.⁴
• **Hardrock 100** — Pacers allowed from Ouray onward, starting only at the crew-access stations (Ouray, Grouse Gulch, Sherman, Cunningham — or Maggie if they hike in). "Muling is not allowed." One pacer at a time. Notably, runners over 60 may be paced for the whole run.⁵
• **Leadville Trail 100** — Pacers allowed beginning at Twin Lakes inbound (mile 62.5); there are no crew, spectators, or pacers at Winfield (mile 50), and on-course crew is limited to two at a time.⁶ Leadville is the well-known exception where muling is permitted — a pacer carrying your food, water, lights, and layers — but treat the muling specifics as widely-reported rather than something to assume: the muling detail is not restated on the official update page above, so confirm it against the current rules before you count on it.

What a pacer is actually for

So what is a pacer actually for? In most ultras, as coach and pro ultrarunner Corrine Malcolm explains, pacers are "simply there for accompaniment and safety of the runner" and generally can't carry supplies — Leadville being the exception⁷. The real value is psychological, and it lands hardest in the back half. "Any pacer worth their salt knows the job of navigating a runner's emotional needs and psychological state in the back half of a long race can have a profoundly positive impact on a racer's day," Malcolm writes⁷.

Think of a good pacer as a force-multiplier, not a crutch. Malcolm points to research on pace-setters: running with a companion reduces "the mental effort required to both set and monitor a difficult-to-maintain pace," keeps you focused outward instead of trapped in your own discomfort, and in one study runners "thought they had run faster and felt the effort was easier when running with a pacesetter than while running solo." Group runners held steadier emotional states through hard efforts that solo runners experienced as steadily more negative, at the same perceived exertion⁷. Honesty matters here, though: Malcolm is candid that "no research I'm aware of has been done on the effect of pacers on ultramarathon performance" — the case is built on adjacent science, not proof from the trail. So a strong pacer very plausibly pulls the best out of you, but treat the performance edge as well-reasoned rather than demonstrated.

Choose a pacer the way Jones-Wilkins suggests: someone who knows you and "is not afraid to practice a little tough love," who is emotionally resilient (runners say things at mile 80 they don't mean — discretion runs both ways), and who is composed and willing to go with the flow when the plan changes². A pacer who can be calm while you fall apart, and firm while you want to quit, is worth more than a faster one.

Aid-station choreography and drop bags

Aid stations are where time quietly evaporates. CTS frames the whole skill as efficiency — "get in, get out and on your way without wasting time" — and warns specifically against using the station for a lift and then lingering: the boost is real, but so is the cost of sticking around too long³. The fix isn't to rush; it's to remove decisions from the moment you arrive.

Do your thinking before you get there. About ten to twenty minutes out from a station, run a simple mental checklist: how much fluid and how many calories you've taken in, the air temperature, how your feet are doing, and anything that needs handling at the next stop. CTS suggests a tiny physical memory aid — move a rubber band across your fingers to count the tasks waiting for you at the upcoming aid³. By the time you arrive, you already know exactly what you're doing and in what order.

Pre-decide each segment so the trail itself requires no decisions. Elite ultrarunner Alex Nichols plans each inter-station leg in advance so that "the only thing I need to worry about between aid stations is sticking to the plan — and running" — because late in a hundred, fatigue and poor judgment are guaranteed, and a decision made fresh that morning is far better than one made depleted at midnight⁸. Notably, Nichols doesn't treat the station as a stopwatch-driven pit stop — he uses it as a checkpoint to take stock and rebuild confidence. There's no contradiction with Koop's keep-moving discipline: plan ruthlessly so you can move efficiently. The enemy isn't the aid station — it's unplanned dithering once you're standing in it.

Drop bags are your crew when no crew is there. Bri Boley of CTS lays out the system: a waterproof bag, clearly labeled with your name, bib, and the aid-station name, packed with food and drinks for the *next* section, spare socks, a battery, chafe lube, weather-appropriate gear, and — this is the part people skip — written instructions to yourself⁹. A note in your own handwriting ("eat something, take your salt, change your socks, you're doing fine") cuts through the fog far better than your own mid-race judgment will. Pack spares of everything that can fail: a light, batteries, socks, lube, a layer. Crew bins follow the same logic — labeled ziplocks by aid station, spare food and drinks, first aid, extra clothing, written crew instructions⁹.

Boley's full race-day kit, organized into five categories, is the cleanest packing spine to build a crew bin and drop bags from⁹:

• **Hydration** — vest, belt, or handhelds; bottles and/or a bladder; a water filter (BeFree, Aquamira) if you'll refill from streams; electrolytes.
• **Nutrition** — gels, chews, and drink mix, plus real food (bars, potatoes, candy, cookies, sandwiches, ramen, fruit); ginger chews or ginger ale for nausea; Tums, Emetrol, or Imodium for GI trouble. A starting carbohydrate target of 60–90 g/hour.
• **Lights and power** — a primary headlamp (300–800 lumens for the overnight), a compact backup headlamp (100–300 lumens), spare batteries or charging, and a power bank with cables.
• **Clothing** — for cold: base layer, wind shell, insulated jacket, pants, gloves, warm hat or buff; for heat: ice bandana, cooling sleeves, breathable layers; always: wicking socks (never cotton), shorts or tights, shirt, hat or visor, sunglasses, sunscreen.
• **Foot kit** — two pairs of trail shoes (consider a half-size larger for 100-plus miles, as feet swell), wicking socks, a pre-tested blister kit, Leukotape or KT tape, anti-chafe cream, and gaiters if the course warrants.

Rehearse it in training

Everything above is a skill, and skills practiced for the first time on race day fail on race day. The hand-off, the cup, the bag — none of it should be improvised when you're depleted at mile 70.

Practice the mechanics on training runs. Run a couple of mock aid-station hand-offs with whoever will crew you, so the choreography — what they hand you, where you refill, how you call out what you need — is automatic rather than negotiated. Practice drinking from a cup while running, which is harder than it sounds and is exactly the kind of small thing that spills time and calories when you meet it cold. And dial in the routine itself: your aid-station checklist, your drop-bag organization, and your fueling plan should all be trained, not invented. CTS anchors race-day execution to "your nutrition and hydration strategies dialed from your pre-race training" — what you rehearse is what you'll be able to do when your brain is offline³.

Leave no loose ends before race morning. Walk the crew through where they need to be, what they need to do, and what they should have ready for you at each stop — and ask them to time you, so you're up and moving again inside your planned window rather than melting into a chair. The work you do here is the difference between a crew that smooths your race and one that adds friction to it.

Running it without a crew

Plenty of people finish hundreds with no crew at all, on drop bags and aid-station support alone — and going crewless has real upsides. Bryon Powell of iRunFar, author of *Relentless Forward Progress*, notes that without the logistics of a crew you can "be part of the race experience without barriers," connect with the volunteers, and lean into the solitude, the control, and the heightened sense of having done it yourself¹⁰. Self-reliance isn't a consolation prize; for many runners it's the better experience.

Your drop bags do the crew's job, so pack them like it. Stock each one with what you need for the next section, and add notes to yourself in place of a crew's voice — a few words of encouragement and a short to-do list (take your medication, eat something, change your socks). That written prompt is the thing that nudges you when there's no one standing there to do it — the same "written instructions" Boley builds into every drop bag⁹.

Without a safety net, be more proactive. Powell's framing is direct: "you'll want to be even more proactive in avoiding fantastic failure if you're flying solo" — catch problems while they're still small, before they cascade¹⁰. When he cramped hard fourteen hours into a long solo effort, he didn't panic or quit: he rested, hydrated, took in salty and sugary food, and kept going, on the principle that "it never always gets worse"¹⁰. A bad patch in a hundred is information, not a verdict — solo runners especially have to learn to outlast their own low points.

The deeper point is that the self-sufficiency a solo runner needs is something *every* hundred-miler needs. Crews fail too — they get lost, their car dies, they miss a station. So whether you're fully crewed or entirely on your own, the non-negotiable is the same: you must always be able to get yourself to the next aid station, on what you're carrying, with the head you've got¹.