The Jacket I Didn't Want

I didn't want the fucking jacket...

My crew tried to hand it to me before I headed up the climb, and I told them no. They handed it back. I told them no again. Back and forth, back and forth, standing there arguing about a jacket while the clock kept ticking at my first 100-miler, Badger Mountain Challenge. I didn't want the fucking jacket.

They didn't care what I wanted. They shoved it in my pack anyway.

I climbed that hill... pissed off. It was brutal... long, relentless, the kind that breaks your rhythm and makes you question every decision that got you there. I got to the top and it started pouring. Not a light mist, real rain, the kind that soaks through everything in minutes. A few hours later the rain stopped, but the temperature dropped, and freezing fog rolled in so thick I could barely see the trail in front of me. I was cold in a way that scares you, the kind of cold where your thinking gets slow and fuzzy and you stop trusting your own judgment.

I put on the jacket...

I don't know what that stretch looks like for me without it. I don't want to know. Somewhere on top of that mountain, in fog I couldn't see through, a jacket I fought my own crew about was the difference between a bad night and a genuinely dangerous one. They saw something coming that I couldn't, or wouldn't, and they made the call for me. That's what a crew actually is. Not people who hand you snacks and cheer. People who override you when you're too deep in the race to make good decisions for yourself anymore.

I made it up, over, and down that hill. It was horrible. I survived it. I kept moving.

Fifteen Miles Later, Everything Flipped

Fast forward to the last fifteen miles of that same race. The sun was coming up. I was closing in on the 24-hour mark, close enough to the finish that I could feel it. I shed every layer I had. It felt like the worst was behind me.

Then, out of nowhere, the temperature dropped again and it started pouring.

I had a pacer with me at that point, and he didn't hesitate. He gave me his jacket. His only jacket, some thin, shell that wasn't built to actually keep anyone warm in real rain. He gave it to me anyway. He kept next to nothing on himself, fifteen miles out from a finish line, in the same rain, the same cold, with nothing between him and the fucking elements. He put my ability to finish ahead of his own comfort, maybe ahead of his own safety, without even really thinking about it.

That's the other half of what a pacer is. It's not just company on the trail, and it's not just someone keeping your legs moving. It's someone who will hand over the literal shirt off his back at mile 85 without blinking, because at that point your finish matters more to him than his own safety.

What This Actually Means

I fought my crew about a jacket I didn't think I needed, and it kept me alive on top of a mountain in the fog. Twenty miles later, my pacer gave up his only protection from the same weather so I could keep going. Two different people, two different moments, same race, same decision underneath both of them: your wellbeing over mine, whether you like it or not.

That's what a crew and a pacer actually do for you. It's not logistics. It's not just cheering you on at aid stations. It's people who care more about you finishing, and finishing safely, than you do in that moment, because they know you're not making good calls anymore and someone has to.

I survived that race... I finished that race... because the people that were there to keep me going. To keep me alive... That, is what a crew does.

Beyond the Buckle provides race-day crewing, pacing, and pre-race coaching for ultra marathon runners. [Learn more about our packages →]