By Paul Adams, MTI Contributor
As the miles stretched on and darkness settled over Orcas Island in Washington state, I felt the weight of the night’s task pressing on me. The 100-mile race was halfway over, and my friend GK was counting on me. My role was simple yet profound: keep him moving forward, no matter what. The reality of pacing—being a guide, motivator, medic, and quiet companion—was far more rewarding than I’d anticipated. Focusing externally is sometimes the best method to truly commit to something.
This experience was quite different from pacing another friend through her own 100-mile trail race. She asked me months prior and followed up with a detailed itinerary for the entire weekend. I showed up with five of our other friends and we all rotated seamlessly through the plan. The entire weekend was mapped out so precisely that I just needed to show up, fall into line, and start running with her.
Pacing GK was a complete contrast. All we had was a handshake agreement over beers: I’d join him through the night. That was it. No crew, no specific plan, just two friends committed to moving forward. GK was reluctant to even bring it up, not wanting to burden anyone, but I knew this was about more than just showing up. He had casually mentioned that he didn’t have a crew the weekend prior to the race. Knowing he’d do the same for me, I told him I’d be there that weekend, that I’d run with him through the night.
After driving several hours, taking a ferry, and dropping my bags off at an Airbnb late Friday, I went straight to the 50-mile checkpoint to meet him. Sitting by the fire at the aid station, I wondered what the night ahead held for both of us. When he arrived—exhausted but smiling—we quickly refueled and hit the trail.
The quiet enveloped us, broken only by the rhythmic sound of our footsteps and conversation. For GK, pacing started by filling the void with chatter—a way to ease the miles and stave off the isolation that comes with extreme distance. For hours, we talked about everything under the sun, sharing the kind of unfiltered thoughts that only come up in the isolation of a trail at night. As the night wore on, words became less necessary, and we fell into a rhythm. The crisp air grew colder, and weariness settled into every step. At that point in the race my role was mostly to keep the conversation going, give a few gentle reminders to keep eating and drinking, and try and keep things as lighthearted as they could be.
As night creeped into day, I felt a pit in my stomach at the thought of leaving. My “contract” was to see him through the night, but I couldn’t walk away, knowing the hardest miles were still ahead. So, when we sat at an aid station, I asked if he’d mind if I kept going. He nodded, and that was that. Unspoken but understood, we were in it together.
Reflecting on that night reminds me of another experience—a 50-mile trail race I did with a friend in college. In that race we were at different points both physically and mentally, and we decided to go our separate ways. The next five miles I did were easily the most challenging part of the race doing it totally alone. I found him waiting for me at the next aid station, and he said the same thing. He joked with the cliché but true line, “if you want to go far, don’t go alone”. We stuck together for the rest of the race, realizing that having each other’s support, especially in the toughest stretches, was the key to getting through.
As the day wore on, the race transformed into what most imagine a 100-mile ultramarathon to be: racers dropping out, delirium setting in, and things falling apart. Through it all, GK kept his positive attitude and composure, but pacing him became a much more active role than before. I set a timer on my watch to remind us both to drink and eat regularly. At each aid station, I made sure he changed clothes and socks, and I took on the responsibility of anticipating his needs. It wasn’t just running beside a friend anymore—it was coaching. I told him when to eat, when to drink, when to walk, and when to push forward.
The crisp Washington air gave way to bitter cold and rain. The harsh weather added another layer of challenge, forcing us to push through the pain just to stay warm. Despite the discomfort and mounting fatigue, GK never wavered. In the final miles, the finish line came into view. Watching GK cross it, I was overwhelmed with two contrasting emotions: pride and gratitude. I felt immense pride in my friend—for setting an ambitious goal and seeing it through, for the resilience he showed, and for the way he carried himself throughout. At the same time, I was deeply grateful to have been part of his journey—to support him in this monumental effort and to share in such an extraordinary experience.
There is certainly something to be said for completing a race entirely by yourself. Running often centers around individual achievement—personal bests, metrics, and tracking progress. But pacing strips all of that away. It’s a humbling reminder of the communal side of endurance, of what it means to run with and for someone else. When I look back on that race on Orcas Island, I don’t think about the miles or the pace. I remember the camaraderie, the quiet companionship, and the simple yet profound act of helping a friend accomplish something extraordinary. There’s a deep satisfaction in that kind of support—not from medals or records but from knowing you were there.
Paul is a US Army Infantry Officer.