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One link, sent before the start. Your crew watches you move and talks to you. You hear them hands free and answer back. It all catches up when you find signal.
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You want your people with you and your hands on your poles. See the runner's side.
You are driving to the few places the race lets you meet them. See the crewing side.
You just want to know they are okay. See it from home.
This lets your crew see you live while you're running out on trail.
That is what ultra running tracking means here: your people see where you were and when, and you never stop moving to make it happen. You start a session in the NavRun app before the gun goes. It makes a link. You send that link to whoever you want: your partner, the person driving your gear, your work group chat, your mum. They open it in a browser. No app and no account.
Your phone saves one position about every 25 minutes, with the screen off and the phone in your pocket. When there is no service it keeps every fix on the phone and sends the lot the moment you crest into a bar of signal. Nothing is thrown away. It arrives late.
Messages come the other way. You open NavRun, tap a message, and it plays. It keeps playing with the screen off, so the phone goes back in your pocket and you carry on moving. Nothing to read and nothing to type. You answer with a voice message of your own, up to a minute, and it goes up the next time you have signal.
New to ultras and wondering whether this is a safety thing? It is not a safety device and nobody should carry it as one. What it does is take the mystery out of a long quiet stretch: your people can see where you were and when, in plain words, so four hours of nothing reads as the ordinary state of a mountain rather than a scare. Your phone keeps writing down where you have been while it is out of service, and the whole record catches up the moment you find a bar. It needs cell service, it is not a satellite beacon, and it does not replace the gear your race makes you carry.
The people at home are not only listening. Being able to send something back is what turns waiting into helping, and because everyone holding the link hears everyone else, it stops being one person talking into the dark.
The night is still the night. You just do not go through it quiet.
This lets you see your runner whenever they have signal, and send them voice messages.
You are crewing, which means driving to the few places the race lets you meet your runner, with their food and their kit ready when they get there. Crewing is arithmetic and waiting. You are at the next aid station, one of the stops on the course with water, food and people, working out when your runner will come in. You are guessing, because the last thing you knew was four hours ago at the last place the race let you reach them.
The link gives you their last known position and how old it is, in plain words. Seen 20 minutes ago. Seen about 2 hours ago. Their phone saves one position about every 25 minutes, so even on a good stretch the newest thing you have is a little while old. It never turns quiet into an alarm, because quiet is the ordinary state of a mountain.
Cell service is the limit here, and it is the limit on every tracking page on every course. You need a connection to open the page and your runner needs one to send. Sitting at an aid station with no bars, you will see nothing new until one of you moves back into coverage.
You can talk back. Record up to a minute in the browser, put your name on it, and it lands on their phone the next time they have signal. Everyone holding the link hears everything, your runner included. It is one room, not a stack of private messages.
Some people call it dot watching: sitting with a map open, watching a dot that is somebody you love. There is no scoreboard on this page and no place in the field. Where they were, and how long ago.
You are not out there. You are at home, and the last thing you heard was hours ago.
One thing worth knowing before race day: on most mountain courses their phone is out of service for hours at a time. That is the normal state of the course, not a sign that anything is wrong.
What the link gives you is the last position their phone managed to send, and a plain sentence saying how old it is. Seen about 2 hours ago. No red numbers. No alert. Nothing that turns a quiet stretch into a scare.
And you can send them something. Record a message, say your name, say what you would say if you were standing at the next stop. They hear your voice, in the dark, hours later. You stop waiting and start helping.
You do not need the app. You do not need an account. What you need is the link they send you and a browser. Whether it is their first 100 miler or their tenth, it is the same link and the same page.
Out of service, your phone still takes a position and writes it to its own storage. It throws nothing away while it waits.
One bar on a ridge, one aid station in sight of a tower, and the whole backlog goes up at once.
The people holding your link watch the gap fill in behind you, and the voices that were waiting land whenever your phone finds signal.
Make an account, put the app on your phone, and start a session at the trailhead. The people you send the link to need nothing at all.
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