You pull up in your jeep, tires spinning in the deep mud. It's 3am, raven-black outside, and, if you've read the foreign maps correctly, you are in the right place.

A crusty looking, fleece-clad young man who speaks only French assures you that "Oui," this is the spot. Other than that, he has no information for you. You and your partner move quickly, clapping your hands together in the frigid air to combat the numbness.

Your headlamps bobbing, you set up two tents, hang tarps from the vehicle for more shelter, stake tarps out for a makeshift floor. One of you readies a separate duffle in each corner of the tarp floor, gear bags brimming with caving equipment, cycling shoes, crampons and Gore-Tex outerwear. Another begins cooking, heating up soups and stews and boiling water for tea. You've powered through this ritual in less than ½ hour, and now you wait.

Your eye lids close, your head nods, chin to chest, as you dose off. Dawn yawns you awake, and you hear activity around the campsite. Here they come.

Backlit by the rising sun, four figures emerge as if from a dream like a mirage, and instantly they are upon you, tossing off packs and trekking poles, slipping out of torn Lycra and stream-soaked Capilene. They don't talk much, just tell you they are fine, remind you of what they need. They've had less sleep than you have — two hours in the last 24. Within minutes they have pounded pasta and soup, slurping noodles while they change into the dry clothes. Discarded socks reveal bludgeoned feet, blistered and swollen. They grab the next required gear, confirm the new maps are correct, and the next thing you know you see their backs hiking away into the new morning. And then they are gone.

You look down at the pile of strewn garments and gear, the mud-caked socks, and for a moment you think about resting—it's half a day to the next check point. "You wash the socks, I'll do the dishes," you hear, and you are snapped to action. Back to work. This isn't competitive speed camping, though it looks and feels like it. You are lucky enough to have landed a gig as a support crew member for an adventure racing team, and you are having a week-long adventure of your own, a guaranteed weight loss and sleep-deprivation plan...

Behind every successful adventure racing team is another team, the support or assistance crew. These days, full-length expedition-style adventure racers are for the most part assisted or supported races; race teams have a crew (usually two or three) who are responsible for their gear, food, maps—every last detail that will allow the team to make a fast transition, be organized, cared for with minor medical assistance, and properly fueled. The support crews must navigate their way (usually by van or 4X4) to designated check points or transition areas before the team arrives. Once there, they prepare food, set up tents, organize gear, and ready maps for the next section of the race.

There are literally hundreds of tiny details to account for, and often very little time to do the work. Couple these responsibilities with foul weather, sketchy communication (it is often very difficult to estimate when your team will arrive—it could be in fifteen minutes, it could be 8 hours), and you have the recipe for stressful, sleepless nights, frayed nerves, hands and fingers worn raw.

Often, too, teams blow in and out of transition areas within an hour, so a site that has been elaborately set up becomes a heap of cookware, mud-soaked and discarded clothes, crampons and ice axes and Gore-Tex garments strewn, stuffed in bags, and left to be dealt with. Teams hoof away, onto the next check point, and the support crew is left to clean, repack, and sort all the items, then get ready for what the racers will require at the next checkpoint. If the next discipline is sea kayaking, all the boats must be rigged and all the paddles ready; if it's mountain bikes, each bike must be meticulously cared for, bottles filled and placed in cages, hydration systems filled with specific mixtures, headlamp and handlebar lamps set up with new batteries—it becomes an expedition in the truest sense, one with the clock ticking. In this year's Elf Authentic Adventure in the Philippines, support crews were even responsible for putting together and rigging the sails on native trimarans, boats that none of them had ever seen before.

Cathy Sassin, one of the world's best and most experienced adventure racers, has also worked as a support crew member, as recently as last year's Southern Traverse. She says, "I would much prefer to race than be a support crew—racing is easier!"

While this sounds ludicrous when you understand the demands on adventure racers, there is a good deal of validity to the statement. Support crews experience their own race within the race during a week-long event, enduring stress, sleep deprivation, disorientation, and all the highs and lows that their team encounters. According to Sassin, "good support crew members have the same kinds of qualities and characteristics that good racers have—patience, organizational skills, the ability to deal with a lot of discomfort, and a total belief that the team comes first, before everything else for the span of the race."

All the major races except the Eco-Challenge are supported races, so these are the norm now, and good support teams are highly regarded by racers, and highly sought after. Who does it? Usually fans of adventure racing, or racers themselves who are in training or between races. Friends and family of racers are likely candidates. Support jobs offer great opportunities for travel to exotic locales, and they are excellent networking opportunities for those looking to get involved in the sport. But it is painstaking work, and doesn't always go so smoothly.

Danelle Folta, team manager for Team Playmate Extreme, had a nightmare experience at this year's Beast of the East in Virginia. Just about everything that can go wrong did for her team, solo racer Blain Reeves. At one of the first transition areas, going from rappel to bikes, Folta and her support partner were pressed for time, parking hurriedly near the side of the road. A police officer told Folta to move the car or he would issue her a ticket, and because of a miscommunication, her partner placed Reeves' bike in long grass in front of the car. Stressed out, with people yelling at her, Folta ran over Reeves' bike.

Support crews are notoriously good to one another, bonded as they are by a shared mission, and at The Beast of the East crews from other teams rallied to help, providing Reeves with a replacement bike for this section of the race. Off he rode, with Folta left to figure out how to repair the bike—there were other biking sections to come.

Says Folta, "I felt terrible, and took full responsibility for running over his bike. But I knew that I had to get it fixed, because Reeves had his bike set up perfectly with a place for maps, all his water bottles just so. But the nearest shop was an hour and a half away in Roanoke, so we had to hurry."

Bad went to worse. They managed to get the bike repaired, but then made a navigational blunder and arrived at the wrong checkpoint. When Reeves arrived at the designated spot after a 15-mile hike, his crew as not there — and they now had both bikes, his repaired bike and the one a team had given them. Luckily, in the spirit of adventure racing, the same team support crew provided Reeves another bike and he was able to continue.

Despite the difficulties, Reeves managed to finish very well, in a respectable tie for 4th place. Folta says she would support again, but would only do so with someone she knew and trusted and had worked with before. "I would do it, but not with someone I didn't know." She added that the experience, while traumatic, taught her much. "It's the best thing I've ever done as preparation for racing—I learned that you need two of everything, and that items must be extremely well-organized — everything in a particular place every single time." Folta will be racing with Reeves and two other members, likely other Playmates, at next year's The Beast Alaska 2000.

With so much responsibility, mishaps are bound to occur at every race, and some are more catastrophic than others. At this year's Elf Authentic Adventure, the support crew for Team Spie sent them off in their sea kayaks, the first leg of the race, without their needed caving gear. Camie Levy, working for her first time as a support crew, recalls, "It was nearly a disaster. They were ahead, and they waited and waited, and we had sent Rebecca Rusch up the river in a pump boat with the gear. Luckily, another team gave their caving stuff to Spie, and they were able to proceed. Rebecca gave that team our gear when she arrived." Things worked out, and Spie arrived the eventual winners.

Camie Levy pointed to the ongoing pressure for the 10 days of the race, stating that "there was never any down time. It rained constantly, and was exceptionally tough from a logistical standpoint. I pushed my own personal limits during that race, definitely."

Rolf Dengler is an experienced support crew member who works with Team Schwab (Charles Schwab). He has done the Raid Gauloises in Ecuador, the Elf Authentic Adventure in the Philippines, and The Beast in Virginia. Dengler notes that crewing in a foreign country adds another level of difficulty.

"It's hard enough to navigate," says Dengler, "but when you throw in language barriers, monetary confusion, and poorly marked, poorly maintained roads, it's a new set of problems to overcome. The support crew is absolutely integral to the success of a team. It doesn't matter how good a race team is if they have a disorganized support crew—the whole dynamic of the team breaks down."

Television and print media document the races and the racers, glorifying the toil and hardship of those teams that manage to finish expedition adventure races. Unseen are the support crews, every bit as important, serving as medics, cheerleaders, psychologists, laundry service, and catering companies on wheels. Support crews share the joys of victory and the anguish of defeat, consoling members who can't go on and high-fiving, backslapping those who can.

So next time you see Team Salomon Eco-Internet, Spie Battignoles, and all the other teams crossing the finish line of a major race, consider the teams behind the teams, the gallant, unsung support crews that nurtured them along the way. Rightfully, they should be the ones popping the champagne bottles.