The Pace Group – Part 1: The 4:00 Balloon

"Breathe like you're telling a secret," said Idris.

Jonas, at kilometre eight, gasping, glanced across. The man in the yellow vest with the balloon on his back, the four-hour pacer, ran easily at his shoulder. He was thirty-five, lean, brown-skinned, with a shaved head and a smile that seemed to be having a lovely day. The streets of Berlin spread ahead, closed to traffic, filled with thousands of runners, cheered on by crowds with cowbells.

"A secret?"

"In, two, three. Out, two, three. Soft. Like you don't want anyone to know you're tired."

Jonas tried it. It worked, sort of. He was thirty-two, a teacher, running his first marathon after a bad breakup and an unwise promise to a friend. His legs were fine. His head was the problem.

"What's your name?" said Idris.

"Jonas."

"Jonas. Tell me why you're running."

"To prove I can finish something."

"Good reason. Bad reason too. Tell me another."

Jonas thought for three kilometres. Cowbells rang. A band played on a street corner. "To feel," he said at last. "Anything. Other than tired in my own flat."

"Better," said Idris. "Run with me. I'll keep you on pace."

They ran side by side. Idris talked about the course, the trees, the old city, the rhythms of long distance. He had paced marathons for six years, he said, because he liked the people at the back: those who hadn't known if they could. When Jonas hit the wall at thirty, grey-faced, Idris ran so close their arms touched.

"Don't look at the distance. Look at me."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm a balloon."

Jonas laughed, a hiccuping, gasping laugh. The wall cracked. His legs found their rhythm again.

"Can I ask you something?" he panted.

"Yes."

"Do you do this for everyone?"

"No," said Idris, softly. "Only for people who ask me to look at them."

"Green?" said Jonas, a mile marker.

"Green," said Idris. "Very green. Twelve kilometres to go."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Kilometre.