Lea knew Nikola by his back. Every Sunday he ran a few steps ahead of her in the same faded shirt and never turned around. In their recreational running club he was known as the man who said results did not matter, then immediately checked his watch. Lea did not believe him. She was no better; she simply hid her watch beneath her sleeve.
At the spring race around the lake she decided to finish ahead of him at last. She was thirty-two, worked in insurance, and had many neatly scheduled worries. Running was the only place where success could fit into a few numbers. At the start Nikola asked whether she had slept well. She said she would tell him at the finish, while waiting for him.
On the second lap her shoelace snapped. She stopped beside the path and tried to knot two ends that were too short. Nikola passed her, then returned. He pulled a spare lace from his pocket. Lea laughed: who ran with a spare shoelace? He said he worked with children at a sports center and the entire world could stop over a little thing the adults had forgotten to bring.
While she repaired her shoe, the fastest runners began the third lap. Nikola suggested continuing together. Lea immediately said she did not need an escort. He shrugged and set off more slowly than usual. She caught up after a few steps and first noticed a slight limp. It was not an injury. All morning he had carried a pebble in his shoe because he did not want to lose time.
She sat on the grass and laughed. "The genius with the spare lace." Nikola finally removed his shoe. They both looked at the tiny pebble in his palm, surprised by how much power they had given it. They continued without timing themselves. They discussed his younger sister, her unfinished photograph collection, and why adults so easily become their own strict coaches.
At the finish almost everyone was already eating bananas. Lea was disappointed with her result and did not pretend otherwise. Nikola admitted he was too. Then he invited her for pancakes, pointing out that it was not a consolation prize. She agreed because she had liked him sitting barefoot beside the path more than during all those Sundays of confident running.
In summer they competed again. Sometimes she won, sometimes he did. One Sunday Lea deliberately left her watch at home. Nikola had not forgotten his, but turned it to the inside of his wrist. They ran to the lake, then walked the final lap. On a bench she opened the photograph album she had finally completed. The first picture showed his palm with the pebble, blurred and entirely good enough.