Berlin runs on extremes, and Biel is one of its secret engines.
On Sundays he disappears into Berghain, not as a reveler but as the man with the mop, scrubbing the cathedral of hedonism back into something resembling order.
His shift stretches past Monday, thousands of steps logged under strobe shadows, a marathon in disguise.
Before and after he trains, adding miles to miles, folding exhaustion into the art of endurance.
He is a painter as much as runner, his canvases and tattoos carrying the same restless energy as his loops around the city.
The art scene knows him as a fixture, a conspirator.
The running scene knows him as a phantom who prefers distance to spectacle.
He speaks of the athletes he met in Kenya, the mad comrades of the Speed Project, where he tried to run from Chamonix to Marseille — a delirious attempt at drawing a new line across Europe with his own body.
In Biel’s world, training is never just training.
It is work, it is ritual, it is creation.
The toilet shifts, the paint-stained nights, the endless kilometers — all of it stacks into one practice, one way of being.
He isn’t chasing sponsorships or medals.
He’s chasing something rawer, something closer to truth.
Running owes him nothing, and yet, somehow, it gives him everything.
