by Usain Bolt
The minutes ticked by, the final got closer, and Asafa, who had a reputation for nerves, was getting edgy. There was a lot of pressure on him. Although he was one of the world’s great sprinters and held the 100m record for three years before me, he had never won a major title and some commentators were hinting that he lacked mental strength.
I genuinely felt for him and wanted to help loosen him up. This was a fellow Jamaican and a friend I admired, and he chilled a little as we had a laugh with the other three Caribbean competitors in the final, another Jamaican, Michael Frater, and two guys from Trinidad, Marc Burns and Richard Thompson.
Then it was time for business. We made the walk out to the track and I was happy and relaxed, taking it all in, thinking about different kinds of stuff like video games, and what I was going to do after the championships. I felt calm – there was no fear. If I got a reasonable start I was going to be OK, I would win. I took a look at the finish line and settled down into the blocks.
I WAS STILL
LOOKING TO MY
RIGHT AS I THUMPED
MY CHEST AND
CROSSED THE LINE
Bang! The moment the gun went I checked out my rivals as I popped the blocks, glancing left and right to see whether they’d got out before me. It was just a quick scan of the area as I made the first step in lane four, but Thompson and Walter Dix had got away quickest, blocking my view of Asafa who was in lane seven. My reaction time was seventh quickest of the eight finalists, but as I completed my first stride I was right up there with everyone else, and by the second step I was ahead and thinking, “Got it.” I stumbled slightly on my fifth step, which stopped me looking across again, but once I got into my drive phase, I was moving well. By 55 meters I was going away from the pack, and by 85 meters I knew for certain I’d won it. Nobody was going to pass me now. The only person who was even close to running the times I’d been doing was Asafa, and I couldn’t see him on my right.
I wasn’t thinking world records, just feeling the sheer happiness of winning that gold medal. I eased up, stretched out my arms and was still looking to my right as I thumped my chest and crossed the line. I didn’t see the clock – or notice that my lace had come loose and I could have tripped over.
The spectators were on their feet, flash bulbs exploded round the stadium and, on my lap of honor, I pointed both arms skywards mimicking the actions of a bolt being fired. It wasn’t a pre-planned action like when I practiced my breakdancing before the world youths, it was totally spontaneous. It was now the signature of the world’s fastest man.
I’m four years older than Usain and we were in and out of each other’s lives when we were kids. I lived with my mom for a while, then moved in with Dad and Jennifer, and then went back to my mom’s, but I would still visit Dad’s every month.
Usain is like all brothers, he can be a pain sometimes. We would argue over games we were playing or what we were watching on TV. He would tease me, saying my belly was too big.
We would race each other up the hill to the shop, but he was faster than me by the time he was in grade five. I’d have to tug his shirt or push him down to win. I was quite into sports, and we had bets on the cricket about who was going to win, and I’d join in with his cricket and soccer games.
Because of Usain’s lack of experience in the 100 meters I bet against my Dad, saying Usain would not win the Olympic 100 meters. I even placed a bet of US $100 against my Dad; so I got the surprise of my life.
I was so sure of the 200 meters win, and all of us in the house agreed he would be the clear winner. I even went as far as to say he would break the 200 meters world record, and that he did. While my dad thought he would win, he did not expect world records...I am still waiting to collect from him.
It was overwhelming to watch, trust me. It was amazing to know it was my little brother out there doing such things. The moment he won the 100 meters, cars came out all over Trelawny and drove round honking their horns. When he won the 200 meters there were even more cars and more noise.
Since Usain won the World Championships and broke the world records again I can honestly say there is nothing I don’t expect from him on the track. Everything is possible. If he ran eight seconds for the 100 meters I wouldn’t be surprised.
It can be good and bad having a famous brother. It has changed my life in that I’m more in the spotlight, which can sometimes be quite nice but not always . You can be out with friends and when people realize you’re Usain’s sister they’ll say, “Give me money.” When I say I don’t have much money, they’ll go, “But you’re the sister of the fastest man in the world, you must have money.”
Usain is a good brother. My five-year-old daughter Sherunda worships him and he spoils her. Everywhere she goes she tells people, “Usain Bolt is my uncle.” She’s a female version of Usain. She’s going to be an athlete just like him.
I HAD NO IDEA I’D BROKEN THE world record. How could I have broken it? I was slowing down long before the finish and wasn’t tired at all. I could have gone back to the start and done it all over again.
I ran round the track looking for Mom and Mr. Peart. They had told me they would be on the back straight, but I didn’t know where exactly, and it was only when they called out “VJ!” that I was able to find them. Dad hadn’t come, because he didn’t like long-haul flights, but Mom had fought her way down to the front. I gave her a big hug while Mr. Peart was slapping me on the back, and then some other guy squeezed me as hard as he could. I didn’t know who he was and had to wrestle quite hard to get away from him. He must have had a big bet on me.
I didn’t know where Coach Mills was in the stadium, but I knew he would be a happy man. I stopped to celebrate with Marion and Ricky from PACE Sports Management – who were on the home straight. I could tell by then that everyone was proud of my achievement.
Only when I’d got right round the Bird’s Nest and back to the finish line did I realize the time was 9.69 seconds, beating my previous world record by three hundredths. All the photographers were knocking each other over wanting a picture of me and the clock and shouting, “It’s a record, it’s a record.” For me the Olympics had been about winning, nothing else, but to do it in record time was special.
Michael Johnson, who was commentating for the BBC in Britain, was saying that Michael Phelps, the swimmer who won eight gold medals in Beijing the previous week, was now “Michael who?” because what I’d done was greater. I didn’t see it like that. I wasn’t competing with Phelps for superstardom. What he did was phenomenal and deserved to stand separately in its own right.
I did all the media afterwards which took me forever. I stopped for everybody, knowing how important this was for the broadcasters. There was no avoiding a camera or a microphone. There were TV guys on three levels, with six cameras on each level, and I had to spend a few minutes with each. Then there were the radio people on the top level, and others further outside. I did nearly an hour of that, then had to go and see the newspaper guys, so it probably took me about an hour and a half in all.
Everyone asked what time I could have run if I hadn’t slowed down. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know. What did it matter anyway? I’d won the gold medal.
The evening was still not over. There was compulsory drug testing, and producing a sample took some doing, I can tell you. I must have been there over an hour. The rules require that a chaperone stays with you from the race finish to the moment you produce the sample. It’s a strange job but someone has to do it, and I’d got used to that sort of unusual attention, having become the most tested athlete in history, in my view.
Some of the testers really watch you closely, and when you first go through it, it is really uncomfortable having a guy staring while you are trying to pee. To prove you aren’t up to any tricks you have to lift your shirt right up, and some want you to pull your pants down too. It’s a bit weird, not great fun.
Ricky and I were alone for the drug testing, Coach had gone, and all the lights were off. They
had to get us a car because the shuttle buses had stopped too. It was a surreal end to it all from the euphoria in the stadium to total quiet.
By the time my post-race duties were done it was well after midnight and the stadium was closed up as I headed back to the village. Before that I stopped by Ricky’s apartment where Mom, Mizicann and Mr. Peart were staying. Ricky had a big grin on his face the whole evening: his phone was ringing off the hook with people calling to congratulate me and the media looking to set up interviews. On the way home we called Dad and NJ in Jamaica, who filled me in on the celebrations that were going on back home.
As soon as I got back to the village the first thing I did was to get some chicken nuggets down me. What else? I was starving. It must have been one in the morning and there was hardly anyone in the restaurant either, so I took my nuggets back to my room. Coach Mills and my masseur Eddie were there. After all, the hard work had paid off. I was then joking with Coach about some things I could do to improve on my race. Celebrations were happening all around. I was happy, though, to have the people around me who work so hard to support me in what I do.
The Jamaicans who weren’t competing were waiting to congratulate me. Then I saw Maurice, who had stayed up to say “well done” and immediately got his camera out to do an interview with me. I went to sleep a very contented man.
The medal presentation was not until late evening the next day and there was nothing else to do except put my feet up. I saw the race replayed on TV, but couldn’t get it on the internet because YouTube seemed to be blocked. My teammates were asking how come I could slow down so much and still win, which is what the TV interviewers had been saying too.
It was pretty amazing to have done that and still set a world record, and when I watched it again even I was surprised how far out I’d eased up. I heard people accusing me of disrespect to my rivals, and I thought, “Oh shit, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” It wasn’t on purpose, and never for a moment did I mean it as an insult to my fellow athletes, but the excitement of knowing I was going to win had taken me over.
The head of the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge, told the press, ‘That’s not the way we perceive being a champion,’ and that I should have shown more respect. My behavior was becoming a bigger story than the victory, so I asked a few of the guys from the race what they thought. They said “No, man, it’s fine, you won, you were happy, do whatever you want,” which made me feel better. If it was OK by them, what did it matter what anyone else thought?
The medal presentation was brilliant. The stadium was packed and the cheers from the spectators were deafening. As the Jamaican flag was raised and the national anthem, “Land We Love”, played, I was singing and smiling about the fact that the guys were willing me to turn the tears on when I got on that podium.
There was no danger. I’m not emotional that way. Of course, I wasn’t finished with the Olympics, far from it. It was straight back to work with the heats of the 200 meters the following morning. I felt fresh, not drained at all by the 100m experience. I’d been running the fastest 200m times by far in the lead-up to the Games; there was no Tyson because of his injury; and I was confident that my motto “Once I beat you, you will not beat me again” would ensure I held off any challenge by Wallace Spearmon.
I was second in my heat behind a Trinidad guy called Rondell Sorrillo who was busting his chops to beat me. There was no point taking him on, it meant more to him than me and, as it turned out, he didn’t even make it through to the semis.
I won my quarter-final with little difficulty, then qualified fastest for the final, running 20.09 in what was a strong semi ahead of the US pair of Shawn Crawford and Wallace.
In truth I was more confident of winning the 200 meters than I had been in the 100, though by now I was beginning to feel the effects of the week. When the media asked about the prospects of me breaking another world record, I said, “No, I’m just going to take it easy.” My energy was sapped.
To my amazement, the next morning I felt totally refreshed and told Maurice I would run my heart out, give it everything and see what happened. There would be no slowing down in the last 20 meters, it would be full out to the line, not because of the criticism I’d had but because I felt good enough to have a shot at the record.
This was no ordinary record. Michael Johnson had set his 200m mark of 19.32 seconds at the 1996 Games in Atlanta. It had stood for so long that many had thought it unbeatable, including me. Johnson was the man in the 200, the number one athlete I looked up to in an event which had always been my main goal. The 100 meters was for fun, the 200 meters was my job.
I had lane five, so there would be no tight bend, and I was so relaxed I did a few of my new Bolt signature moves while my name was being announced. All I had to do was get away smoothly, which I did, and coming off the corner I was well clear. Now it was all about pushing to get that record. I hadn’t been bothered about getting the 100m record, just the gold medal, but I wanted this record. As I powered over the line I looked straight at the clock and knew it was mine —19.30.
Johnson had said on TV that he thought I wouldn’t be able to break the record. He didn’t think I had the endurance to sustain my speed to the line, but afterwards he called me Superman II and praised my start, which was especially pleasing.
I didn’t know what to do to celebrate. I was going to whip my shirt off, but you’re not allowed to do that. So, after lying flat on the track to get my breath for a second, I got up and did a few dances, then answered the call to “do that Lightning Bolt thing”. Oh yes, Lightning had struck twice.
Winning the 200 meters and breaking the record was better than the 100, because all the time I was growing up I never thought it possible. A lot of guys coming out of the States were capable of running 19.7 and 19.6, which I had done too, and it seemed to be the barrier no one could get below. But that day, at that moment, it clicked with me. The track was fast, I was in the best shape of my life, and my mind told me to go out there and leave everything on the track. Unlike in the 100, I’d had to dig deep, very deep, and was absolutely dead afterwards.
I recovered for the presentation the following day – and it didn’t get much better than that. I was on top of the podium with the Jamaican flag fluttering, it was my 22nd birthday and 91,000 people were singing “Happy Birthday” in English. What an experience that was!
The heats of the 4x100 meters were the same day, and I watched as Jamaica qualified, having been given the luxury of sitting it out until the final. Then the big question was whether the relay would produce my third world record. I doubted it, not because I didn’t believe in my teammates – it was me I wasn’t sure about.
I was on the third leg to run the corner, but the baton changing was far from perfect and Michael Frater almost ran out of his lane as he handed it on to me. When I do the 4x100, I usually pull away from the others, but not this time. I was tired and just about kept us going, then Asafa slipped as he was moving off, which meant I had to slow down to get the baton to him safely.
But, once Asafa was away, it was a beautiful sight. My favorite picture ever is of Asafa flying and me screaming at him to go hard for the line. I knew nobody was going to beat us, that the record was in sight, and I chased him all the way down the track as we clocked 37.10 and broke the world mark by three tenths of a second. It was party time.
I had to do all the usual interviews and drug tests, but we got out by midnight and headed for a club called China Doll for our big night out. There was only champagne available, no beer, so the fizzy stuff it was. We got the Jamaican beat going, started dancing, and drank Moet almost till the sun came up.
It was about 5.30 a.m. when the cab dropped us back at the village. I could have slept forever, yet no sooner had my head hit the pillow than I had to get up again. There was a press conference scheduled for that morning, and my agent Ricky was pouring Red Bull down my neck to get me back into the land of the living. I wore dark glasses to stop the sun hurting m
y eyes as we made our way to the interview, but once in there the glasses came off and I perked up. Thanks, Ricky.
There was another party that evening hosted by our sponsors, Puma, and it was good to see Dad there enjoying himself. He’d put his fear of flying behind him to come out after Digicel persuaded him and paid for his trip. He still didn’t get to the stadium in time to see the 200m final, but at least he saw the 4x100 meters.
As the night wore on me and my girlfriend Mizicann slipped off to a hotel for a more private celebration. I felt like I’d earned it.
HAVING FILMED MYSELF FLYING INTO BEIJING predicting I’d win three gold medals, it was only right I filmed myself flying out with them hanging round my neck. It was to be my personal proof that what I say is what I do.
What gets me annoyed is that I’ll never see those pictures again, thanks to the idiots who stole my trusty Nokia N95 phone at a party in Kingston. I was driving out of the car park and these guys stopped to ask for my autograph, blocking me in. I thought it weird the way they leaned in through the side window, and as soon as they went something didn’t feel right. When I looked down I realized they’d taken the phone from the compartment in the side door. If anyone reading this knows where that phone is, I’d love to have it back, no questions asked.
I followed my Olympic success by winning over 100 meters in Zurich, which was not bad after a few days’ partying. I then won the 200 meters in Lausanne and a 100m race in Brussels. After that I’d had enough. It was time to go home and see my people.
