Faster than Lightning

by Usain Bolt

  For me the 200 was The Real Deal, while I saw the 100 metres as a kick, a race for fun. I knew that Coach felt differently, though. He’d wanted me to win in the 100 because he was a man of speed, he’d always been obsessed with how fast an athlete could run. That was cool, I got that, but the 200 metres was my thing and I was focused as hell on getting it.

  As Maurice and me started chatting about something else, laughing hard, I could hear voices coming down the corridor. There was a knock on the door. It was Coach.

  ‘A’ight,’ he said, looking in on the scene. ‘You’ve got the 100, you can go get yours now.’

  We both knew what he was talking about.

  ***

  At first I told Maurice and the guys that it would calm down, that the hype would wear off. Then I figured it would disappear once I’d got home to Jamaica and hidden away for a few weeks. But I was trying to convince myself; I didn’t really know how long the buzz surrounding my 100 metres win would last. It was big, and everywhere I turned, people wanted a piece of me. I couldn’t go out, I couldn’t even leave my room. China had a population of billions, and at times it seemed as if all of them were hanging around the Village, waiting to catch a glimpse of me.

  My trip home on the night of the race had been a taster, but the chaos really started the morning after the 100 metres final, when I got on the bus to go to the athletes’ cafeteria. As soon as I’d left the front door of the Jamaican house, I was mobbed, and I couldn’t get on the bus. Once I’d finally got on board, I could not get off again because so many workers and volunteers wanted to congratulate me. But most of all they wanted autographs. Pages and pages of autographs.

  I thought I’d be free of the hassle once I’d finally got to the restaurant, but when I walked into the seated area, everybody turned around and stared. I guess I was a walking advertisement. A six foot five guy stands out in a big way and there was no hiding place, but I could not handle it. Eating a plate of nuggets while everybody crowded around and asked for autographs was not my idea of fun, so I asked Eddie to grab me a couple of takeaway boxes and I went back to my room, signing bits of paper all the way.

  So this is what it’s like to be a superstar.

  All of a sudden life was a bit more complicated. I couldn’t wander around the Village like I had at the start of the Games, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk around Beijing afterwards without causing a near riot. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t complaining. No nightclub bouncer in the world was going to turn me away from his door for wearing sneakers now, but I had been caught off guard and I was a little freaked out.

  I’d heard it was just as wild at home. I saw the photos and videos on the internet. Thousands of people had been watching on big screens in the streets of Kingston, and roadside bars had been full of fans crowding around the TVs. Pops called me up and told me that the streets in Trelawny had been jammed with cars beeping their horns after I’d won my gold, and when I called NJ from the stadium he said that the reaction had been just as insane in America.

  In a way it was easy to feel cocooned from the outside world in the Olympic Village. The set-up was very similar to what a university campus looked like. There were individual buildings for national teams. Each ‘house’ had bedrooms where the athletes roomed together. There were communal kitchens and lounges, so everyone could hang out and play computer games or watch DVDs. The outside world felt like a distant place sometimes.

  After Athens in ’04 I had got used to the environment, I liked it. Hanging with the guys was a blast. Back then my inexperience had made me the rookie of the Jamaican group, which meant I was running the errands and the older athletes were forever sending me out for stuff. I’d be playing videos games when somebody would shout out, ‘Yo, Usain! Get me a bottle of water!’ But those walks to the fridge were all part of the initiation process for one of the youngest in the squad, and most of the time we played a lot of dominoes and chilled together.

  Rubbing shoulders with sport’s biggest stars back then had also been an experience. I saw Yao Ming the basketball sensation in the athletes’ village and I was psyched. I was equally happy working alongside the likes of Asafa Powell for the first time, because I’d looked up to him. We were close in terms of age, but the guy was already running so fast in the 100 metres that he was becoming a god in Jamaica. I would watch him train and think, ‘Yo, that guy is so amazing.’ It was just a privilege to be around him and shake his hand. To know that I knew Asafa Powell was huge. It was even more mind-blowing to see him work close up.

  By Beijing, times had moved on, but the vibe was still the same. We had fun, we fooled around, but there was a slight sense of isolation, and what was going on in Jamaica often felt like a million miles away. The only time I really connected with the buzz of the Olympics was when I hit the track, and when that happened I came alive.

  Twenty-four hours after my first victory in the Bird’s Nest, Maurice pressed me again on that same question.

  ‘Yo, what are you going to do about this world record in the 200 metres?’ he said.

  In a press conference that day I’d told the media that I was relaxed about the race. I had cruised through the heats, just as I had done with the 100 metres. Tyson was out of the picture because of his injury, so the only other threat was Wallace Spearmon, but I knew I had him beat. My only problem, I’d said, was that I felt pretty tired. But when Maurice asked me again, I’d found some fresh inner strength. I had changed my mind.

  ‘What the hell,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to go out there and give everything I have. I don’t know what’s gonna happen but that’s what I’m gonna to do. I’m going to leave everything out there on the track. That’s the plan …’

  The good news was that I had given myself every chance. In the semi-finals, I cruised past Wallace and Shawn Crawford with a time of 20.09 seconds to get into lane five, which suited me because I wasn’t so close to the curve. I was feeling strong, too. Any fatigue I’d been suffering was gone.

  Coach also seemed laid back, and it was clear that there was going to be no repeat of the detailed instructions I had received for the 100 metres. In the run-up to that race, he’d been there every step of the way. He had helped me to relax and gave me strict instructions about my warm-ups.

  ‘Don’t do too much sprinting,’ he had shouted. ‘Do two stride-outs. Do a block start. Now you’re done, don’t do any more. Forget what Asafa is doing. Blah, blah, blah …’

  Before the 200 final, he seemed much more laid back, though he had been all year. I’d noticed that when it came to training the 200, he rarely set a corners session, which was probably the toughest part of our schedule. Consistently sprinting around the bend was painful work, especially with my back, because I needed to lean into the lane. But I’d done so much of it over the years that Coach seemed confident I was in shape. He gave me only two sessions all season.

  ‘Don’t worry about the 200,’ he said. ‘You’re good.’

  ‘Good?’ I laughed. ‘I think you don’t like my 200, Coach.’

  I was joking, but part of me thought it was true at first. Coach’s laid-back act at the Olympics later confirmed that theory for me and, after my massage from Eddie, he strolled over to the stands to take in the action. When I walked into the stadium I caught his eye and he gave me a wave from the bleachers and the thumbs up. The only way he could have looked any more chilled was if he’d been eating an ice cream at the same time. That’s when the penny dropped.

  Maybe he was just relaxed because he had more confidence in my 200 form. In which case, he was right, because when the gun went, I executed the perfect race.

  Pow!

  I blasted past the Zimbabwean runner Brian Dzingai so fast it was ridiculous. Nobody could catch me. I hit the corner and curved around the bend real smooth, like Don Quarrie in those old videos, and I was strong. The force I’d built in my hamstrings, abs and calves blasted me towards the line like rocket fuel, and I felt the energy surging through my legs. My muscles te
nsed and flexed like pistons. Forget Osaka. I had power.

  I peeked across the line, there was nobody close to me. With 50 metres to go I was out of sight and I knew the race was won.

  Win first, think about the time second.

  I looked up.

  ‘Come on, Usain,’ I thought. ‘You’re running for the clock now …’

  I could see 16 seconds.

  ‘Sixteen?! Oh crap, I’m going to do this!’

  Then 17 …

  18 …

  19 …

  One …

  …

  Last …

  …

  Push!

  There was an explosion of bright light and big sound, the crowd went crazy, a mad mix of colour as thousands of flickering cameras went off and people waved flags. The time was huge: 19.30 seconds – a new world record – and if my celebrations for the 100 had been mad, then in that moment I was lost, I didn’t know what to do. I spread my arms wide, I wanted to tear off my shirt and throw it into the air. My mind had gone. Watching Michael Johnson break the record in 1996 had sown the seeds for me as a kid; that’s when I’d first considered the implications of being a champ. Over a decade later, I had taken the 200 metres Olympic gold and, with it, his world record. Three little words pinged around my brain: I. Got. It.

  This is big.

  ‘I got it.’

  This is huge.

  ‘I got it.’

  This is the biggest thing for me – ever.

  ‘I got it.’

  ***

  The following day, after the medal ceremony, I sat on the edge of my bed in the Olympic Village and stared at the gold medal in my hand. I was all smiles. That piece of metal meant everything to me. Somebody spoke up from behind me, Maurice maybe, I’m not sure. I was somewhere else.

  ‘Man, you’ve won the 200 and the 100 metres,’ he said. ‘That’s gotta be pretty good.’

  I set him straight. ‘Look, forget this 100 metres thing. Shut up about that. Look at this.’

  I held up the medal.

  ‘A 200 metres Olympic gold, after all the years of running corners and listening to people talking crap about how I wasn’t living up to the hype. Well, to hell with them, I’ve got my title now. This is wonderful.’

  It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

  I opened up my laptop and watched the race again on the internet. As the images flashed by and 19.30 seconds ticked away, I could see the effort cut into my face. I was digging really hard. I wasn’t kidding when I’d told Maurice that I planned on leaving all my energy on that track. Then I heard another voice from over my shoulder. This time it was Coach.

  ‘You know, Usain, if you hadn’t been fighting with yourself so much, you would have run that 200 much faster …’

  I broke out laughing.

  ‘Seriously, Coach? Seriously? Give me some credit, I just broke the world record here.’

  The man couldn’t help himself. He had to pour some cold water on me, just as I was revelling in a little glory. Part of me figured it was his way of keeping me grounded. Then again, maybe he truly believed there was a way of making me even faster.

  ***

  I guess I might have been underestimated during the Olympics, because sometimes when I raced it looked as if I was playing. It appeared to the world that I might have been too relaxed. Athletes saw me dancing on the track, pulling faces and fooling with the crowd, and they must have thought, ‘Hmm, so Bolt believes he can just roll up to a start line and win, does he? Not today.’ But that was an oversight on their part.

  Truth was, I looked relaxed because I lived for the energy of a big competition, and it didn’t come any bigger than the Olympics. The World Junior Championships had given me the confidence to play whenever I walked into a stacked stadium, but the Beijing Games cranked it up another level. I vibed off joking around in front of the fans and cameras. I pulled poses, I jumped up and down and waved to people. Sometimes it was planned and I pulled a Jamaican dancehall DJ move or a hand gesture. Other times it was off-the-cuff stuff. When I collected my 200 metres gold medal and 90,000 fans in the Bird’s Nest sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to celebrate the coming of my 22nd birthday, I pretended to cry.

  That was nothing compared to the ‘To Di World’ pose, though. Pulling it after the 100 metres final had started a tidal wave of attention that could not be stopped. After my world record in the 200, photographers and fans started shouting at me, telling me to bust out the move. Every time I pulled my arms back and pointed to the heavens, the crowd roared, everyone went crazy. The sensation of being able to increase the noise in a stadium with just my fingertips felt pretty nice.

  My pose was splashed across the covers of magazines and newspapers everywhere. As the days passed, I saw photographs from people all over the planet copying my move. Climbers pointed to the heavens on faraway mountaintops, and trekkers in the Amazon jungle pulled the move for their friends at home. Parents even took pictures of babies doing the lightning bolt in their cribs. Believe me, it was pretty wonderful to see.

  The strange thing was, those acts of showmanship had helped me to relax. They also helped me to cut out the race chat for a little while, and playing on the start line stopped me from over-thinking about what might or what might not happen when I was tensing my legs in the blocks before a gun. That’s what the other athletes did. My relaxed style meant I could execute the perfect race.

  The fans helped, too. Whenever I walked into the Bird’s Nest and waved and fooled around, I sucked up the noise of the crowd and used it to pump me up. It inspired me. The rush of noise gave me chills every time because it meant that Business Time was approaching. And the louder the crowd roared, the better it was for me.

  In that moment, I was hyped.

  In that situation, I couldn’t stop smiling.

  In that time of confidence, when I knew I was 100 per cent fit, there was no point in any other athlete even attempting to come get me because they were not going to win. It was over already.

  That attitude energised everybody. My confidence worked its way into the rest of the Jamaican team, and by the time the 4x100 metres relay final came around, myself and the other guys – Asafa, Nesta Carter and Michael Frater – weren’t just thinking about winning the gold medal. We were looking to smash the world record in style. No relay team had ever been as hyped as us before any Olympic final.

  The funny thing was that we never did any preparation for our relay races. Nobody in Jamaica ever practised baton changes, and because the four of us were so fast (myself, Asafa and Michael had been in the 100 metres final) we took the race for granted. Our attitude was pretty carefree: ‘Well, we always do well, no matter how scruffy the changes are, so let’s not worry.’

  Thinking back, we probably practised our handovers three times that year, and one of those sessions took place in the Village.

  Maybe we should have planned a bit more, because all kinds of stuff can happen during a baton change. Athletes can stumble, the pass can get screwed up and people can panic – and believe me, the worst thing that can happen in a relay race is if someone panics. But the Jamaican girls had a similar issue, and as we warmed up before the race we stopped to watch the women’s final. The foursome of Shelly-Ann Fraser, Sherone Simpson, Kerron Stewart and Veronica Campbell-Brown were tearing round the track but, during the changeover between Sherone and Kerron, the baton was dropped.

  We couldn’t believe it. Everybody freaked out. The girls had been the four fastest women on the planet and they could have won the gold medal just by chilling. Watching them blow it was a nerve-wracking moment for all of us.

  ‘OK, team meeting!’ yelled Michael, clapping his hands and gathering us together. ‘Let’s just get the baton around the track, a’ight?’

  Everyone nodded in agreement. All of a sudden the world-record conversations had stopped. The girls’ screw-up had focused us hard, and when the gun blew Nesta flew out of the blocks. Michael was up next, and I was running the cur
ve, but when I saw him bearing down on me I freaked out. I wasn’t sure whether I was able to take the stick from him properly, I wasn’t sure when I should start running. It was my first time racing the corner in a relay, and Michael was coming at me like a bullet down the back stretch. I had doubts.

  ‘OK, Usain, just chill,’ I thought. ‘Trust yourself, keep your arm out. Even if he catches you quick, have faith that he’s going to give you that baton …’

  Bang! The changeover was smooth and I fired off the bend, bearing down on Asafa in a flash. I screamed out ‘Reach!’ and caught him as he was still in his drive phase. Asafa’s hand gripped the steel, but then he stumbled. I had to ease back quickly so he could find the space to drive forward.

  ‘Run, Asafa!’ I screamed. ‘Run!’

  I followed him all the way downfield, checking the clock with every step. The world record was 37.40 seconds. It had been held by the USA team of Michael Marsh, Leroy Burrell, Dennis Mitchell and Carl Lewis since 1992. But Asafa took them down, busting through the line on 37.10 seconds.

  Three races, three gold medals, three world records. Like I’d predicted on my home-made video message on the flight, I was going home a hero, and with a little extra luggage, too.

  There was one downside. As a triple Olympic champion I’d become the number one target for every sprinter in track and field. The Games was the biggest sporting event on the planet and I’d made all the headlines, so Coach reckoned my top-dog status would inspire everybody else to work harder – much harder. Asafa, Tyson, some kid in Europe pulling on a pair of spikes for the first time: the whole racing world wanted to knock me off my perch.