Faster than Lightning

by Usain Bolt

  ‘Oh, so you guys are partying?’ said Heidi.

  I’d never met either of them before, but the power of my new-found celebrity had kicked in. Like Drogba in London, they had recognised me.

  ‘Yeah, wanna come?’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Sure. If that’s OK?’

  If that’s OK?!

  Man, what a night. We all went to a club and chilled; we hung out and had fun; we talked, danced and sipped some champagne – but nothing more happened, despite what some of the gossip websites might have said the following morning. Still, I was hoping, though. Come on, it was Heidi Klum and Sandra Bullock. What dude wouldn’t?

  ***

  Coach had to keep me motivated. As the world’s number one athlete I needed to work even harder if I wanted to stay on top, he told me. I was given a couple of extra weeks off before background work started up again, so I could get my head around the dramatic changes in my life, but after that, his tough programme began with a vengeance.

  ‘The hard work starts here, Usain,’ he said as we got back to the training laps, cramping muscles and vomiting. I started laughing.

  ‘Seriously, Coach? It just starts now? What have we been doing for the last four years?’

  But Coach had a clear plan for how I had to work if I was to stay on top. ‘If you want to live this superstar life you’re still gonna have to run as fast as before – faster even,’ he said. ‘It’s great to be number one, everyone on the planet wants a piece of you, Mr Superstar. But if Tyson beats you, or if Asafa beats you, it won’t look good. Your money will drop because the promoters won’t want to pay big bucks for a guy in second place …’

  That got me thinking. Cash flow was something that had changed almost overnight. The days of racing for modest appearance cheques were over, and my gold medals in Beijing had made me a top biller. I’d overtaken Tyson and Asafa as a name to fill the stadiums, which meant I could command the biggest fees on the circuit. But the figures that were being thrown around were huge, eye-watering even, because I brought something different to the track whenever I raced. I had an image.

  Fans loved me because I fooled around and engaged with them all the time, and no other athlete was playing that game. Because of the fun I’d taken to Beijing, people were going crazy over my every race, and as the 2009 season got under way, it became clear that I was a big draw for race promoters. I stacked stadiums on my own, and every time my name was announced on a race card, the event sold out shortly afterwards.

  I gave Mom and Pops enough money so they would never have to stress about working again. But even with their cash in the bank, my dad refused to put his foot up. He used the money I gave him to open a little store in the community so he could help the folks living in Coxeath. The man would not stop working.

  With money came extra responsibility, though. I had to learn some big lessons about who I was and what I did for a living. The simple truth was that I had gone from being a sprinter to a global brand. I wasn’t just an athlete any more, I’d become a role model and an entertainer, and though I was still killing myself on the University of the West Indies track to be the best competitor around, I also had to deliver a personality, like the one the world had first seen in Beijing. People wanted to freak at my race times, but they also wanted to see what games I was bringing to the track. Fans asked, ‘What flair will he be coming with this time?’ There was anticipation whenever I raced.

  That could mask the occasional poor performance. Not long after the ’09 season started I ran ten flat in a Toronto meet in bad weather, which was pretty awful by my standards at that time, but there was still euphoria in the bleachers when I crossed the line. It was clear that people didn’t care about my times, but they were happy to see me fooling around, dancing and pulling my ‘To Di World’ pose. That set off a new mindset, and every time I travelled to a different country I tuned into the local buzz so I could send the crowds wild. I raced in Brazil and pulled a samba move on the track. When I travelled to Rome I grabbed a fan’s Italian flag and ran around the arena, waving it in the air. The whole place went crazy.

  It dropped with me that my career wasn’t about just running fast. The speed was a big part of it, for sure, but personality and superstardom had become just as important, like it had been for some other athletes in the past. Big personalities were a draw for a lot of fans. I’d seen close up that the people in Jamaica loved Asafa because he was Mr Nice Guy, but in the USA they had been wild for Maurice Greene because at his peak he was a cocky dude. The American Justin Gatlin was another story, though. He had his fans, but people didn’t love him in the same way because there was no story, no image. He was just a serious athlete. I knew that I had to present the character that people had first enjoyed in Beijing because that’s what attracted the attention. In turn, those crowds attracted sponsors. They said, ‘Hmm, this guy is playing nice and people love his style. Let’s endorse him!’

  As the 2009 season started, invitations, contracts and promotion offers arrived thick and fast, and at times it was overwhelming. Ricky managed the international opportunities and Mr Peart dealt with it on a Jamaican level. We soon took care of business with mobile-phone brands, and drinks, watch and sports companies.

  My job in all of this was to turn up and deliver, so I raced hard and played funny. But there was always an understanding that I had to be on my best behaviour, all of the time, because any bad PR might be disastrous. In one meeting, Ricky explained to me how my public image had changed. He told me that I had to think about the consequences of my actions at all times, because they might affect how a sponsor viewed me in the future. A screw-up could damage my market value and my potential earnings.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘you’re not just Usain anymore. You’re Usain Bolt, the brand, the business, all the time.’

  I had to remind myself of that every day, which meant saying goodbye to certain aspects of my life. I knew that getting caught in a Kingston fast-food joint was not a good thing; neither was getting photographed with liquor at a Quad party. But I had limits. A lot of the time I was happy to stay indoors and chill with friends, but the one thing I couldn’t do without was a party every now and then.

  I knew that Coach would be pissed at hearing the news, and maybe Ricky as well, but I’d reached an understanding of what was needed if I was to function effectively as an athlete. I’d learned how to read my body on the track, but after Beijing I understood my mind, too. Going out occasionally, dancing and chilling with friends was a release valve from the pressures of living in the spotlight. It helped me to work properly on the track and nobody, nobody was going to tell me otherwise.

  My thing was that I’d seen so many people in track and field, and other sports, mess up their careers because people had told them what to do and what not to do, almost from the moment their lives had become successful, if not before. The joy had been taken from them. To compensate, they felt the need to take drugs, get drunk every night, or go wild. Some of them went overboard as their careers ended, and they hurt other people. One or two sports stars died because of their vices. I realised I had to enjoy myself in order to stay sane, and in my mind, as long as I stayed legal and didn’t hurt anyone else, I was fine.

  To me, there was no sense in leading a strict existence. I guess in that respect I was just like most other guys. I wanted to enjoy myself, and I knew what would happen if my lifestyle was contained in any way. One day I picked up a magazine and read about several Premiership footballers who were getting married to their girls, and they were 21, 22 years of age. I thought, ‘You’ve just got rich, you’ve just got super-famous and you’ve just got married? What the hell? That’s when the fun is supposed to start!’ I then picked up a newspaper and read about several other Premiership footballers who had been cheating on the wives they’d married at the age of 21, 22. It seemed crazy to me.

  For a bit of fun I bought a quad bike – and everybody went mad. They told me not to ride it. They went on and on about how dangerous
it was, like I didn’t know, but riding that bike was my choice.

  ‘Yo, you cannot tell me not to ride my quad,’ I said. ‘I know they’re dangerous, but I wanna ride it because it brings me joy. When I’m on my quad, my problems go away, I’m not worried about anything, I’m having fun.’

  Coach saw it differently. If it was down to him, I would have trained in the mornings, afternoons and evenings, six days a week. When I wasn’t training, he’d have preferred me to be indoors playing video games. He told me not to ride quads, not to play football or basketball. One time, he even told me to avoid sex.

  ‘I don’t worry about you when you’re unfit, Usain,’ he said. ‘It’s when you’re strong that I stress, because you’re testosterone goes high – through the roof. You have the potential to get yourself into trouble.’

  If I had followed Coach’s advice, though, I would have driven myself insane. I’d probably have bored myself just by looking in the mirror. My plan was clear. To race fast and win big, I knew that every now and then I had to live fast. It was the only way for me to stay focused.

  * Every time there’s a drug scandal they test me. When it all came out about Lance Armstrong in 2012, I remember thinking, ‘OK, they’re going to be coming around to my house soon, then.’ And on cue, a week after, they were there. Two times, they showed up. But I guess it’s always going to be like that.

  But sometimes I lived too fast.

  The car crash.

  The aftermath of that life-changing collision on Highway 2000 in 2009 always makes me wonder. The road, the rain and my race to get back for a Manchester United game on the TV;* the oncoming lorry and my car as it flipped over and over before crashing into the ditch. The screaming girl in my passenger seat. How the hell had I survived?

  Thinking about it, that wasn’t a question that had hit me in the immediate seconds following the collision. At that moment my body buzzed with shock, I busted the side door open, pulling myself out so I could check the state of the car. It didn’t look good. Shards of black bumper and indicator lights were strewn all over the grass and road. The bonnet had been crumpled up like a can of fizzy drink and the windscreen was shattered. No amount of repair work could have saved it. But that was the least of my worries.

  Yo, the young ladies in the car! Where the hell were they?

  I’d assumed that the pair of them had crawled out of the side door behind me, but when I looked around, they weren’t there. I stooped down to check inside the vehicle. The ground was covered in long, razor-sharp thorns which tore at my bare feet and slipped into my skin like little syringes, but I couldn’t feel a thing at first. Adrenaline had taken over, because I was panicking bad and I had to make sure those girls were safe.

  Please be good, please be good.

  There was some movement. The girl who had been in the back came out with a groan – she was a little cut up and looked to be in pain. As I gently pulled her from the wreckage, I checked to see where her friend was and my stomach damn well nearly flipped when I saw her limp body, upside down and twisted at an awkward angle. The impact had knocked her out cold. There was no movement and the thought that she might be dead flashed through my mind.

  Oh God, please don’t let her be gone.

  I rushed to the other side of the car to pull her clear of the wreckage, but when I yanked at the handle, the door wouldn’t give, no matter how hard I pulled. It was jammed fast. I started to freak – I wasn’t sure if the engine was going to blow up.

  ‘Yo, calm down,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘Calm down, now.’

  I reached inside the window and unbuckled her seat belt, carefully supporting her neck and back as I slid her lifeless body out. Another pair of hands reached past me and grabbed hold of her arms. Some dude, another driver who had seen the accident, had pulled over and was adding the extra muscle.

  I felt sick. She was still unconscious as we hauled her ass through the window, laying her flat on the grass. I clocked the gentle rise and fall of her chest and, for a brief second, her eyes flickered open before rolling back into her head. That didn’t look good, but at least she was still breathing. I made a silent prayer.

  ‘Please don’t let this girl die on me right now.’

  Everybody was stressed, going slightly crazy. We were offered a lift to hospital for treatment, but the roads were rammed. The highway was packed because people rarely walked when it rained in Jamaica. They hopped into their wheels and drove around instead. The nearest Accident and Emergency unit was located in the Spanish Town district and as my ride crawled through the rain, I made nervous glances towards the back seat. My friend was still unconscious and I felt guilty, scared for her.

  This was bad, and I knew it.

  ***

  I swear none of my previous car accidents had been my fault, and there had been a couple. The first one happened when I’d moved to Kingston in 2003, back in the day when I drove a Honda. I was 17 years old and I’d just got my licence, so like most kids I drove everywhere. And I mean everywhere: even to TGI Fridays to meet a young lady, which was what was supposed to happen on the night of the crash. On that particular evening I’d cruised up to a set of lights before braking. I could have beaten the traffic, passing the junction before the signal changed to red, but I decided to chill instead.

  ‘Just slow down, Bolt,’ I thought. ‘Calm. Try to be respectful now.’

  I got in line. The lights turned green, a guy flashed me to go and, as I moved across, another vehicle came out of nowhere and smashed into the side of me, hard. Bang! The front of the car was a mess, everything was shattered, and I was so shaken by the impact that I couldn’t think straight. In a panic, my first instinct was to climb over the gearstick and crawl out of the window by the passenger seat, on the side that had been smashed in. I then rolled across the other motorist’s car bonnet like a crazy person. I still don’t know why I did it; I could have opened up the door on the driver’s side and walked away, no problem. But that’s how rattled I was.

  The second accident was even more ridiculous, though. It took place on 1 January 2006. I was just over 12 months into Coach’s three-year plan and I’d begun the first morning of the year with a positive thought.

  ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘It’s New Year’s Day, let’s start this one strong! I’m going to the gym right now to get the year going right …’

  I pushed myself hard for an hour, but when I left the Spartan car park for home, Coach pulled out too, moving into the lane behind me. I could see him in my rear-view mirror. Right there and then I knew I had to relax. I couldn’t have him giving me one of his lectures about driving carefully when I got to the track later that day. Instead I cruised home, taking my time, acting sensible.

  It was the same story as before, though. I got to the lights and pulled away, but this time some guy came out of a side road. I pushed my foot on the gas to move off, but as I did so he changed lane in front of me without indicating and drifted right across the front of my car. There was no way I could have moved over because it would have sent me into the path of some oncoming traffic and Bam! – he smashed right into my side and his old 1950s vehicle, which felt like it was made out of super-strengthened steel, cracked my bonnet. As I screeched to a halt, I could see that everything was messed up and my car was in bits. Even worse was the fact that there wasn’t a scratch on the other guy’s old wheels. Now that got me seriously pissed, and I officially lost my temper.

  As the other vehicle pulled over, I unclipped my belt and stormed across the street, ready to fight, but when the driver stepped out, I was totally disarmed. He was 70 years old and wearing a pair of the thick, square, heavy-rimmed spectacles that old-assed people in Jamaica used when they couldn’t see anything. I had to turn away.

  ‘Oh God,’ I moaned. ‘I can hardly hit an old guy now, can I?’

  Instead I sat on the sidewalk and stared at my busted bonnet, cussing as Coach tried to talk the man down. He was actually blaming me! For once I was glad Coach had b
een driving behind me; I was happy for the help.

  This time on Highway 2000, it was different – the situation was much, much worse. Truthfully, it was a miracle that we were alive. My friend was still out cold, and I genuinely didn’t know whether she was going to survive. But when we finally made it through the traffic and into the hospital, a couple of nurses rushed up to us.

  ‘Usain, are you alright?’ said one.

  I nodded, ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  She sized me up. ‘But your foot is bleeding.’

  I glanced to the floor, I’d walked bloody footprints into the waiting room. The thorns in that ditch had ripped my soles to ribbons, but my cuts were nothing compared to the unconscious girl being pushed in on the trolley next to me.

  ‘Woman, she’s out cold!’ I said, pointing to her limp body. ‘Forget me, fix her!’

  Doctors crowded around, a torch was flashed into her eyes, checking for vital signs. While I waited to hear how she was, one of the nurses took me to another room so my cuts could be tended to, and tweezers were forced into my bleeding wounds in an attempt to draw the prickles out. Talk about pain! My nurse had just about the clumsiest hands in Kingston.

  Word came across the hallway that my friends would be OK, but when it came to removing the deep thorns from my flesh cuts, I was in agony. The jabbing and tearing tweezers only pushed the sticks deeper into my foot, and each twist of the steel caused blood to well up and drip on to the bed. It got so painful that I casually mentioned how Mom had dealt with my prickle wounds when I was a kid, in an attempt to guide my nurse, but she would not listen.

  ‘But miss,’ I said. ‘She used to do it all the time …’

  It was true. When I was little I suffered a lot of thorn cuts from running barefoot through the bush in Coxeath. Come to think of it, I was pretty stupid back then. I broke my toe, I broke my nails, I trod on a metal spike which slid halfway into my sole like a surgical blade – I had so much stuff stuck into my foot back then that it was a miracle I ever got to run at all.