by Usain Bolt
The flashes of insecurity were brief, but understandable. By the start of the 2011 season I kept getting injured. I travelled to Munich to see The Doc again, but despite his treatment I still wasn’t running smoothly, and when background training began there were niggling pains in my hamstrings, calves and toes. My Achilles killed. It was as if my whole body had gone haywire. Every time I made some progress another injury flared up – I could not catch a break.
When I first visited Dr Müller Wohlfahrt in 2004, I had been warned that as I matured, I would have to work harder to stay fit while my metabolism slowed down; I wouldn’t be able to eat as much junk food. But I would also have to work more than most track and field stars simply to keep my back strong, and it was clear that I’d have to step up and get serious in the gym again if I was to avoid any more injuries.
From January to March I was unable to take part in what would be considered normal training. There was more jogging that sprinting, and rather than practising starts or working on background sessions, I was doing rehab work in the pool for the first time to build up my fitness. That gave me stress.
It was a big year for me. If 2010 had been an off season, then 2011 was the defence of my titles at the World Championships in Daegu, South Korea. There was pressure all of a sudden. I needed to make the 100 and 200 metres finals in top shape.
Coach managed my mind. Whenever I had a worry, if ever I looked at the schedule and began counting down the days from January to March, I always turned to him for reassurance.
‘Yo, we good?’ I’d say.
‘Yeah, we’ve got enough time, Usain.’
It was like our early years together all over again. My faith in his experience was enough to keep me going, which was important because in situations where I wasn’t running well, I knew I had to stay confident. I had to trust my ability to come alive in the bigger competitions – whenever the major meets came around, either my body or my mind had always stepped up in the past, almost from the minute I’d walked into the athletes’ village. I knew that once I was settled into my Daegu digs, the buzz and the intensity around the place would give me a lift as good as any pep talk from Coach; my stress levels would go down.
‘Yeah, championships,’ I’d think. ‘That’s what I do.’
So I didn’t worry at first. Coach’s programme would eventually be enough to get me in shape, I knew it. When I finally did get to the start line in Rome and Ostrava that May, I won all my 100s, but my starts were poor, probably the worst ever, and I couldn’t get my rhythm right. It was the same in my 200s in Oslo, Paris and Stockholm during June and July. Prior to the World Champs, I only ran six times competitively and while I finished first in all of them, the performances weren’t convincing. I still wasn’t as fit as I would have liked.
My drive, those first few steps from the blocks, started to really bother me and when I arrived in the Daegu Stadium for the 100 metres heats there was an intensity in my game, one that I hadn’t experienced before, mainly because my normal routine had been disrupted. Like in Athens ’04, I feared my fitness would let me down. I allowed worry to cloud my judgement.
I kept thinking the same thing over and over: ‘Got to get this start right … Got to get this start right …’
Coach could see it. One day at the practice track in Daegu, he stood over me as I caught my breath on the sidelines.
‘What’s going on, Usain?’ he said. ‘You’re not your normal self. You need to relax. You’ll succeed in your races …’
He could tell I was concerned, and at first I tried to shrug it off because the field in the World Champs was probably the weakest I had ever faced in a big competition. Later, when I won my heats easily, the anxiety started to fade, like a switch had been flicked in my head. As the 100 metres final approached, there was a sense that I might do something special; the race looked easy to me, none of the big guns were there. Tyson was out of the champs through injury, as was Asafa. The line-up consisted of the Caribbean sprinters, Blake, Kim Collins, Daniel Bailey and Nesta Carter, plus the American Walter Dix, and Christophe Lemaitre and Jimmy Vicaut of France. I figured I could win the final just by cruising down the track.
Still, there was some added pressure because the rules on the start line had changed. In 2010 it had been announced that there would be a ‘zero tolerance’ policy to anyone jumping the gun. There would be no second chances for anyone making a false start, and one early move would mean that an athlete was disqualified. The heat was cranked up a notch in the blocks, and my anxiety returned as I warmed up in the lanes.
‘I need to get this start,’ I thought.
Then I cussed myself.
‘No, to hell with that! No stress. You’re gonna get a bad start, but don’t worry. You’ll still win because at the end of the race you’ll run past everyone, like you always do.’
We were called to our marks. I could not shake my race chatter.
‘I need to get this start.’
‘Usain, forget this “Need to get a good start” thing! Focus …’
Get set …
The damage was done already. Mentally I wasn’t right. I was over-eager, too keen to make those first few strides. People don’t believe me when I tell them this, but in a split second, probably a pulse before the gun went crack!, I heard a voice in my head. A whisper. One word.
Go!
And I leapt forward, bursting down the track. The muscles in my arms, calves and hamstrings tensed and then released as I exploded forward out of the blocks. I had gone too early and there was nothing I could do to stop my momentum. I realised the stupidity of what I’d done instantly. My heart sank; I knew I was in trouble. I’d freaked, pre-empted the gun, and I was about to be disqualified. My World Championships were over.
I didn’t even have to look towards the officials – I understood what was coming next, and I was full of fury. I tore off my vest and started to cuss.
‘F***! No, it’s too easy! Too easy! The field is weak. It’s the easiest race you’re ever gonna run in. You could have won by chilling …’
A race official came over. At first he pointed at where I should walk to. He wanted me to leave the track. When I wouldn’t move, he grabbed my elbow and tried to guide me away. That made me even more angry. The red mist came down – I wanted to punch him so hard. It took every ounce of self-restraint to hold myself back from doing something awful.
‘Yo, don’t touch me,’ I hissed, yanking my arm from his grip and walking towards the tunnel of the stadium. When I got there, I pounded the bleachers with my palms as the pain of what had happened hit me hard. I started beating everything – the walls, the colourful drapes that hung down from the stands. The fans looked down on me from their seats. My hurt was being played out in front of millions of people around the world. It was the most stressed I’d ever been on the track.
The start was reset, and as I watched from the sidelines, I knew Blake was going to take the gold. Now I was out, there was nobody in the field better than him. The gun popped, and as I followed the action down the track, I burned with anger; but I applauded him as he came in first place, because I was genuinely happy for him. I knew how hard that kid had worked at Racers for his first taste of glory.
The fall-out, when it hit me, was hard. I walked away from the crowds and went through all the reasons for my misjudgement. I hadn’t been myself. The doubt that had trailed my injuries had messed with my thinking; I’d obsessed about the start. I had put too much pressure on my performance.
As the night wore on and I relaxed in the Village, I heard all kinds of stupid theories about why I had blown it. Everybody had an opinion. Some dude believed that Blake had deliberately twitched in the blocks alongside me. He reckoned that had set me off; I’d moved because he had and that was the reason for my start. I was not happy about the idea for one minute.
‘Yo, let’s not try to blame anybody or any of that crap,’ I said. ‘I didn’t even see that. I’ve learned over the years not to look at other at
hletes, because someone always false starts and we’re all competitive with each other, so if somebody jerks or moves then it might be enough to send me off down the track too early. So let’s not think that …’
People blamed the new rules, they said they were unfair – I was one of the first high-profile victims, after all. But my attitude was that we all had to play by them. Then I heard that some TV commentators had claimed I should have acted dumb. They argued that when the race had been stopped, I should have played as if nothing had happened. They suggested that if I’d left my vest on, if I’d kept calm, then the officials would have found it much harder to disqualify me because of who I was and what I’d achieved for the sport. But I wasn’t accepting that, either. Had I pulled that kind of stunt I wouldn’t have felt good about myself. The knowledge that I’d been sneaky wouldn’t have sat well with me. It would have been cheating and I’m not into that. I would have spent the rest of my life knowing that I hadn’t deserved that gold medal.
Not everyone else saw it that way. The instant I had been disqualified, some of the crowd in the Daegu Stadium had left the bleachers and gone home. The show, for them, was over.
***
Coach didn’t say a word to me about the false start. He still hasn’t, even to this day. It was the lowest point in my track and field career and he’s never mentioned it to me since, not even in a playful way. Maybe because he knew it had hurt me so bad. I guess he’s trusted me to handle the situation well enough on my own.
In the days after my disqualification, it was an effort to get myself together. I played video games with the Jamaican team, Blake included. I watched a Manchester United game on the internet. Despite a full day of rest, my energy was low. Mom and Pops had come over from Jamaica to watch me compete. I met with them one evening and ran a few jokes because I knew I would have to lift myself out of the slump for the 200 metres final. But I was sick of people asking me over and over, ‘What are you gonna do about your start in the next race?’
I truthfully didn’t know, but I had to shake the smoke of worry that had come over me. Thankfully, the boost, when it arrived, happened on the track, and when I walked out of the tunnel to a huge roar from the crowd for the 200 metres final my mind was buzzing.
‘I really need to make a statement right now,’ I thought. ‘But I’m not in the best shape – what’s gonna happen?’
Then I saw some kids in the crowd. They were waving to me, smiling and laughing. I went over to say hello and as we goofed around, the reality of my situation dropped with me.
‘You know what? To hell with this stressing!’ I thought. ‘I’m supposed to be having fun. Being relaxed in the past is what made me a champ, like in the World Juniors. So stop worrying and be yourself.’
Almost instantly, I became happier. I had less worry, more bounce. The weight was gone from my shoulders. Those kids had reminded me of what I was all about; I remembered putting my spikes on the wrong foot in 2002 and still winning. I was a champ, and when I came out of the blocks on point, I ran hard. I’d been placed in lane three, which was quite close to the curve, and I could feel the muscles in my back tightening as I powered around the corner. But that wasn’t enough to slow me down. By the time I’d made it home I was in first place, finishing in 19.40 seconds. I later helped the 4x100 metres relay team smash the world record again with a time of 37.04 seconds. Talk about lifting myself out of trouble.
As I chilled in the village afterwards, I assessed my situation. I took the attitude that everything in life happened for a reason.
‘If I hadn’t false started here,’ I thought, ‘then my issues might have moved into the following season.’
That would have been a disaster. London 2012 was on the horizon and I didn’t want to blow the defence of my titles – not there.
‘God, I hope I’ve learned a lesson,’ I thought.
As I looked at my gold medals, I prayed that my issues with fitness and stress had gone for good.
I should have known better.
Coach hated it when I discussed my injuries with the media. He told me that complaining only sharpened a reporter’s focus on the pain – mine too. That was a bad thing mentally, because I needed to be shutting the agony out, and talking about it only compounded the problem. Besides, it looked as if I was making excuses for myself when I cussed to the world about my aches and strains.
But, damn, as the 2012 preparations got under way, I was still picking up niggling injuries. My back was tight with the scoliosis, and both Achilles tendons were sore. The morning after a hard training session was tough: when I lifted myself out of bed in the mornings it sometimes felt as if my ligaments had been replaced by rusting barbed wire; at other times it felt like I was a wooden puppet, but the string holding me together was all knotted.
Eddie worked on my Achilles twice a day, every day, to free the ankle joints and loosen my calves before training; he massaged my back and spine, breaking away the inflammation and pressure with his fingers. I also went to Munich to see The Doc. The London 2012 Olympic Games were approaching and I couldn’t afford too many delays in my training schedule.
At first I worked hard, real hard, with every session. So hard that I often felt dizzy and sick after track work. Forcing a few fingers into my throat caused me to vomit, which eased my nausea, but puking didn’t stop the lactic acid from burning my legs, and The Moment of No Return killed me every day. There were times when I had to scream for Eddie to shake the pain from my legs. I’d fall to the track in agony after an intense running session, the muscles in my back twitching into a spasm, and as he loosened my taut fibres and tendons, I’d dream of a time when the pain might end for good.
‘Gonna relax a lot after track and field, Eddie,’ I’d joke. ‘Gonna play me some golf …’
Like most athletes I was in pain nearly all of the time, and every day I felt pain, after pain, after pain. Gym was pain, sprinting was pain, core work was pain. All of it was pain. The worst was the background work at the start of the season. Day in, day out, I had to run multiple reps of around 300 metres as fast as I could in order to build up my speed stamina and strength. I was allowed only a short rest between runs, so by the end of a training session I struggled to scrape myself up off the track. God, it was intense. As the legendary American sprinter Jesse Owens once said, ‘[It’s] a lifetime of training for just 10 seconds.’ But the pain had to be worth it in my mind. It had to be.
As work got under way, it wasn’t just the physical strain that was holding me back; my mind felt unprepared once more. South Korea had freaked me out, maybe more than I’d realised, and the false start constantly played on my thinking. I still worried that it might happen again in London and I obsessed about my reaction from the gun. Sharpening myself in the blocks became a new focus, an obsession. I told Coach that I wanted to fire off the start line like a bullet, but my mindset made him pissed.
‘Listen, forget about this start thing,’ he said one evening as we conversed about my work in the blocks. ‘You were never a good starter, you were an OK starter. In Beijing you started OK and you won, you even broke the world record. So quit stressing about your starts and move forward.’
It hardly helped. When the season began, I was inconsistent: a run of 9.82 seconds was enough to win the Jamaica Invitational, but then in May I recorded a lame 10.04 seconds in Ostrava, Czech Republic. My reaction at the gun was poor, but then everything in the race was poor. My legs felt dead and nothing about me was on point, but I wasn’t too worried because everyone had bad races – I was human, after all, and I knew I couldn’t set records in every meet.
But I could win most of them, and in the next two races, in Rome and Oslo, I beat Asafa with times of 9.76 and 9.79 seconds. This time, though, unlike our race in Stockholm four years previously, when I had gained a psychological edge, the result destabilised me. I got too comfortable. The idea that I was in perfect shape tricked me into dropping the intensity levels during training, and I enjoyed too many late night
s, just as I had done before Osaka in 2007. Sure, I did all the drills Coach asked me to do on the track, I went to Spartan four days a week, but I rarely pushed myself past The Moment. I went through the motions and behaved as if 2012 was just a normal year when it was actually one of the biggest of my career. The reality that I could lose fitness as quickly as I’d gathered it didn’t drop with me, and my form, speed and strength all tailed away.
Not that I felt it at first, and that was some pretty bad news because the Olympic trials were looming and Jamaica’s qualifiers were hot – really hot. I was competing, along with Yohan Blake and Asafa, and the sprinters Nesta Carter and Michael Frater were also involved. It was a line-up of potential champions and every single one of us had the speed to win. Most people figured the Jamaica trials to be the hardest in the world, because our standards were seriously high, as tough as some championship finals, and only three athletes could qualify for London in each of the sprint events.
There was no room for complacency; the competition was set to be intense, but in the week leading up to the event, my hamstrings in both legs tightened up. Eddie worked around the clock to loosen my legs, though as I progressed through the heats and semi-finals in the Kingston National Stadium, something still wasn’t right. I didn’t feel like my normal self. My legs were a little wooden, my hamstrings were taut and I wasn’t hitting the track with my usual bounce.
‘Don’t stress, though,’ I thought, as I prepared for the final. ‘You’ll show up.’
My belief came from the arena; I had the buzz of a big crowd to feed off. All the tickets for trials had sold out and there was an energy around the National Stadium, even though I’d guessed that most of the fans would be cheering for Asafa rather than Blake or myself. Kingston was his town and they always backed him in the big events.
Asafa’s popularity was a sensation I’d first experienced in Jamaica a couple of years previously in a national champs. The reaction he’d received had upset me a little, because I’d been beating him for a while and I expected them to side with me, but when we lined up together, the crowd showed him all the love. I couldn’t work it out. I lost concentration on the race ahead. Instead, I tried to figure out what I’d done to upset the Jamaican public.
