‘My coach always says when you get to 28, 29 that’s it – you can maintain, but he doesn’t think you can go faster. But in my case, he says, I’ve never really pushed the barrier and got to my full potential.’ He laughs.
So that great enemy, age, has not yet imposed itself?
‘No, I think all the guys who are my main threat are close to my age or older than me. The younger guys are running good but I don’t think they’re quite at the level that we are; they need time. So I’m not really worried. And I always say to myself, if I run 9.6 then I have no issue. That’s what my coach says – if you run 9.6, because no one is running 9.6, you should do it. So that’s how we always look at things. If I get myself into 9.6 shape I should be OK.’
And you believe you can do that? ‘I always believe.’
A few weeks after my meeting with Bolt came news that he had torn a hamstring and had flown to Germany for treatment. At the time of going to press, the athletics world was holding its breath.
The day after my interview with Bolt, Bolt was shooting a commercial for Hublot at the running track at the University of the West Indies – the UWI Usain Bolt Track, to give it its proper name.
There had been a barbecue the previous night, and the clean-up crew was still at work an hour and a half after filming was due to begin. Bolt arrived in a BMW driven by NJ and disappeared into a trailer, before being called out and making his way across to the starting line, where the film crew were readying themselves. The temperature was soaring into the 90s. Wearing his Jamaican running strip, Bolt settled himself in a camping chair, shaded by an umbrella held aloft by an assistant, his legs stretched out, scrutinising his mobile phone.
At length, he took his place at the blocks and assumed the starting position, staring down into the camera. The astute observer would have noticed two things not quite right with the picture: he was wearing trainers, not running spikes; and he was wearing a watch. He held the starting position, his fingers splayed on the hot track. ‘Son of a bitch!’ He stood up, frantically cooling his hands.
Somebody produced a Jamaican flag, for the next shot, and Bolt threw it over his shoulders. The shoot was two hours behind schedule. The heat was crippling. Tempers were beginning to fray. But Usain Bolt was as serene as a cloud. Somebody switched on an industrial-sized fan. Bolt took his place, the flag billowing behind him, he laughed into the camera and began to sing. ‘I believe I can fly…’
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