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Gold Rush
Michael Johnson
'Elite athletes aren't born. They're made.'Michael JohnsonFrom a living icon of the Olympic Games – as both an athlete and now as a BBC broadcaster – Gold Rush is a compelling analysis of the fascinating combination of psychological and personal qualities, as well as internal and external factors, that go to create an Olympic champion.This exciting new book is based on Michael Johnson's own experiences as an iconic four-time Olympic champion, and on the knowledge he has gleaned as a top-class coach and motivational speaker. It also features, uniquely, more than a dozen exclusive and insightful interviews with Olympic legends from across several different sports who between them have claimed more than 50 gold medals over the past 30 years.In essence, Johnson has assembled his very own Olympic Hall of Fame in assessing the DNA of true champions.Gold Rush is themed around chapters in which Johnson will discuss each of the key qualities/factors. He expertly feeds in fascinating first-person testimonies from the Olympic legends. In the process he builds up a definitive knowledge bank of expertise and experience from athletes who have been on this fascinating journey, encountered the highs and the lows, but ultimately reached the summit - an Olympic gold medal.Johnson's interviewees include: Usain Bolt, Carl Lewis, Sally Gunnell, Seb Coe, Daley Thompson, Cathy Freeman, Ian Thorpe, Michael Phelps, Rebecca Adlington, Chris Hoy, Steve Redgrave, Matthew Pinsent, Lennox Lewis and Michael Jordan.
Gold Rush
What Makes an Olympic Champion?
Michael Johnson
DEDICATION
To my coach, Clyde Hart
Contents
Cover (#ulink_b65853cd-3e85-5819-9b0a-f3d9e9e1679a)
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
1. My Quest for Gold
2. Catching Olympic Fever
3. Technique and DNA
4. Doing What It Takes to Win
5. Mental Games
6. No Shortcuts
7. The Heat of Battle
8. Living and Competing in the Limelight
9. Coaches, Heroes and Mentors
Conclusion
Picture Section
Searchable Terms
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the following people who have helped to make this book possible. First, my wife Armine for all of her support and understanding, and my son Sebastian, who inspires me with his love for reading and his own dream of becoming a writer; my agent Sarah Wooldridge at IMG, whose tireless search for the right publisher and her belief in my ability to write an insightful and informative book has resulted in Gold Rush; Jonathan Taylor for understanding my vision for this book and helping to shape that vision; and Linden Gross, my writing coach, who kept me on task and whose energy and excitement about the project were crucial in getting me to the finish line. Thanks to Steve Burdett and Nick Canham at HarperCollins for picking up the ball after the project had started. Thanks also to Nadia Comaneci, Chris Hoy, Rebecca Adlington, Usain Bolt, Sally Gunnell, Sir Steve Redgrave, Mark Spitz, Lord Sebastian Coe, Ian Thorpe, Cathy Freeman, Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson, Jackie Joyner-Kersee and Daley Thompson for sharing wonderful stories of success, failure, lessons learned and, perhaps most importantly, revealing their personal weaknesses and vulnerabilities.
I would be remiss if I didn’t take this time to also thank the people who were instrumental in my own career success. Writing this book brought back many fond memories of challenges, wins, losses and very valuable life lessons learned. My coach Clyde Hart was the only coach I could ever have had. Clyde’s approach to coaching as a teacher was a perfect match for my approach to training and competing. I was always trying to learn more about myself as an athlete and Coach taught me everything he knew until the point that we started to learn together. He remains a friend, a coach and a role model. Thanks to my manager and agent, Brad Hunt, who helped me during my career to capitalise on the opportunities that my success on the track afforded me. Thanks to my parents Paul and Ruby, my brother Paul Jr, my sisters Regina, Cheryl and Deidre and our friend Brenda Harris for all of their support and for being the ultimate travelling fan club, following me around the globe and being there for me during all times, good and bad.
And finally, thanks to all of my fans around the world who followed and supported my athletics career over 11 years, and those fans who follow me now as a television pundit and encourage me to continue to share a frank and straightforward perspective on sport.
INTRODUCTION
From the moment the UK contingent unveiled its deceptively simple preview of the 2012 Games during the closing ceremony of the 2008 Games in Beijing, it was clear that this would be Britain’s greatest sporting occasion in living memory. London’s Games will provide a total contrast to the 2008 Games. Despite the incredible spectacle that Beijing put on during its opening and closing ceremonies, the Games themselves lacked the festive, fun and exciting atmosphere that everyone associates with the Olympics. This time around, we’re going to have a celebration of the Olympic spirit and of the athletes, who will have the chance of a lifetime to achieve the apex of their sporting careers.
As somewhat of an honorary Brit, I will be rooting for those athletes from the UK who will have to contend with the monstrous pressure of expectation from a home crowd feverishly anticipating a national gold rush.
Will the more than 500 men and women competing under the Union Jack be able to deliver? British athletes in some sports, like cycling, are poised to capitalise on prior success and the support of Queen and country. But Olympic gold could prove a tall order for many others because the British system of developing athletes, at one time one of the best in the world, has fallen behind over the last couple of decades. And while there have been efforts to get back to where they once were, some of the efforts, in athletics for example, could have been implemented a little too late to have a real effect on the medal haul in London.
On the other hand, this is the Olympic Games, where anything can happen. Even better, this Olympic competition is being held in the UK. A home Olympics is a great and rare opportunity for any athlete. Competing in the Olympics on home soil, if managed properly, can prove competitively advantageous. But capitalising on those advantages isn’t easy. This is the toughest sports competition in the world, where the best athletes in the world challenge each other and themselves. As if that weren’t enough pressure, this pinnacle of athletic competition only takes place every four years. If successful, your name will be in the history books for ever, and there is no sporting event with a richer history than the Olympic Games. Miss your opportunity, on the other hand, and you may never get another.
Whether you’ll succeed or fail, no one knows. But one thing is certain: everyone will be watching. And even as Olympic stars emerge during the London 2012 Games, other future Olympic champions will catch the dream.
My first experience of seeing an Olympics was the 1984 Games in Los Angeles. It was exciting to watch, but I honestly had no idea that four years later I would be trying out for the US Olympic team, eight years later I would compete in my first Olympics, and 12 years later I would be making Olympic history as the Games returned to the US in Atlanta. My journey through those 12 years included a hell of a lot of fun, a lot of pain, some incredibly rewarding achievements, some major setbacks, and memories that will last the rest of my life. In fact, my entire life is pretty much defined by the events of those 12 years from 1984 to 1996.
This book is not just about my journey but about the journey of many Olympic icons, past and present. You will hear about all of our stories. How we got our start in our respective sports, and our unique journeys to Olympic success. Our failures, our successes and, most importantly, in our own words, our own opinions of how and why we were successful in becoming Olympic champions – in many cases more than once.
Gold Rush attempts to explain what it takes to achieve this very rare level of success, investigating the similarities in the approaches taken by each of the champions, and in the make-up of the champions themselves, as well as the differences between them and their approaches. After looking back at my own road to success and then interviewing more than a dozen Olympic champions to hear their stories and find out more about their road to success, I discovered that the similarities far outweighed the differences. I also confirmed something that I have always felt: that most fans aren’t fully aware of the really significant and fine details about their Olympic heroes that make them special. Many Olympic fans have a good 30,000-foot view understanding of Olympic athletes, what makes them tick, and how they achieve such amazing success. This book gets right down to a face-to-face level with Olympic success through the stories told to me – one Olympic champion having a frank, unguarded, casual conversation with another Olympic champion.
I already knew many of these athletes before I interviewed them, and in some cases, as with Seb Coe and Cathy Freeman, they have been long-time friends of mine and we have talked about everything but our Olympic success. So it was truly an enlightening experience for me to talk with these great champions and compare notes not only about our individual Olympic journeys but about what we believe is required for ourselves or anyone else to be successful at the Olympic level. A lot of what I believed already was confirmed from talking with these champions, but I also learned about different approaches from my own that proved successful.
I have always believed that I could put together a pretty good manual for Olympic success. But after talking with so many different Olympic champions who had to overcome multiple different obstacles and challenges en route to their Olympic success, I gained new insight into the mental and physical dedication required to get there.
So as the anticipation of the 2012 Olympic Games rises to fever pitch, let’s look at just what it takes to build an Olympic champion.
1.
MY QUEST FOR GOLD
The Olympic Games are the ultimate in most sports. It’s certainly the pinnacle of a track and field career. And it was the one prize I hadn’t captured. I didn’t want my career to be summarised as: Greatest runner in the 200 and 400 metres ever, but never won an Olympic gold medal.
I couldn’t relax until I had won Olympic gold. But that’s a lot easier said than done. I know from experience how you can be totally ready, go into the Olympics undefeated and clearly the best in the field, and still not win. I had gone from being unranked in the world of track and field, which meant that I was not one of the ten best in the world in my events, to being number one in both the 200-and 400-metre sprints. I’d beaten all the best people in the world in both and had gone undefeated that season. That was an accomplishment that had never been done before, and it garnered me the Men’s Track & Field Athlete of the Year award for 1990. You can’t do better than that.
Two years later, I made the Olympic team. In the four weeks leading up to the Olympics, I prepared for what I knew would be the biggest competition of my life. I focused on the athletes I would be competing against, and worked with my team on how I would need to run the race. Then I prepared to deliver my best.
Not until the opening ceremonies did it really hit me that I was an Olympian. As I looked around at the greatest gathering of athletes representing the best from every nation, I realised even more deeply just how special the Olympics are. This historic competition artfully melds excellence and participation. So even if a country’s top bobsledders, for example, don’t begin to measure up to the rest of the elite bobsledders in the field, they still get to compete.
As we stood in the Barcelona stadium after marching in as a team, it got really quiet. Then an archer lit his bow with the Olympic flame, which had been carried all around the world by thousands of people during the torch relay, aimed for a cauldron high at the top of the stadium and let go. The flaming arrow soared through the air, landed in the cauldron and lit the Olympic flame, which would burn for the duration of the Games. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen.
That would be the last time I would be caught up in the pageantry of the 1992 Olympics. As an athlete, it’s not enough just being an Olympian and taking part. You want to succeed and deliver your best performance. For some athletes that might mean winning Olympic gold. For others, it could mean making it to the finals. For some, just delivering the best possible performance on that day is enough. But I was an athlete who was a world champion. I had proven that I could be an Olympic champion. Now I had to deliver.
I was the favourite to win the 200 metres. During the US Olympic trials, which I won, I had missed the world record by a mere .07 seconds. I knew that all I had to do was not screw up the race (which I hardly ever did), execute the right strategy (which I did most of the time), train hard and be prepared (which I always did and I had done this time), and beat a field of competitors who had never beaten me before.
In short, the only way I could lose the gold medal was if I made a mistake or something happened to me. Something did happen.
BLINDSIDED
I had scheduled my last tune-up race in Salamanca, Spain, for exactly two weeks before I would start competing in Barcelona. The night before the race, my agent and manager Brad Hunt and I went to dinner with a Spanish journalist Brad knew from university who was living in Madrid and had come to Salamanca to see Brad and interview me. He suggested a small Spanish restaurant just off the main square. I remember sitting there enjoying a very good traditional Spanish paella. We had started the meal with some delicious Spanish ham and olives. As I sat there on that temperate summer night, I remember looking at the ham from which they had carved our appetiser hanging near one of the open front doors which extended from one end of the restaurant to the other, all open. I thought, ‘That might not be the most sanitary situation, with cars kicking up dust as they fly up and down the road. This would probably not be allowed in the US.’ Just as quickly, I decided that we have too many laws and rules in America, and that I shouldn’t worry about it. We even returned there for dinner the following night to celebrate my win. I had wanted to have a really good final tune-up race and I had gotten exactly that. Despite a lack of real competition, I ran 19.91 seconds.
As it turns out, my concern about the restaurant’s lackadaisical attitude to hygiene was justified. By the time we reached Madrid airport the next day I was vomiting. I got on the plane and for the next eight hours I was either vomiting, manning the bathroom or sleeping. I felt exhausted even though I had had a full night’s rest. Over the next few days I would seem to be getting better only to see the vomiting and upset stomach return. Eventually, after about five days of this, my lower stomach and intestinal problems finally cleared up.
FAULTY ASSUMPTIONS
Luckily, my condition hadn’t really affected my training, so I wasn’t concerned. However, as I was getting dressed on the day I was leaving for Barcelona, I noticed that a pair of pants that had previously fitted me perfectly felt a bit large in the waist. ‘That’s strange,’ I thought. But I didn’t really worry about it. I figured I probably had lost a little weight because I hadn’t really been eating that much the last few days. No big deal.
When I arrived in Barcelona I got on the scales in the training room. At that point in my career my weight was pretty steady at about 168 pounds, but the scales read 161 pounds. That definitely concerned me. Still, my training was going well, so I felt there was no need to assume that this would affect my performance. So I didn’t mention the weight loss to my coach, Clyde Hart, or anyone else. The last thing I wanted at that point was for people around me to start worrying unnecessarily.
The first round of the 200 metres was scheduled for the morning, and the quarter-final would be held later that same day in the evening. I was excited when I woke up the morning of the first round. It was finally race time in my first Olympics and I was the favourite. I had only lost one 200-metre race over the last two years and since my professional career started. I had won the US Olympic trials, a race in which six of the best 200-metre runners in the world had competed. Because each country can only enter three athletes in each event, three of the best 200-metre runners in the world were not competing in Barcelona. I just had to do what I had been doing to get to this point and I would be the Olympic champion.
I went to the Olympic stadium and went through my normal routine to warm up for the first round. After having been in Barcelona for almost a week, I just wanted to get started. When I began to set my starting blocks for the race, I didn’t think any more about the fact that I was at the Olympics or that my parents and brother and sisters were all in the stands or what was at stake. As the number one ranked 200-metre runner in the world for the previous two years, and the reigning world champion, I was certainly favoured not just to advance to the quarter-finals but basically to be able to jog through this first-round race and win with ease. Even so, I was all business.
I always approached my first-round races that way, even though I didn’t have to since the races are seeded, with the top athletes with the best times coming into the race placed into separate heats. This is done to make sure the top competitors meet in a showdown in the final instead of running against one another in the early rounds. While the competition wasn’t stiff, I always chose to use the early rounds to work on different parts of my race. Since my start was the weakest part of my race, I always tried to get out of the blocks with the most explosive start that I could. Then I’d go through the drive phase and the first 50 to 80 metres as if it were a final before relaxing during the remainder of the race in order to conserve energy for the next rounds.
So when the gun went off, I exploded out of my blocks, which were in the middle of the track in lane four. With the exception of Patrick Stephens, a pretty good sprinter from Belgium, I wasn’t familiar with anyone else in the race. Although most were the best their country had to offer, they were not truly world-class athletes competing on the international circuit. After I exploded from the blocks with my head still down in the drive phase where I couldn’t see any of my competitors, I felt okay but not great.
After driving through the first 20 metres, I came out of the drive phase and started to raise my head – and I was not where I expected to be. In my previous championship first-round races, by the time I raised my head I would have already made up the stagger on the athlete outside of me or even passed him. But I had not made up any of the stagger. I also noticed that I didn’t really feel that quick or strong, so I immediately started to put in more effort and press. I got a little response from this effort, but at the mid-point of the race I was not leading, but rather was even with Stevens. Not being able to shake them felt very strange, scary and uncomfortable. I pressed more and was able to get ahead of him and finish first.
I’d won my heat but I felt horrible. I actually felt like I was running in someone else’s body. I usually felt extremely fast and very strong, and certainly in control of the race. But on this day I felt that regardless of my effort I hadn’t been able to get far enough ahead of the competition.
As I walked off the track to the changing area to take off my spikes and put my warm-up clothes back on, I looked at a television screen that was showing the replay. I wanted to see what I looked like, because I knew I didn’t feel good. As I watched the replay I saw that I had struggled the entire way. I didn’t look fast or strong, and I certainly wasn’t controlling the race.
Now I was really concerned. All at once it hit me and my mind began rewinding through the last two weeks: the scales, my pants not fitting, the vomiting, and all the way back to the initial feeling of sickness in the car driving from Salamanca to Madrid. ‘But why have I felt so good in training this past week?’ I wondered.
I answered my own question almost as soon as I asked it. In the final week before a major competition you’re in what’s called a ‘taper’, where you no longer have the heavy workload and you’re now allowing your body to recover and prepare to be at its best for the competition. So the training focus is not on getting stronger or more powerful, the focus is on technique. My training over the last week had been focused on my start and speed. So I never realised that my strength and speed endurance had diminished dramatically during that time.
I met up with Coach after the race. Although we both knew what was happening, Coach always puts a positive spin on things. ‘Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems,’ he said. ‘Maybe you just needed to get that one race in to get some rust off. Besides, you’re not accustomed to running so early in the morning.’ As much as we both wanted to believe his words, we both knew that was in all likelihood not the case.
OUT OF MY CONTROL
I returned to my hotel to rest before the quarter-final, scheduled for later that evening. While I sat in my room that afternoon thinking about what had happened in the first-round race, part of me was really ready to go out and run the next round in order to compete like I normally do. But part of me was afraid to go back out there and run a sub-standard race, feeling so helpless and out of control.
When we got back out to the track that evening, I tried to approach my warm-up as if everything was fine and normal. But it wasn’t and I was worried. When the race started, I executed the only way I knew how, the same as I always had. I sprang aggressively out of the blocks and drove for the first 20 metres. This was the quarter-final, 32 of the best athletes in the world, so the level of competition was higher than in the preliminary round. When I lifted my head coming out of the drive phase I was behind. I was able to get myself back into the race but only managed to finish second.
I had advanced to the semi-finals, but at this point I was well off the mark and there was no way I could win gold against the best in the world in this type of condition. When I lined up for the semi-final the following day, I knew there was a chance I might not even qualify for the final. Still, the quarter-final had been a better race than the preliminary race, so maybe I could improve in the semi-final and the final.
I set out to do my best, but my best in the semi-final was sixth place. Only the top four advance to the final, so my Olympic dream was over.
After the semi-final I had to go and face the media in a press conference and explain why I wasn’t competing at the level I had shown over the last two years, when I had been the most dominant athlete in the entire sport. As tough as it was, I put on a stoic face and explained everything. Inside, however, I seethed with anger. I couldn’t believe that this had happened to me. I wondered what it meant for my future. For the last three years I had been one of the top athletes in my sport, demanding the highest appearance fee, rewarded with the most lucrative endorsement portfolio, and commanding respect in the sport as one of its biggest stars. What would it be like not being number one?
When I returned to my hotel after the press conference, Coach, my parents, my brother and my sisters were there waiting for me. They all hugged me and told me they loved me. ‘Thanks for coming,’ I told them. ‘It means a lot to me, but I just want to be alone.’ I had no sooner reached my room when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find my father. If it had been anyone else I probably would have asked them to please let me be alone. But my father has always been my hero and I have always admired him. While he’s never been an emotional man or one who shows a lot of his feelings, he always could bring some calm to a situation and say the right thing at the right time to me. So I felt comfortable with him being there with me at that moment.
‘Everyone is very proud of you,’ he said. ‘I know this is tough for you, but I want you to be okay.’ I could tell he was really concerned about me. I said, ‘I’ll be okay.’ And as difficult as the days following that semi-final wound up being, I was.
SECOND CHANCE FOR MY FIRST MEDAL
Now, four years later, I had my chance not only to medal in the Olympics but to make Olympic history. Brad and I had convinced the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) to juggle the Olympic schedule so that I could compete in both the 200-and 400-metre sprints. No male athlete had ever attempted to run both.
After six years of intensive training and competitive dominance, I was ready. More than ready. Before the Olympics as usual I’d done my training in Waco, Texas, where my coach Clyde Hart was still the head track coach for Baylor University. I trained there just about every day. During the final week, instead of pushing hard, we focused on the technical elements of the race. We wanted to let my body rest so that it would be fresh for competition. Just days before a competition all of the work has been done, and if it hasn’t it’s too late to make up the deficiency.
That week I worked on my start out of the blocks, which was never as good as it should have been or as I wanted it to be. The workout, which I had done many times before, was also designed to keep my speed up and to keep me technically sharp. After my warm-up for this particular workout, Coach asked me if I wanted to put on my spikes for the 200-metre portion of the workout. Normally I would definitely wear lightweight spikes for a session requiring me to hit those kinds of times, but this time I decided to wait until we did the starts, even though wearing flats (regular running shoes) would be a disadvantage.
We had a timing system called ‘the beeper’, which would sound every few seconds during our training sessions to help me ascertain whether I was on the pace the session required, and also whether each interval run was accurate. Just like a metronome that helps musicians develop a rhythm with the music, the beeper helped me accurately measure my speed, so I could pace myself correctly and not go too fast or too slowly. This was critical, since a workout session that calls for three 200-metre sprints to be run in 23 seconds is more effective if each run is actually 23 seconds as opposed to one being 21 seconds, one being 25 and one being 23.
For 15 years I’d heard the beeper, which was wired into the Baylor University track’s loudspeakers. I had come to rely on it so much as an essential part of my training that I had my own portable beeper made so that I could take it on the road when I trained away from Waco.
On this particular day I started my first 200-metre run with the beeper set for a 23-second run. I took off. At the 50-metre cone I noticed that I was a little ahead of the beeper. Even so, I maintained my pace. I expected that I would be about the same amount ahead at the second cone, but I was a bit more ahead. I relaxed a little to meet the 23-second goal, but came through the third cone even further ahead. At this point, even though I usually did exactly what Coach’s workout called for when it came to times, I decided not to slow down.
I crossed the finish line figuring that I would be about one second ahead and started to count. ‘One thousand one.’ No beep. ‘One thousand –’ The beep finally sounded. I was 1.5 seconds fast. 21.5. Not an amazing time, given that I had set the world record a month earlier at 19.66 seconds, but to have done it in a training run, during which I’d tried to relax to get back to 23 pace for the last two thirds of the interval, confirmed that I was in the best competitive shape of my life.
After I finished the run, I saw Coach in the middle of the infield with his stopwatch. He didn’t say anything. Normally he would tell me to get back on pace, but this time he remained silent. I walked and kept moving as I always did during the 90 seconds between intervals.
‘Thirty seconds,’ Coach announced, indicating that one minute had passed and I had just 30 more seconds of rest so I should start moving back towards the starting line. Ninety seconds rest means 90 seconds of rest. Not 100 seconds, not two minutes, but 90 seconds of rest. So you don’t start walking to the starting line at 90 seconds. You start running at 90 seconds.
I walked to the starting line and got into start position. The beeper went off and I took off running. I know from experience that the first 50 metres starting from a standing start takes more effort than the other three splits between the other cones, since those segments are from a running start. So normally you start with a little more effort, then settle into a pace and try to relax and maintain it. Since I had run ahead of pace on the first segment of the first interval, I adjusted down and didn’t start as aggressively. I passed the first cone at 50 metres. The beeper didn’t sound until half a second later. Exactly the same as last time.
‘Adjust down,’ I thought. However, it’s mentally tiring to keep making adjustments during the training session intervals, so I decided to maintain my pace. Besides, I was excited about the challenge of maintaining that pace and that distance ahead of the pace not only for the remainder of that interval but for the third one as well. I finished with about the same time as my previous training intervals – 1.5 seconds ahead by my count.
I looked over at Coach and he said nothing again. I felt really good. I realised I was fitter than I had ever been, because although the final interval was coming up in less than 90 seconds, I knew I could run it in 20 seconds if I wanted to. I wouldn’t, since that would be full speed and we never run full speed in training. But the capacity was there.
I started the final 200 and ran just under full effort after having already completed two intervals in the last five minutes. I was well ahead of the first cone when the beeper went off, and it felt effortless. The gap grew at 100 and 150. When I reached the cone at 200 metres, I was 2.5 seconds ahead by my count. That would be 21.5 on the first interval, just under 21.5 on the second and 20.5 on the third.
I started to walk around the track. Coach would normally walk over to join me for the 200 metres back to the starting line side of the track, during which we would talk about how I felt and he would tell me my exact times. This time he didn’t. Instead, he walked into the office at the track under the stands. By the time I reached the other side of the track, Coach was walking out of the office, his training log in hand. ‘Start your cool down,’ he said. Then he showed me the stopwatch. The actual times were 21.4, 21.2 and 20.1. ‘And you weren’t wearing spikes,’ he said.
Coach and I are a lot alike. We expect the best effort, and if that effort is your best, then even if it is as impressive as what I’d just done there’s no reason to get all giddy and celebrate. Our attitude was that I had done what I was capable of, so that’s what we should have expected. I work with one athlete now who always tells me, when I ask him how training is going, that he and his coach feel they are ahead of schedule. To me that means your schedule is wrong and you need to adjust it! Still, my coach and I both agreed that my accomplishment that day confirmed that I was ready to do something really special in Atlanta the following week. ‘The hay is in the barn,’ he said. ‘We’re ready.’
Even so, I sure wasn’t going to assume that I would medal. As I’d learned in 1992, I could do everything right and still not win Olympic gold or any other colour. Something out of my control could happen again. Or I could screw it up myself this time.
TIME TO MAKE IT HAPPEN
On the morning of the 400 metres final, having successfully gotten through and winning the first three rounds over the prior three days, I woke up ready to win my first individual Olympic gold medal. I was the overwhelming favourite. Even though I’d be racing against top competitors, including my US team-mate Alvin Harrison, two Jamaicans – Roxbert Martin and Davian Clarke – and Great Britain’s Roger Black, who had also been running well, everyone expected me to win.
I hadn’t lost a 400-metre race since I was in college over six years ago. Still, I never took my competition for granted. I didn’t believe that any of the athletes in the final could beat me, but I was always aware that there’s more to winning a race than being better than the competition. To win races you have to execute, and one little mistake can cost you a race. If something went wrong in this one, would I even be able to race in another four years when the Olympics rolled around again?
On race day I ordered breakfast through room service and began to lay out my uniform, competition number, socks, spikes, music player, headphones, and everything else I would need at the track. Then I sat in my room for the rest of the day visualising almost every scenario that could possibly happen in that final and devising a plan for what I would do in each scenario.
Although we had travelled to the track from the hotel three times prior to the 400 metres final and had gotten the routine down, I wanted to get to the track early, as much to ensure that I was there in plenty of time as to get out of the room. Even though I had always hated waiting all day for a race because I was so ready to run, I usually didn’t allow myself to leave my room until it was time to go to the track. But this time heading out early gave me the illusion that I could make race time come quicker.
Finally it was time. I finished my warm-up and prepared to report to the ‘call room’, a holding room where all athletes in the race are required to report and wait together just before being taken out to the track for the start of the race. Just before walking over, Coach pulled me aside and we prayed together as we had done since I was in college. I had heard other athletes ask God to let them win, which I thought was ridiculous. Coach, however, simply asked God to keep me healthy and, if it was His will, to allow me to run at my best. ‘God blessed me with this talent,’ I thought as the prayer ended. ‘His job is done, and it’s up to me and me alone to win this race.’
