Usain Bolt is from another planet. On this planet, Bolt is again the fastest man alive. Barring a green-eyed supersonic slimy alien, he is also the fastest in the universe. Bolt, the exuberant persona and the perfect track record, is pure hyperbole. On Sunday, in the men's 100 m final, it was Bolt vs himself – imagine a giggling alter ego, then Bolt vs Justin Gatlin, and, finally, Bolt vs the rest of the field. They all, including the giggler, craned to get a glimpse of him.

At 10.30 pm in Rio on Sunday, Bolt walked – or rather he was called, together with the other seven men, to the start blocks – into the Egenhao, a refurbished old football stadium, serving as the Olympic Stadium. There was a crackle in the air. Then a roar of fame and speed and of a Carioca crowd hunkering for the ultimate, end-all and apocalyptic Olympic experience – the Jamaican as a witch doctor delivering salvation.

Bolt smiled. He nodded his head. When the camera zoomed in, he tapped his shoulders twice, bragging mildly. He pointed his fingers towards the audience. He put a finger to his lips to quieten the crowd. Bolt dug his feet in and delicately placed his hands in the corners of his lane. He stared into the distance and towards the finish line, an existential path of nine and a few hundreds of a second and 100 metres to eternity. A quick cross sign, a glance at the sky, a split-second of spirituality.

A mild wind, after a blistering warm day in the Marvelous City, fondled the athletes. A few unfurled Jamaican flags offered a colorful, home-y feeling to Bolt. In Rio, the Jamaican was at ease. The runners were called to "set". The 60,000 fans hushed. The silence was tense, with a jolt in the stomach.

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The runners held their position for a second. Bolt reacted slowly to the starting gun. At six-feet-five-inches, that has always been a weakness of the Jamaican. His body can’t unfurl that rapidly. He was slow, so slow that the nigh impossibility of Bolt not winning surfaced.

Switching on the serious mode

This time Bolt didn’t smile. He didn't glance left or right, didn’t pose for a snapchat photo. Bolt was chasing in a final, not sleep-walking to victory in a heat. Robotically, he lifted his head. Gatlin, his body and muscles in sync, was powering forward to his left. Even countryman Yohan Blake and other finalists were ahead of him.

But Bolt won the race, as usual, in the second 50 meters, pulverising and bulldozing his opponents. Bolt is so tall with his legs as lengthy antennae that he takes only 40 or 41 strides over 100 meters. Other sprinters may need 43 or 44 or even 46.

He passed the Olympic rings, painted onto the track. Gatlin was in range. At 70 meters, Bolt was at the same height. The Jamaican in full flight – a terrific sight – made the outcome inevitable. Gatlin was fading fast.

In the final few meters, Bolt pounded his chest. He had won – the Jamaican, at last immortal and legendary, with a rightful place in the pantheon of sporting gods. He had won the 100 m final in three successive Olympic Games – an unprecedented feat. The Bolt supremacy delighted the Brazilians, and other Bolt-gasmic fans, in the bleachers.


St Leo (his middle name) blew kisses and carried a plush Vinicius, the Olympic mascot, around the track. Finally, he struck his signature pose "To Di World". The lightning Bolt had conquered Rio on his own terms. Yet when he crossed the finish line, astonishment and pure wonder were absent. This had not been a repeat of that magical Beijing night when Bolt soared into the global imagination, at the age of 21, with an astounding race of 9.69 seconds, brimming with youthfulness, fearlessness and perplexing talent. He galloped to victory on the Chinese track. Bolt coasted and celebrated, encumbered by record times.

Rio’s 9.81 belonged to the category of London 2012’s 9.63. Speed and velocity are no longer Bolt’s goals, but have become vehicles to achieve glory, historical ranks and the reign over Mount Olympus.