Gold Rush. Michael Johnson

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