We love Usain Bolt in this house.
We love his speed, his muscles, and his heroic ability to mess about, in situations of high stress. We love his name. (How perfect is it that he’s called Bolt?) When Bolt wins, even if it’s recorded, we can’t help but cheer. We buy into the whole drama – how Gatlin (trained, drugged, tashed) is The Bad Guy: Bolt is The Good Guy. The thought of him retiring makes us feel we’re leaving a Special Place, never to return. We love him.
At the river, we marked out one hundred yards, then took the dog to the start. Cassady was charged with holding the athlete, Grace with timing, and I had the important job of exciting the athlete, by flinging a ball at the Finish Line.
The first try was a False Start. (The athlete saw the ball, and went early). The second time the timer failed.
On the third, the athlete timed the 100 metres at 7.9 seconds, and that didn’t allow for a slight diversion, when she had to go round the thistles. We now put it to you. Can anyone find an animal to beat us? Would Mr Bolt like to come to our track to come and try a race? We’re not sure we could pay him much, but, if it would help him run, we would be happy to fling a ball.