Today I tried to break Usain Bolt's record

(718 words)

The Olympics will be more satisfying when each event includes a participating representative from the core viewing demographic.

I came to this conclusion after basking in the greatness of Trayvon Bromell.

Who?

He’s the 21-year-old Waco, Texas, sprinter who finished dead last in the Olympics 100 meter dash. Shameful, right?

Wrong. He was just 0.25 seconds behind the glorious Usain Bolt.

And Bromell was last.

It would add useful perspective if every race in every event included someone from the target audience, some beer-bellied, under-motivated middle-aged cigar-smoking lout.

Someone like me!

I vowed to see how long it would take me to run 100 meters. First, here’s a tale of the tape between me and the world’s fastest man:

  

Usain Bolt  Me

  

Age               29 53   

Height           6-5 5-8 

Weight           207 lbs. 190 lbs.

Overcame  born w/scoliosis         1981-2004

Net worth       $50 million     owns some nice golf clubs

Bolt ran the Rio 100 in 9.81, microscopically slower than his 2009 world record of 9.58. 

I’m not even sure my 2007 Saturn Vue could go 100 meters in 9.81 seconds.

This, of course, is a moot point because the car sometimes stubbornly doesn’t move even an inch. It’s just beat to hell.

So am I!

Really, I was worried the only way I could run a complete 100 meters was if someone sicced a big mean dog on me. Plus, I was fearful I might pull a muscle, trip, get distracted by a butterfly or I might start feeling like I was some kind of idiot.

The latter fear stemming from an insinuation by my 10-year-old daughter who hinted I was acting like I was some kind of idiot.

I’d asked her if she wanted to be my official timekeeper.

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.

Because, I said, it might be historic. You might get to see your old man set a new world record.

She rolled her eyes in wild exasperation, a move she learned from her mama.

“You’re not going to set any records!”

How did she know? I’ve never tried to run 100 meters before. What if sprinting was the prodigal talent that’s been evading me my entire life?

“53-year-old blogger beats Bolt!” would be a great story, one that would give the whole grumpy world a giddy lift. 

There’d be skeptics, sure. But I’d have had a witness. Lucy’s honest as all get out.

Alas, it was not to be.

So I was out there at the Greater Latrobe High School track all by myself at dawn (above).

Bolt’s been training since he was 10.

I took one stroll around the track.

I also differed from your typical Olympic sprinter in our respective starting positions.

Olympic sprinters bend their taut frames down into coiled 4-point stances.

I stood there upright like I was waiting for a bus. I realized I may have sacrificed some time, but I was fearful if I bent over I might not get back up.

I took three deep breaths then … Ready … Set …

Go!

I have to say I was pretty good. Running fast is very fun for human beings of any age.

I’ll link below about the last time I did it. The incentive then was a round of free drinks from my Point Park University students.

The incentive today was much greater: international and eternal sporting glory!

I didn’t pull any muscles, trip or give up. In fact, I kicked through the finish line.

Time: 25.81 seconds (Bolt ran the 200 meter in 19.78).

On my way up the hill, sweaty and out of breath, I coincidentally saw Lucy’s elementary school librarian.

And she saw me!

It added useful credence to my story when I went home and told a disbelieving Lucy I’d run the 100 meter dash in 9.57 seconds.

A new world record!

I told Lucy to ask Mrs. G. if she saw me. Mrs. G. — she’s honest, too — will confirm, yes, she did.

I may have finished the 100 meter dash, but I gave up being honest about 50 years ago.

Despite disparities in our fame and net worth, I stubbornly believe it’s still better to be quick on your feet than swift in your shoes.

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More Olympic excitement? Just add 340 lbs

Count me as among those who can’t wait for the Summer Olympic Games to commence in London on July 27.

I love the spectacle, the stories and the competition.

Not everyone does.

In fact, many people are already declaring their disdain for the summer games.

Part of this goes back to the oft-repeated contention that the only thing more boring than track is field.

I’ve never understood this because it’s playground elemental.

Every child understands the joy of running fast. Every child wants to be swift. Better than even playing a game of catch, no one needs to teach a child how to run.

You just decide to fly and you take off.

I was the fastest fifth grader at Howe Elementary School. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.

It was a surprise victory because prior to that no one knew I was fast. Me neither.

This is a true story. The crusty old gym teacher was timing us in the 100 yard dash. Now, I don’t recall how long it takes your typical 11 year old to run 100 yards, but let’s say it’s about 20 seconds.

I did it in 14 seconds. Blew the field away.

My secret?

A fifth grade PED.

Someone had let a dog loose on the field the exact instant the teacher yelled, “Go!” to my group. For some reason this dog -- I remember it seeming coyote fierce -- took off right after my sport britches.

I used to run then much like I work today, aimlessly and without evident purpose.

I wonder how my career would be if someone sicced a big dog on my butt.

Because it did wonders for my fifth grade time. I truly remember finding an extra gear. I surged. I ran like the wind. To this day, I don’t remember stopping. I may have just run straight to the sixth grade.

Of course, today the victory would be in dispute because of rules preventing the use of performance enhancing dogs.

I was thinking of this the other day when a preposterous friend of mine was talking about the rivalry between the world’s two fastest men, Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake. The pair will be a marquee encounter throughout the Olympics.

A former athlete, he was saying he’d like to race the two of them.

I’m still unclear why he said this because it makes zero sense. He weighs in excess of 340 pounds, smokes like a chimney and drinks like me.

There’s nothing about his profile that suggests speed. Rehab and naps, maybe, but certainly not speed.

That’s why what he said was so inspiring. It gave me an idea that will make the Olympics must-watch viewing.

Every event needs a jumbo-sized male to compete against the world’s greatest athletes. Really, it’s hard to appreciate how truly great these athletes are when we only see them matched against other world class athletes.

A contrast would be informative.

But to make it fair, we’d need to give the tubby tracksters advantages.

I’m thinking in particular of the race to determine the world’s fastest man, the 100-meter dash.

The Olympians would spot the 340-pounders the first 80 meters.

They’d have just a 20 meter dash.

Think of it. With just 20 meters, there’s actually a chance they might snag a medal.

We talked about this at the bar the other day and the idea was greeted with enthusiasm by my fellow inebriates who helped refine the ground rules.

We decided it would be unfair to make the big boys start crouched down like tigers. Inevitably, that would cause them to fall flat on their multiple chins at the sound of the gun.

Plus, it would take too long to maneuver into the unnatural position and the Olympians might cramp up during the delay.

So we decided they could start up-right in what we called the smoker’s posture. It’s the lazy half-slouch/half-lean you see smokers engage when they’ve been banished from their offices to the scalding sidewalks to smoke.

Also, these guys would get three lanes all to themselves. This would allow them room to wobble in case inertia gets the better of them.

The slo-mo replays would be riveting.

You’d see Bolt and Blake burst out of the blocks in concentrated fury.

The big boys would just sort of stumble -- one would hope in the right direction -- with looks of confusion and fright.

You’d see the athletes gaining on the finish line in split-second increments.

The photo finish would be best. It usually takes finely tuned athletes another 50 meters before they expend all the speed and energy and slow to a stroll.

But the non-athletes would simply collapse at the finish line. They’d lay there pleading with track medics to bring them a cigarette and something alcoholic.

Just think of the offbeat sponsorship opportunities.

Ah, let the games begin.