Usain Bolt ... What Might Have Been.

Today's post is going to be different.

I'm not going to discuss anything related to health, but rather I'm going to express my opinion on something that disturbed me recently. Flat out got my goat!

You see, I had the privilege of watching Usain Bolt in action on the track, doing what he does best. And that of course is showing people just how beautifully a human being can run when everything comes together in one package.

Here's a man who is noticeably larger than his competitors, yet far more graceful. He's stronger, yet less bulky. More powerful ... with less apparent effort.

He just flows ... and it's a joy to behold.

Ever watched a cheetah in slow-motion? Usain Bolt is more majestic. His win at last year's Olympics was 9.69 seconds of undiluted fantasy. What athlete has not dreamed of having an extra gear and obliterating the competition while barely letting the tiger out the bag? Throttling down as you exceed all previous known boundaries of human performance.

No journalist was able to find adequate superlatives to describe what no-one had ever seen before. I still get chills remembering the moment when he cut the afterburners and coasted into territory no man had dreamed of before. No words seemed appropriate, or even necessary. Pure, sweet emotion.

A moment that transcended all sport. Sublime dominance tempered with animal grace. A Tyson uppercut. A Federer passing shot. Phelps a body length ahead of that red line. A Jordanesque display that eclipsed all else that had been seen before by us mere mortals.

Surely no moment in sport would ever match those brief seconds?

And then the showboating started. Not content to savour the perfection of the moment, the press wanted more. The "Lightening Bolt". The wiggling hips. The two fingers to the face thing. The in-the-blocks God-given talent thing. It never stops!

Over-indulgence to the point where I cringe when they replay that most sacred moment in track and field. Like an over-blown orgy. Foreplay forgotten. Romance turned to porn. Exquisite taste perverted to nausea.

For me, what should forever be remembered as perfection, has now morphed into another fairly average, fairly crude, totally uninteresting commodity. A heroin addict wretching in a strange silence.

I used to drop everything to relive those moments. Now, it's like watching an ad for online bingo. Loud. Crude. Missable. Because I know, along with the magic, I am going to be subjected to the rest of it.

How sad is that?

When will we learn that less is more? When will we be content to savour the moment? How I wish that Osafa Powell had been blessed instead. How I wish he had the magic dust to go sub 9.5!

To me, he's the man. Kind. Mishievious. Unassuming. Breathtaking. How it breaks my heart to see him play second fiddle with such dignity.

I actually feel sorry for Usain Bolt. I watch him wiggle and perform as the faceless crowds writhe before him, eating up his crassness, baying for more, bleeding him dry.

When he's interviewed he actually seems like a really nice guy. An authentic human being. A dedicated athlete who trains hard and smart. Maybe even an inspiration for aspiring athletes? Down-to-earth. Humble. Out of character in his role as court jester.

While we're on the subject ... let's hope the "bullet from a gun" that Alberto Contador's PR team seems to be spawning following his Tour De France victory won't diminish another great talent.

At the end of the day they are still human.