Usain Bolt, if you've seen him run—actually, if you've seen the man walk, with the sort of coltish premium swagger only elite sportspeople seem to possess, the sort of calm comfort visible in those who inhabit bodies capable of extreme, impossible things, a lower center of peace and gravity that comes from knowing you are not only at your own physical peak but, arguably, you are at the physical peak of every single human on earth—is basically something More Than Human now, a record demolishing dynamo, a one-man army marching imperviously over all previous athletic highs, a robot rendered out of marble-like muscle and flesh, an anomaly. He just ran 200 meters in 19.58 seconds, and did the last 15 meters or so at his version of a casual jog. He's a freak, a one-off, a masterpiece. He's a literal living legend.
Seriously though, lol—he just got run over by a cameraman on a Segway:
This is the great tragedy of the modern age: that such epochal events can be eclipsed in six little seconds by one perfect moment of high farce. Dude just ran 200m in less than 20 seconds, but a chubby middle-aged guy in a polo shirt and a red high-vis vest just made you forget that instantly. Usain Bolt, high on the pulsing adrenalin of victory, punching his torso where his Puma-sponsored Lycra says "Jamaica," double-footed from behind by some sort of next level robo-klutz.
Watching the Segway snap inwards, on collision course with the most expensive legs in the universe, you can see on his face already that he knows he's going to hit Bolt in the worst way—from behind, suddenly, pushing him forward and yanking him back, rolling over the Achilles and snapping at the hamstrings. The cameraman's world stops for an instant as he imagines stern tellings off and P45s, crying over a bleak formica kitchen table at his wife, saying, "Nobody will hire me, Linda," saying, "not since I ran the world's most unstoppable athlete over with an absurd machine."
And then they drop, together and entwined in their confusion, the camera clonking him latter directly on the head, him looking back at the camera as if to say, "Are you OK?"—because somehow his priority is the camera and not Usain actual Bolt—and then he holds out a hand to Bolt, as if to say, "Please," as if to say, "Forgive me," a finger reaching out across the void between man and god, Michelangelo's The Creation Of Adam rendered in real life for the Vine generation.
Also lol, you should see it at high speed from the reverse angle:
Sometimes we have to choose what side we are on. Sometimes we just have to face reality and know. Are we Usain Bolts, beautiful athletes with wending limbs and taut muscles, bodies as brands, bodies as machines built to go short distances at immense speed, bodies sponsored for millions of pounds and insured for millions more? Or are we a slightly flubby cameraman in khakis on a Segway, devastating all before us, tangled up in our own lanyard? Watch the man toil on the asphalt in despair, look at him desperately reach one clumsy hand forward through the evolution of man towards Bolt—a superhuman, a person and then some, a man born 250, 300 years before his time—and you will immediately know what you are. Sometimes, the closest you ever get to greatness is running it over with a hands-free Segway.
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