For thirty seconds, no one knew who had won this race. For thirty seconds, about three times as long as the race itself had lasted, it was unclear who the fastest man in the world was. The sprinters, who had just crossed the finish line, looked up at the big scoreboard in the curve of the stadium, where they usually read the results of their race. But this time, instead of a time, it only said “PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO” behind the names of the top seven positions. This was the unmistakable sign that the photo finish would decide the outcome.
They stood around indecisively. Accustomed to either celebrating immediately or accepting defeat, they were only left with a vague hint and even more impatience. Jamaican Kishane Thompson shouted “Come on” towards the scoreboard, unable to wait any longer. American Noah Lyles walked over to him, placed his hands on his shoulders, to cautiously congratulate him. “I told him: You did it!” Lyles later recounted. But he hadn’t.
It took an eternity before the technology rendered its verdict: American Noah Lyles was the new Olympic champion. He immediately ripped off his bib number and celebrated himself, the race, and the five thousandths of a second by which he had finished ahead of Kishane Thompson from Jamaica. Five thousandths. Half as long as the flap of a hummingbird’s wings.
It is not an exaggeration to speak of a historic race. Because the competition was not only tight at the top, but also further down. There were two hundredths of a second between second and third place, and one hundredth between third and fourth. In total, there were only twelve hundredths of a second separating the Olympic champion from the last-placed runner. Such uniform finishes are rare. There were even five minor world records: never before had sprinters who finished fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth in a race been so fast. For former athletics legend Michael Johnson, it was the greatest race of all time.
The 100-meter race urgently needed a new star
It was certainly a spectacular race. One that 100-meter runners needed once again. Recently, the event—which has always been one of the highlights, perhaps even the highlight, of the Olympic Games—was in danger of losing some of its luster. When Usain Bolt was still competing, the race was considered the “greatest show on earth”. But since the Jamaican retired after the 2017 World Championship, there has been a lack of runners who could captivate the imagination of the audience like Bolt did. Runners who exude enough coolness off the track to lure them away from Netflix and co.
Such concern in the industry for the 100 meters was evidently so great that a documentary series titled The Sprint, featuring Noah Lyles among others, recently started on Netflix. Also, around that Sunday evening at the sold-out Stade de France, Lyles was followed by several camera crews, documenting everything he did. When entering and leaving the press conference room, when looking for the stadium exit, when turning around because he and consequently all the camera crews were sent in the wrong direction, and so on. It was almost surprising that the camera crews did not run alongside him during his race.
Lyles is supposed to become the new Bolt, which is, of course, impossible. Lyles knows this too, but he puts in the effort. For some, perhaps a bit too much, for whom he is just a loudmouth. Before the Tokyo Games, Lyles spoke of three gold medals but only brought home bronze once. While the other sprinters briefly posed for the camera, waved to the audience, and trotted to their starting positions before the Paris final, Lyles bounced around like a wound-up toy down the entire track, causing one to almost fear he might tire himself out too soon. He made all sorts of antics, wore a flashy necklace, had beads in his hair, and varied colored nails. Lyles was seen as someone who wanted to be the next big sprint star, but whose brashness did not match up with athletic performance—until that day.
After 80 meters, Lyles showed his greatest strength
The 27-year-old won the first title for an American over this distance in 20 years. At first, it didn’t even seem that way. Lyles was in last place up to the 40-meter mark and only then started to move forward. After 80 meters, he was still only in third place but then showed his greatest strength: he slows down less in the second half of the race than anyone else.
The secret of a 100-meter race, in fact, consists of achieving maximum speed in the shortest possible time initially, but most importantly, after reaching maximum speed, not slowing down too much. In the last 20 meters, Lyles took two-tenths of a second from the later second and third place, Kishane Thompson and Fred Kerley, respectively. He needed to make up that time well. For Lyles, the race could not have ended one meter sooner.
“One of the biomechanists told me before the race that it might be this close,” Lyles said, pinching his thumb and forefinger together tightly. It was indeed that close—perhaps even a little closer. The photo finish camera Scan’O’Vision Ultimate from Omega, a Swiss watch manufacturer serving as the official timekeeper of the Olympic Games, can produce 40,000 images per second. There’s probably nothing to complain about there. None of the parties involved wanted to hear anything about a shared gold medal.
It was good, in any case, that Lyles leaned forward just in time. “Something in me said: ‘You need to lean forward.’ That’s what kind of race it was. It was crazy,” Lyles said. However, if toes were to count like in offside decisions in football, Thompson would have won. Or would it have been Fred Kerley, who won bronze?
Lyles was then asked if he was nervous before the race. “I wouldn’t call it that. I was very curious about what would happen; that’s how my therapist and I phrased it,” Lyles said. The therapist had also done a great job elsewhere. When asked what his opponents could expect from him in the 200 meters now, Lyles said: “When I come out of the curve, they will be stressed.”
For thirty seconds, no one knew who had won this race. For thirty seconds, about three times as long as the race itself had lasted, it was unclear who the fastest man in the world was. The sprinters, who had just crossed the finish line, looked up at the big scoreboard in the curve of the stadium, where they usually read the results of their race. But this time, instead of a time, it only said “PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO, PHOTO” behind the names of the top seven positions. This was the unmistakable sign that the photo finish would decide the outcome.