At every Olympics early on in its second week, after the swimming is over, comes the Games' big night which can blow everything else out of the water and into second place. It's the men's 100m final, the last event of the evening.
On August 16, 2008, the Bird's Nest was full and every bird in the house was twittering. Not typing into their smartphones but chattering like 80,000 human beings do when waiting for something to happen.
It had been a quiet evening - the women's shot put played out at one side of the grandstand, the women's heptathletes went through their 800m heats, the men sailed over hurdles in their 400m semi-finals. The waiting was patient because everyone knew the showstopper of the evening was coming. The two fastest men on earth, both Jamaicans, were going head to head in front of their eyes.
In Athens 2004, Asafa Powell had been favourite to win an Olympic medal but had finished fifth. For almost three years leading to Beijing, Powell had held the world 100m record but he needed a big-ticket title for a place in history.
His rival was a tearaway of unfathomable talent, younger by four years, who had arrived into contention three months before the Olympics. This Pegasus of cool had turned into a godsend for a sport seeking a new star and owned a name that appeared destined to make headlines.
Usain St Leo Bolt, a 200m & 400m specialist until a year before, had broken into public notice and Olympic expectation due to a bout of madness in May. In only his fourth 100m race at the seniors, at a May 3 invitational in Jamaica, he became the second-fastest 100m runner of all time. His 9.76s tidily tucked in behind Powell's world record of 9.74. On May 31 in New York, Bolt produced a 9.72s finish and snatched the world record away from Powell. Their contest was on the boil and at the Olympics they would race against each other for the first time across 100m.
The 100m semi-finals had taken place a couple of hours earlier. After the first round, Bolt was the quickest, Powell not so far behind. The most dangerous American contender, Tyson Gay, tackling injury, had been eliminated in the semi-finals.
It was ticking towards 1030pm. Slowly, on the PA system of the gargantuan stadium and echoing through its cavernous spaces, there sounded a drum roll, like it was the rumble of a boxing bout being announced... "Mesdames et monsieurs..." said the voice from the skies.
We were on. The 100m final was minutes away.
I made sure I had got to the secret seats, the best row in the house, hidden from general view. Beijing was my second Olympics after Athens 2004 and again, the secret seats with their golden ticket view remained. Right below the rim of desks at very front of the press tribune, a row of empty bucket seats stretching across the last 10-15m of the 100m track.
It was meant to be the 'spillover' row for photographers but no photographer worth his salt on 100m finals night is anywhere but by the track. From the empty seats, you were virtually square with the finish line, with only the motion-tracker camera rail between you and the athletes about 30ft away. Call their names and they could hear you.
***
The post-Medames et Monsieurs routines have begun. The giant screen is showing short clips of the semis, the PA is playing rousing war-movie-cavalry-charge-music and introductions are being made in three languages. At the far end near the start line, the athletes are specks, but immediately identifiable from the cluster of volunteers and the race marshals in their blue coats.
Among them, considerably taller and distinctly leaner than the rest, Usain Bolt is visible even from afar. He is loping around, shaking himself loose. While being introduced on the giant screen, every other man has his game face on, while some are ignoring the cameras. Bolt gets cheers from the small Jamaican press contingent to my right and a smattering of applause as world record holder. He hams a cool-guy-frown for the camera. The biggest night of their lives and he's showboating?
The voice over moves to Mandarin, the field is being cleared, you can only see the runners now from a distance, everyone around them has disappeared. They are standing, waiting to be called up to their blocks, and silence is descending. On your marks. The runners step forward and crouch into position and you imagine a collective breath being inhaled. Set. Breathing itself has ceased.
The crack of the starter's pistol releases an eruption of noise. They will take less than 10 seconds but what Olympic 100m finals do is morph people into motion-capture cameras. Sound actually goes because only sight dominates. The night is lit by cameras spitting sparks, but they blur quickly as the runners and the unmanned tracker camera come closer to the finish.
The runners are a blur of colour being processed through their uniforms. First colours and shapes, names after. Closer to the eye is blue. Red and white is surging, but on the far side, grabbing your eyeballs and mind-space, is him.
The name is the man. Bolt. An elongated streak of gold, drawn to full height, all 6ft5, legs eating up the red track, gravity changing form, leaving the world behind. He is quicker than the message from the eyes to the brain. Questions are hurtling past at the speed of Bolt. Did he look over to his right? Does he slow down? Did he slap his chest? What time? Am I shouting? Yes to all.
Then sound crashes through. Thousands and thousands of throats making inchoate sounds of wonder and applause like wild waves crashing onto rocks. He is faster than he has ever been, finishing at 9.69s. We have just experienced a world record in a 100m Olympic final. Hundred-metre finals are decided in photo finishes but the 2008 winner was past the line when the next man was about the half-length of himself behind.
By the time that much is fathomed, Bolt has reached the other side of the Bird's Nest wrapped in a Jamaican flag. Photographers are trying to catch up with the fastest man alive, the giant screen has him unfolding himself arms aloft, into a curious, cheery pose. Like releasing an arrow into the sky.
***
On that night in Beijing, everything looked new and felt otherworldly. A dream sequence from Inception. As if it would never happen again. But it did over and over again for almost a decade. In both the 100 and 200m. Victory cloaked in nonchalance. The cheeky faces at the start line, the sourcing of whatever engine fuels his lungs and his legs to erase rivals, the quick sign of the cross on his knees, the ToDiWorld victory pose, the braggadocio of celebration. But always adoring of the crowd, who adored him.
We didn't know it in Beijing on that night, but Usain Bolt was no shooting star. His first Olympic gold medal made him the meteor that headed towards international athletics and became its torchbearer, its talisman, its totem.
At the World Championships in London, he will run his last race. Beijing 2008 was where he took off - towards the stratosphere of his sport. Forever flying, far ahead.