"And here we go - there's the bell for the final lap! But still no one's making a move. The three leaders are keeping pace with each other, literally neck and neck."
In his first race back from retirement, he's somehow managed to keep pace with the front two for the past 31 laps. Now he clings to the inner edge of lane 2 as they go round the bend. He's ready to overtake them on a clear path.
"Here they come into the back straight, and Mr Coe starts his move. Is it too early? Those calves of his must be in some pain!"
He glides past the leading duo and drifts back into lane 1. He can hear the two of them panting, sucking air like a Hoover. Now he is in the final bend. As he enters it he looks to his left and sees them falling away behind him. Their arms are pumping violently, but their heads are lolling from side to side. A sure sign of tiredness. It motivates him tremendously.
"Mr Coe enters the final 100 in the lead looking very good. They're not going to catch him today."
He can go faster. All the frustration and fury from years of not winning build to a deafening roar in his head. He hears and sees nothing in the stadium except his lane leading to the finish line. His feet are pounding the ground rhythmically, pulling the track from in front of him and kicking it far behind.
The crowd erupts when he breasts the tape. He beats his chest and screams, "Me! Me!". The camera circles him, capturing his intoxicated state.