I Am Armin Hary
I Am The Fastest Man Alive

There is something other-worldly, something magical even about the fastest man in the world. Google him today and meet Usain Bolt. His best 100-meter time of 9.58 seconds remains the standing world record, ditto his 200 meters of 19.19.

In 1960, the fastest man in the world was Armin Hary.

In the spring of 1960, I had no idea who this man was. By the fall of that year, I was Armin Hary.

What happened? you ask.

The 1960 Rome Olympics 100 meters final is what happened, I answer.

This race was won in 10.2 seconds as confirmed (agreed upon) by a row of ten behatted, alertly seated human time-keepers (all male mind you, those were such times) arranged on a step-ladder-like contraption at the tape to provide all a good view—stopwatches in eager, well-qualified, fast-reacting hands.

This race was won by the West German sprinter Armin Hary, who would later go on to be the first human to run the 100 meters in 10.0 seconds flat, considered at the time an unsurpassable feat. He was also the last white male sprinter to hold the world record.

At one event later that year, he even ran the 100 meters in 9.9 seconds, but this was later deemed a false start, and so didn’t enter the sprint history books.

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And here and now, sixty-three years later, let me add the astonishing fact that I just took a look at that 100-meter Rome final courtesy of Google and YouTube. This truly blows me away. Is there anything you cannot find on YouTube?

Too bad there were no digital cameras in use 65 million years ago to record the dinosaurs for posterity, or they would be all over YouTube as well, sure of it.

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The 1960 me was an inveterate dreamer. And the thing about dreams is that you set the boundaries—no dream too small, no dream too large or outrageous. In this particular event, you are godlike.

I was eleven that summer, and a boundary-free dreamer.

And I was a sprinter. Pretty fast for my age and height, actually.

So fast, in fact, that in the fall of 1960 I made it to the regional track and field finals in the 60-meter competition (no 100 meters for us kids).

Now, I am not sure precisely who I was that fall, for when it comes to the 1960 version of myself, I had no idea who or what I was from one day to the next. A cornucopia of little selves (some actual, some dreamed) constantly changing, fighting for the upper hand as it were. Seems that on any given day I was whomever fate chose to serve up that morning.

However, this I know: on that 60-meter final morning, I was Armin Hary.

I dreamed him so hard that he had leaked into me, for part of this story is that when Hary ran the 100 meters final I noticed that his left calf sported a white (or at least light enough to appear white on our little black and white television screen) supportive elastic wrap; probably just as a precautionary measure, or he would not have run, would he?

Of course, I had no idea why his calf was wrapped, but it sure looked fast to me, and it won him the gold medal, didn’t it?

So, in keeping with my now untethered Hary dream, I wrapped my left calf for the regionals—just like Hary, just like a real sprinter. This would make me Hary-fast, sure of it.

If there were any snickers or ridicule about as I wrapped my calf just before the race, I didn’t hear them. And had I heard, I would not have cared. I was Hary and Hary wrapped his calf good and tight.

All set to go now.

Armin Hary me, sitting on the dewy grassy infield, certain of success.

And then my preliminary heat was called. I rose and stretched (just like real sprinters do) and ambled over to the starting line. As kids, we did not use starting blocks in those days but used little holes dug in the track (one for each foot) for us to push off against.

Six runners, all crouched down into our little holes, waiting for the gun. I had the inside (left-most) lane. I was a fast starter, sometimes a little too eager to get going and often called for false starts; but I had never charged early out of the holes the three times in a row that would have disqualified me at the time.

I had the starting thing figured out: The way you beat the field is you go not when you hear the starting pistol but when you anticipate it. If you were in good tune with the gun you’d both go off at the same time, and that was the plan today. I looked to my right, not an Olympic sprinter (or an elastic supporting wrap) among them. I’ll beat this bunch, easily.

No sweat.

“On your marks.”

My blood is now pure adrenaline.

“Set.”

I raise my butt a little, resting on my stretched arms. Thumbs and index fingers barely touching the starting tape. My arms quivered a little with anticipation, readying my explosion out of the holes and onto victory. I wait a quiet second, then anticipate the gun.

And I’m off.

And there, an eyeblink later, is the gun.

Well, that’s how I perceive things anyway: obvious false start on my part, obvious; I’m already a few meters ahead of the field for heaven’s sake. Oh, well. Hary often false-started, too. Just me being true to form.

So, I looked heavenward (like real sprinters do when they’re caught starting ahead of the gun), mumbled a soft curse (like they also do) and slowed down to a walk, ready to take my first warning and try again.

But not so fast (or not so slow, rather): the starter waved me on: Run, Run, Run You Idiot. Even though I was first out of the blocks/holes by a good meter or two, and adrenaline-infused to charge the 60 meters to victory, I had apparently not leaped before the gun (so gesticulated and yelled the starter), so “keep running” was the unmistakable message.

Well, by now I had slowed to an almost standstill while the rest of the heat was 5-10 meters ahead of me.

Oh, shit.

I did charge after them, even caught up with the trailing two, but there was no catching the other three, so I came in fourth and was consequently knocked out of the competition.

Had I charged ahead from the start, I’d have won, easily, by a mile or two—they all told me so, consoling me.

Oh, shit, indeed.

I sat down in the dewy grass and unwrapped my guaranteed-victory elastic wrap. Slowly, slowly. Shaking my head in true frustrated-sprinter fashion.

Armin-for-the-day blew that one.

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