Noah Lyles doesn’t just run races; he owns them before the starter’s gun has even sounded. The Olympic sprint champion is as much a performer as a competitor, bringing with him an air of energy, confidence, and swagger that makes every appearance he makes on the track a headline event. But if you’ve ever watched him before a big race, you must have wondered what’s with all the theatrics. The pumped-up walkout, the interaction with the crowd, and the larger-than-life energy almost feel like he’s preparing for a WWE showdown instead of a 100m sprint.

It turns out there is so much more to it than showmanship. In this week’s Beyond the Records, Lyles finally broke down the reason behind these antics: explaining that controlling the crowd equates to controlling the race, he claimed it was all part of his winning formula. According to him, a mental game aimed at getting energy shifted his way well before competing began.

How Noah Lyles turns the track into his stage

For most sprinters, the 100m is about speed. For Lyles, it’s a full-on production. Does he know most of the most significant battles are often won in the mind before they’re won on the track and his way of gaining that edge? Taking control of the moment. The 100m final that would transpire was setting up at the Olympics in Paris, likely to be one of the most hyped. 80,000 screaming fans were there to watch some of the biggest names in sprinting, the moment weighing heavily on each competitor. But then it was like all of that cranked into high gear the second Jamaican rival, Kishane Thompson, hit the track first, throwing his arms up in the air and unleashing a loud Dragon Ball Z-style roar.

But Lyles wasn’t about to let anyone steal his moment. He flipped the script on the hype and turned the attention of the crowd to him like he was headlining the biggest show on Earth. Before I head out, my coach is like, ‘Control the crowd, control the race.’ Nobody knows how to control a crowd like me, so if you want to go out and yell, that’s cool,” Lyles said.

The moment the camera landed on him, Lyles saw to it that all eyes were glued. If the cameraman wanted him to stay in one place, then that wasn’t happening. “I’m not here for you; I’m here for the crowd.”

It wasn’t just about hyping the fans; it was about psychological warfare. Every step he made, every ounce of confidence he showed, chipped away at his opponents’ composure. Before the race even started, they weren’t just racing his speed; they were racing his presence. And once the gun went off? He backed up every morsel of that confidence.

The science behind Lyles’ unshakeable confidence

Some might call Lyles’ energy cockiness. Others might say it’s just his personality. Fellow Olympian Rai Benjamin believes it’s something deeper. “I always say to people in track and field, you need to have an unhealthy amount of self-confidence and narcissism to be any good,” Benjamin said.

And he’s right. Sprinting isn’t only a physical test; it’s a mental battle. You’ve already lost the moment you step onto that track with a single shred of doubt in your mind. Lyles understands this better than anyone. His whole routine is about how to make sure when the gun goes off, he’s already won half the battle. Numbers do not lie, though. In Paris, Lyles ran a blistering 9.79 to win gold. And here is the wild part—he was actually dead last for the first 50 meters. But did that shake his confidence? Not even for a second. He knew he had it, and by the time he crossed the finish line, so did everyone else.

That is not only speed but also a master class in mental dominance.

People will say the theatrics ahead of Noah Lyles’ races are unnecessary. To those people: They just aren’t getting it. His hype is not pure entertainment; it’s a weapon. He’s in control of the moment, loose, taking his competitors out of their game and making the whole stadium think he’s going to win before the race is even run. And when he does start running? He makes them believe even more. Lyles is not just any sprinter; he’s an entertainer, he’s a showman, and he’s a champion who knows in his marrow that in the sport where races last less than ten seconds, controlling the moment means everything.