Short Story Book Club peeps: This is an old story written several years ago. I've not edited it at all from when I last read it about four year ago. Any and all advice on improving it is welcome.

It's one thing to sit and watch the Olympics from the comfort of your own home. It's another thing entirely to have slogged your way through a grueling daily regime of workouts and a diet that is so restrictive sometimes you want to pick up that gummy bear you see squashed into the pavement just to remember what sugar tastes like.

But I'm here. The last four years of training were worth it - well, make that ten years if we count my previous attempt at becoming an Olympian.

I'm lucky that the triathalon competes right at the beginning. I've only had to endure two days of lockdown by my coach, whereas the athletes who compete right at the end don't get to enjoy the Olympic village very much at all. If they're lucky, their coach might let them watch some of the other events. That's if they're lucky.

I overheard the coaches talking last night when I went to the bathroom. The general consensus seemed to be keeping everyone under wraps to maintain focus. I get why they do it, hell, I even condone it.

My coach told me that I'll be able to go off my diet for the rest of the competition when my event is over. I tell you, I'm looking forward to hitting the buffet in the Olympic village as soon as I can to eat all of the forbidden fruits. I plan to start at the shrimp and seafood sauce, but if the rumour about a chocolate fountain is true, I might just have to skip right to the end.

The heady feeling in the air all over the Village is almost palpable. If they could bottle it, the government would have to create a special distribution system because, I swear, the sense of competition and anticipation is like a drug. I'm so high on it I don't think my feet have touched the ground once on my way to catch the shuttle bus to my first event.

Just as my coach wanted, I spent the last hour visualizing myself going through my event. He's really big on mental preparation as well as physical.

Since it's not much past the crack of dawn, only a few other athletes have trickled out onto the path. Mostly triathletes since our event starts so early. The rest of the teams will be in the training facilities or working out in their rooms - except for those few lucky ones whose event was yesterday and are probably at the doors to the dining hall waiting to attack the breakfast buffet. That's where I'll be tomorrow.

A few coaches are walking with their athletes, but mine insisted that I make this walk alone. "Joe," he said, "I've helped you to get here, but you and you alone did the work. Tomorrow I want you to walk to the starting point alone to savour every second of sacrifice that made that walk possible."

At first I thought he was just being a bit loopy because he really is an excellent coach and I wouldn't have gotten here without him, but now that I'm here, I'm glad I'm alone. Because he was right. Whether I win or lose today, the efforts that got me here were all mine.

The shuttle bus is eerily silent. There's no real distinction between the coaches and athletes in terms of who's nervously fidgeting and who's sitting calm and collected - it's like the difference between Obi Wan Kenobe and Anniken Skywalker before they face the Sith in that Star Wars movie.

In some cases you'd think the coaches were going out to compete, which I guess they are in a way. The performance of their athletes can mean the difference between getting another coaching contract or not.

Finally through the mist the staging tents emerge. My heart breaks out into a gallop, but I keep myself contained. No point in wasting energy by bouncing my knee up and down.

I was surprised to find out the staging pavilion where each of us will get ready is just a simple tent. Someone, can't remember who but it was an athlete from South America, said it was so they could break down the pavilion quickly and set it up somewhere else.

Our coaches are responsible for our personal belongings and for any extras we need in our cubicle. Coach knows I don't need anything fancy like mirrors or whatnot. He's trained me to do things as simply as possible.

A wash of relief floods through me when I see Coach's craggy face waiting to greet me at the shuttle bus stop. Over the past four years, I've spent more time with this man than I think I spent with my mother in my entire life.

"Joe," he claps me on the shoulder in greeting. "Here's your bag. Your in cubicle 72. Go down and start getting ready. I just need to have a word with Vladimir then I'll be down."

"Sure thing, Coach." It's my standard response. He could tell me to jump through flaming hoops, and I would if I thought Coach thought it would help improve my performance.

On the way down the labyrinth of cubicles - I guess I should have expected so many since there are 72 of us competing in this event - I exchange nods of greeting with the few athletes I see.

Behind closed curtains I can hear murmurs of people talking. Some are coaches giving last minute advice. Some are athletes verbally running through the event. Quite a few are prayers.

Just as I'm approaching my cubicle, someone squeezes my arm. "Good luck, Joe." It's Antonio Palermo, one of the Italian competitors.

"Thanks, Tony. You too." I reach out and pull back the curtain to my cubicle and step inside.

This isn't my cubicle though.

And since I know every little possible thing my coach and I could dig up about every other competitor in my event, I know that the syringe Jurgis Simoneit currently has stuck between his toes is not full of insulin. He looks up, startled. His eyes widen in fear, and his finger halts on pushing down the plunger.

"Are you doping?" I shout. Four years of grueling intensity turns my initial shock into anger. How dare someone try to take the easy way to get an edge and win.

"Shut up!" Jurgis hisses.

"What's that?" "What's going on?" "Who's doping?" Comments are coming from all sides as people pour out of their cubicles to see what the commotion is all about. Nothing sets off an athlete like the word 'doping'.

"Damn you!" Jurgis jerks the needle out of his toe and launches himself at me.

I step back, and my arms come up reflexively to fend off his attack. When he hits me like a ton of bricks, he manages to stick the needle into my forearm. I'm thrown off balance, and we both go down, tumbling out of the cubicle into the main corridor.

A crazed look has come into Jurgis' eyes. His lips are drawn back from his teeth, just like in a comic book scene. He glares into my eyes for a second, then turns to watch his thumb, raised over the plunger.

"No!" I scream. Even though I'm not doping, if he manages to inject me I won't be allowed to compete. Ten years of my life wasted for one athlete who didn't believe in his own abilities.

Just as his thumb reaches the plunger, a hand with fingers thick as sausages and a ruby ring on the pinky jerks Jurgis' hand away, pulling out the needle in the process. Coach has come in the nick of time.

"What do we have here?" Although Jurgis weighs a solid 200 lbs, Coach lifts him like he's a toddler. "What are you doing attacking my boy? And what's in this needle you're attacking him with?"

"Let us through, please. Let us through." From my position on the ground, I watch the Olympic officials push their way into the tight circle that has formed.

Sven Bjornsson, the head of the triathlon event, takes in the scene with a glance. "Get Joe off the ground. And someone restrain Jurgis'. Coach Marten, how did you come by this syringe?"

"It was stuck in the arm of my athlete, and Jurgis was trying to push down the plunger." Coach hands over the syringe, and Sven holds it up to the light overhead. The fluid inside is a pale yellow colour, and the tip is bloody.

The steely glare of Sven swings to me. "Were you doping?"

My heart jackhammers. This man holds the decision of whether I'll be competing today or not. "No sir! I stepped into Jurgis' cubicle by mistake. He had the syringe stuck between his toes. I asked if he was doping, then he pulled it out and attacked me with it. See." I hold up my arm where a tiny trickle of blood is oozing out of the injection site. Only a moron would inject themselves in such an obvious place.

Jurgis does a little shuffle, but all he does is draw attention to the fact that one of his feet is bare. Quick as a whip, Sven drops down and spreads Jurgis' toes. In this crowd, the tiny red injection dot was like a giant flashing neon light.

Slowly straightening to his full 6'4", Sven glares down at Jurgis. "You are disqualified for doping. You're entire team is now under investigation. You, however," those gray eyes swing to me, "may choose to compete if the doctors clear you after examining your injury."

The breath I was holding whooshes out of me, and I almost sag to the floor in relief.

Jurgis leans across the small space towards me and whispers, "This isn't over, Joe. Not by a long shot."