ON ATHLETICS:If only we had remembered . . . 'Just because it comes in powder form, or in a container, doesn't mean it's good.'

RATHER THAN await the inevitable trial by media and subsequent public humiliation this is a straight-up confessional: a member of our team was informed of an "adverse finding" following a drug test at last Sunday's Connemara half marathon.

The horrifying news arrived yesterday in a letter marked "Completely Confidential". We opened it where no one could see us. By way of introduction it said we'd never face a more serious charge in our lives. It advised us to trust no one, including the sender. It ended with instructions to burn the letter on completion of reading.

On a separate page, there was the following puzzle: if the A-sample equals the B-sample, what is C? Is C d) a two-year ban; e) a slap on the wrist; f) total exoneration; or g) an excuse to visit Switzerland and the Court of Arbitration for Sport.

We immediately set about preparing our defence. All eight members of our team were under suspicion, and not even The Doctor amongst us could be trusted.

We recalled how he was the one inquiring about what beer to drink with our pre-race dinner.

Wasn't alcohol supposedly linked to illegally high testosterone levels? The Coach and The Manager were equally careless about what we ate and drank. In fact, the more we drank, the more The Coach smiled. "I want you all wired enough to be totally confident," he told us, smoking his hand-rolled cigarette. We've always known The Coach to be a complete madman.

Later, we sat around our Connemara turf fire discussing race tactics. Soon the room was filled with a light grey smoke, and it wasn't all coming from the direction of the fire. Could we have inadvertently inhaled (second hand, obviously) something more toxic than turf fumes? And why was The Coach still smiling?

Perhaps this would explain the "adverse finding".

Eventually we drifted off to bed with the thought of the 13.1 miles to come.

None of us slept well. The howling wind coming off the wild Atlantic prompted many a nightmare, and from early dawn hailstones lashed against the windows of our old stone cottage. We all rose early to complete the wiring process.

Ozzy was the novice amongst us, the 13.1 miles about twice the distance he'd even attempted. Actually Ozzy had never done anything to exhaustion in his life. He started the day with various powders and pills, including extra-strength Lemsip and Nurofen-plus.

The Champ was complaining of a mild headache and she swallowed a full range of over-the-counter medicines, without once looking at the label. Could one of them have contained levmethamfetamine?

Just then The Killer walked in and handed out small foil packets of blue gel.

"This stuff is great," she said, and some of us quickly rubbed it all down our legs.

Apparently the gel is intended for use after the run, but that didn't concern us. We had 13.1 miles to cover over wildest Connemara and needed every possible edge we could get. All perfectly legal, we agreed.

My advice to the team was to consume as much black coffee as the stomach could wrestle, and although Safari hadn't drank coffee in almost five years, she too gladly indulged.

We used up two packets of Taylors delicious house blend. Caffeine is not still on the banned list, is it?

With that The Coach relayed us in the back of his Ford Fiesta to the gorgeous village of Leenaun. Thousands had already gathered for the noon start, some desperately seeking a final shot of caffeine.

Exactly why we'd all come here on a cold Sunday morning, sun shining on one side of the valley, hail clouds gathering on the other, is beyond all reasonable explanation. We just knew we were the sensible ones. Soon the full marathon runners started to come past, then some ultra marathon runners. They had insanity written all over their faces. Nothing about the Connemara marathons - half, full, or ultra - makes much sense, including the fact that we lined up in front of the start line, rather than behind it.

We were each given small timing chips to attach to our shoe, which as it turned out didn't work, and in the end we competed with stray cars as well as tiring hamstrings to get across the finish line at Maam Cross.

None of that makes sense, nor matters.

The race was a 4,000 sell-out, and here's why: for those 13.1 miles out past such fearfully named mountains as Devilsmother and Lugnabrick, through that richly empurpled landscape known as Joyces Country, we knew we were running the most beautiful half marathon on the planet, and it played on the heart like a rhapsody.

We were breathless alright, but not from the running.

When we collected our finishers T-shirt we were then handed a small sachet of powdered sports drink, which most of us promptly diluted with water and sent down the little red hatch, without the slightest idea, or care, about what it contained. The rest of the day was an absolute blur.

Our first memory since was rushing away from our rented accommodation, leaving behind only a note that read: "Speak no English."

Driving back from this national paradise, John Treacy came on the radio, talking about the annual anti-doping report of the Irish Sports Council.

"Just because it comes in powder form, or in a container, doesn't mean it's good," said Treacy, warning of the risks involved for any athlete taking over-the-counter medicines and sports supplements.

We then realised practically everything we consumed in the hours before and after the race took this form. How foolish of us. We should have known better. We're all doomed.

Then, late last night, it was calmly pointed out that only the medallists had been drug tested last Sunday, and because The Blade finished third . . .

That effectively rendered the rest of the team entirely innocent, while I would be forever labelled a drugs cheat the same as Cathal Lombard, even though he had wilfully injected highly illegal stuff straight into his veins. The only question now was whether C would equal d, e, f or g?