Never mind Byzantium - sailing anywhere is no sport for old men. In the middle of 1999 I was 35 years old and I hadn't raced since the Fireball World Championships in 1995. Admittedly, John Lavery and I had won, but now there were only 16 months to the 2000 Sydney Olympics.

But such a deep-seated ambition is easily rekindled, so it took only one short phone call from the Royal Cork's Mark Mansfield to convince me that it was worth our while making a last-minute stab at selection in the Star keelboat, a boat he had campaigned in Barcelona and Atlanta.

Out of shape and, according to the wife, out of my mind, I took my first tack in a Star in late '99 - and confirmed my worst fears about my lack of fitness.

Armed with little more than enthusiasm, and discouraged by the Irish Sailing Association (ISA) on the basis that our campaign was not full-time (we were still trying to keep a hand in at work), Mark and I bought a second-hand boat and began the first of 12 events on the journey over three continents towards Sydney.

We met the first two stages of qualification at our first two events, despite being dismasted at the World Championships in Italy in September 1999, finishing 32nd in a fleet of 140. But that setback rallied us to meet the qualification standard that could only be achieved at the May World Championships on Chesapeake Bay, Annapolis.

Chesapeake was a do-or-die regatta. The bronze medals we won that week are now down in the ISA's history book as the best result ever achieved by an Irish crew in an Olympic-class world championship. We become World Class One athletes.

Now the focus is on Sydney itself, and the first training programme on Olympic waters, nine days of the most intensive training I've ever done in my life.

Not quite plane sailing

It's an unexpectedly chilly evening when we touch down in Sydney after a 28-hour trip. An extra 50 kilos of luggage, all necessary equipment (sailing boats need sails, for example), entailed a demand for excess baggage at Dublin Airport.

After 14 telephone calls, some repacking and a lot of begging by me and ISA coach James Hynes, we're on our way, carrying half our luggage on our backs.

A rocky beginning

Crowbars, lump-hammers and bolt-cutters. We use them all as we struggle to free our 22-foot Eagle Star-sponsored keelboat from the shipping container in the Australian army base at Randwick, a southern Sydney suburb. A few sweaty hours later we turn up at the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia (CYCA), our training base.

But our CYCA contact is away. We're homeless. Enter ex-pat Karl Garavan, our shore manager and Mister Fix-it.

And he fixes it. Together with our training partners, the Bermudans Peter Bromby and Lee White, we trundle in through the hallowed gates of Sydney's most prestigious yacht club.

First impressions

Afloat for the first time in light winds on one of the Olympic racetracks half an hour's tow from Rushcutters Bay, we gybe downwind to racecourse area D for our first impressions of Sydney Harbour. It's much more compact than it looked on the charts. Can we really race a Star in such a small area?

This initial training period is a critical catch-up time, sussing out the geography of Olympic waters. Many in our class have had the bonus of previous competition in Sydney while others, particularly the British and the Italians, who have three boat campaigns, have based a boat in Sydney for the last two seasons. It's a clear advantage, and we're understandably jealous, but in this game you must play the hand you're dealt.

Train to training

We're on the train to the gym. Giles Warrington of the National Coaching and Training Centre in Limerick has drawn us up a one-hour cardiovascular session. Looking for that feel-good factor, I check back in my diary to see how my fitness has improved. I know I'm stronger, thanks to Dave McGillion of my local Killiney gym, but I'm amazed to find out I've tripled my strength on the bench press.

Now the plan is for Mark to lose one more kilo, from 102 to 101, and for me to gain one, going up to 107 kilos.

Making waves

Sydney Harbour shows its teeth with a gutbusting 25-knotter. No more Mr Nice Guy. It's a struggle to keep the Star moving fast as we're buffeted by the gusts and the large waves. We hike out as hard as we can, depowering the massive rig to keep the fragile mast in one piece.

We do at least a hundred tacks and the same amount of gybes. Given that this is the third boat we've sailed in as many months, our manoeuvring is pretty good, but we know there is room for improvement.

Meeting the dream team

In middle harbour, we hook up with 1996 Australian Olympic bronze medallists Colin Beashel and David Giles. They're the stars of Australia's $2 million dream sailing team. This will be Beashel's fifth Olympics, a record for any sailor.

The three boats on starboard tack head north out of the harbour, all sailing as fast as we can. After 10 minutes, the Bermudans drop back half a boat-length, but we're still grinding on with Beashel.

We've held our height and matched him for pace despite the fact that his crew must have an extra 15 kilos in weight on me.

Spoiled for choice

Our bronze medal at the World Championships in May means we have been blessed with an extra £39,250 in Sports Council funding. This we have spent on sail development under the eye of expert Star sailor and former world champion Alex Hagen.

Alex flies in today, and so does a load of new sails from two sail-lofts, Quantum, which provides sails to 90 per cent of the Star fleet and, the sailmaker of our choice, North of San Diego.

There's a certain irony in being starved of sails all year and now having box loads of new sails and masts (at a cost of £313,000) knowing we can only measure in two suits for the regatta.

We regard Alex's arrival as a coup for our campaign. The first part of the programme is to complete sufficient trials throughout the wind range to decide which sails and masts we will measure in.

Jaws?

Sail-testing in the blue, blue waters of the Pacific. It's mid-afternoon and we're on port tack, heading back towards the southern shore. Alex and James are astern, videoing our sail shape. My usual position upwind is to hunch my whole body over the side of the hull. From this ballast position, suspended by a harness line, buttocks skimming along the water, you don't see much between the wave troughs.

But when you see what you think is a fin approaching, you do not hesitate: "Shark! Shark! Shark!" My arse was back in over the side of the boat quicker than you could say - bottle-nosed dolphin.

No Quantum leap

We're a bit weary at this stage, but a lot has been achieved. The sail testing is over, and we've opted for the North sails. We go through the Olympic regatta sailing instructions and the process of accreditation. There are the usual sort of rules attached to any sailing regatta, with no real surprises, apart from the prizes themselves.

First prize is not actually a gold medal. It is, we read: "A silver gilt medal and a diploma." Mark and I decide that we're not too fussy; any colour metal will do. . .