ATHLETICS:Events yesterday, from an Irish point of view, were the kind of stories that could only be covered up close and personal. Because they are hugely personal, writes IAN O'RIORDAN.

IT WAS spilling rain when we dropped into Milan, and the airport was deadly quiet. We were still half shocked from the 7.20am flight out of Dublin and still some considerable distance from Turin.

Myself and Tomo saved a few quid on our cheap flights with our carry-on only, even though that meant squeezing five days’ worth of supplies into an old Olympic press bag. Then Greg Allen arrived from the baggage carousal with two large suitcases.

“That’s nearly all equipment,” he declared. Not that I’ve known Greg to ever travel light. Cliona Foley had a suspiciously large suitcase as well but we let that go without explanation. The young man at the passport counter waved us through with total abandonment. “I don’t care anymore,” he said. I think that’s what he said. But he had clearly lost his will to live and in times like this who could blame him.

We headed for the exit not entirely sure how we’d complete our journey. I’d offered to rent a Vespa and try to fit Greg and Tomo on the back, but one look at the weather put an end to that idea. And it wouldn’t have been right to leave Cliona behind. The four of us had shared many a nice trip in the good days. It was only fair that we share things in the bad days as well.

So we ran for a taxi, promising to split the fare. “Con costo?” Cliona inquired in her badly-broken Italian. The driver shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the metre. We bundled ourselves in and said a quick prayer. This one luxury could make or break our expenses.

Actually it wasn’t bad – the 40-minute drive to the train station coming in at under €20. What spoiled it was the vicious argument over who got to keep the receipt.

Rumour had it there was a €3 fare from Milan to Turin. “Peanuts,” Tomo said, who had his pensioner pass anyway. Despite several minutes of haggling at the ticket-counter we each handed over €9.20. “Sweet Jesus,” I thought to myself. “This is going over budget already.”

The reality is I hadn’t even pushed for this trip. From the start of the year the Sports Editor had made it clear no one should push for a trip unless they wanted to risk shameful rejection. “And it’s not about convenience anymore,” he warned. “It’s about cost.” The European Indoors definitely weren’t a priority and it was only when I put together my bargain itinerary that he agreed.

Inconveniently then we’d just missed the train to Turin. The next one, due in an hour, was delayed. Naturally the mood was foul as we pulled out in the misty rain, cramped into the small, airless carriage, at least one of us smelling of booze. And the mood went downhill from there.

Greg got a text message about the pay cuts at RTÉ. “Sure we already got that in the Indo,” Cliona said. I told them we weren’t much better in our place. Deep down we all knew we should be thankful to still have a job.

“You know the first athletics trip I went on with the Times, I flew business class? Honestly. Myself and a couple of grey suits up the front of the plane. Fillet of steak at 11.0 in the morning . . . ” “Them were the days,” Greg interrupted.

Tomo, the casual freelance among us, had his mind on other matters. “I think I left my glasses on the plane,” he said. “But I’m alright. I always bring a second pair. In my bag wrapped up in my sock.”

By cosmic coincidence, myself, Tomo and Greg managed to get into the same hotel. I’d been monitoring room prices on booking.com like shares on Wall Street – and when the Holiday Inn fell within budget I immediately advised them: “Buy now!” It was after dark when we checked in. We were 14 hours on the road and hungry as dogs. We inquired at the desk about where to get cheap pizza and good beer. The pizza was great and we drank the beer like we were breathing it in, feeling it cold all the way into our stomach.

“All I know is we better get a story out of this or else trip or else . . . ” said Greg – and we agreed that without something decent to write about the next day we could forget about going to the European Cross Country in December. And that’s actually on in Dublin.

The media bus to the Turin Oval left at 8.15am and inconveniently we missed it. Tomo reckoned we could walk but Greg was having none of it: “What’s another €20 taxi fare off RTÉ’s €68 million shortfall?” It was only when we took our seats in the media tribune that we realised we were in Turin not just because we wanted to be but because we needed to be. Because athletics reporting is not about sitting at home and watching on television, no matter how cheap or convenient that might be.

How could we have sat at home and watched David Gillick storm furiously off the track, cursing out loud as he realised his chance for a third successive gold medal lay in tatters somewhere around the final bend of his semi-final? How could we have captured the enormous satisfaction in the faces of Marian Andrews and Brona Furlong after both of them ran the fastest 400 metres of their young lives?

How could we have felt the infectious enthusiasm of 20-year-old Kelly Proper after she jumped almost six inches further than her best – and further than any Irish woman in history? Most of all, how could we have missed Derval O’Rourke provide us with one of the great redemption stories in Irish sport? Turin, as it turned out, was all about being here.

“My God that was some drama we got today,” said Greg. “There’s always some drama where Irish athletes are involved,” said Cliona.

Tomo was too busy filing for a half a dozen different papers to comment.

These were the kind of stories that could only be covered up close and personal. Because they are hugely personal. The look of pure frustration on the face of Gillick was an indelible image that could never be captured on television, no matter how high the definition.

It’s going to take a lot of soul searching for Gillick to get over this one, to move on again just when he thought he’d already moved on. It was another cruel blow to a career that still promises so much. But if he needs some consolation, which no doubt he will, he only has to sit down for five minutes with O’Rourke.

It will be hard for Gillick not to regret this for the rest of his career. Winning two European indoor gold medals in succession is a superb achievement but winning three would have been extraordinary, by any standards.

“I’d say he’ll have about 15 pints and then he’ll consider his future.” That’s what Tomo said as the four of us headed off into the Turin night searching again for cheap pizza and good beer.