Guilty as charged: I'm a jogger, been one for years, get up and stumble through a few paces on as many mornings as possible, age willing. I've found paths in the Scottish highlands during the British Open golf tournament, in a park in Venice, Italy, during soccer's World Cup - just about every exotic place I've gone for work (and Cleveland, too). I wasn't expecting much luck in Sydney operating out of a midtown hotel, but the hotel staff pointed me down George Street to Hyde Park, through a breathtaking canopy of 250-year-old trees, into the Royal Botanic Gardens and on to the Sydney Opera House jutting out into Farm Cove. The final mile was part of the Olympic triathlon course, as I discovered one morning when dozens of men and women raced by as if they were speeding to a hospital emergency room. The realization hit: Those weren't Sunday-in-the-park joggers. I was amid Olympic triathletes in training.