Sideline Cut/Keith Duggan:Should not Marion Jones and Tim Montgomery be the most fascinating sports story on the planet just now? Tim and Ms Jones, they got a thing goin' on, and they just happen to be the fastest man and woman of all time. Imagine what it's like trying to race for the bathroom in their house in the morning.

Jones is ostensibly the saviour of modern athletics: brilliant beyond comparison, articulate and sunny with a melting smile. She is skilful and manipulative in media situations and, coming from a blue collar background, is a model of ambition and determination.

Last September Montgomery eclipsed Ben Johnson's time of 9.79, set in Seoul during the Olympic Games of 1988 in the most notorious episode of track athletics to date. Even though that world record was discredited and erased from the books, a mass and riveted global audience had watched it occur. And, for an hour or so, an awful lot of people were delighted that this humble, dog-eyed outsider had stuffed it to the imperious and self-righteous Carl Lewis.

Since that race there have been occasional claims that Johnson's bolt to infamy possesses a degree of validity beyond the record books. Despite the disgraceful circumstances, a human being, with the assistance of alien substances, passed the 9.80 seconds speed barrier. To some, such claims are merely hollow, to others they are morally objectionable. But for 14 long years, Johnson's time of 9.79 remained out there in the galaxy of elite times, a thing of darkly notorious splendour, absolutely untouchable. Shaving that precious hundredth of a second seemed beyond the realms of apparently honest endeavour.

That is why the global indifference to Montgomery's stunning record set in Paris last autumn was all the more mystifying. True, it was unfortunate that he made history at a minor event instead of a world-class meeting.

But nonetheless, being the fastest person ever to walk the globe traditionally meant something to us. To describe it as "clean" is probably unfortunate, given track athletics' long and sullied story of chemical abuse, but to me that's what the 100 metres kingdom always represented: a bright burst of indisputable speed, detailed to the last millisecond and beyond argument. No poor refereeing decisions, no bad or good luck, no team-mate to fall back on and, most importantly, no equal.

Longer distances have their plots and their intrigues and their sublime battles of will, but for all the sinewy force involved the 100 metres contains the poetry. It is the eternal stillness when the athletes are on the blocks followed by the violent blur of the actual event. It is the fact that the race is over just as you are coming to terms with its beginning. In fact, for most of us, the real start is when they show it in slow motion.

So what has happened? When did the 100 metres, when did being the fastest on earth, lose its allure? It is difficult to know what to do with the information that Jones and Montgomery have, under the glare of the goddess Nike, parted company from Ben Johnson's old adviser Charlie Francis. The coaching guru's claims that the couple actually made him see the light, that through their attitudes he has come to understand that chemical improvisations have no place on the track, might well be gospel truth. But they hold no weight among the Association of Athletics Federations or the mass media, which has been on Ms Jones's tail since her involvement with CJ Hunter.

In February of 2001, Jones showed up at a Nike celebration in London. The furore surrounding her then-husband Hunter was still in full voice following his sobbing performance in Sydney, when it emerged he had tested positive for nandrolone. She was breezy and efficient in dealing with queries, despite the implications which her husband's failure held for her. The most common question never asked in Sydney at that time was whether Jones was a spiked athlete.

There was a slyness to the insinuated guilt cast upon Jones, which was always a little unfair. After all, Hunter was an adult with whom she was in a relationship. Even if she had known or suspected that he was less than squeaky in his training methods, what was she to do? Shop him? And Jones had been a rising star since her mid-teens, appearing on Good Morning America at 15 as the youngest Olympic trialist in the nation. And sprinting, remember, was what she did for kicks: she was mainly a 'ball player.

Jones had every right to feel aggrieved that her name would be muddied because of her now-estranged husband's indiscretions, but her latest flirtation with shadowy figures from the athletics world leaves her in an awkward position.

It seems inconceivable that of all the track coaches in the world, only Francis can tailor the nanoseconds of improvement Tim and his gal can make to the wonderful times they have set.

But, just maybe, Francis still has the magic, the innovation and the communication skills that worked for Jones and Montgomery. And maybe for that reason they ought to have stuck to their guns.

THE choice is clear when it comes to either athlete. Either you instinctively believe they have run the times they have through God-given talent and years of soul-destroying work, or else you believe they are fake.

Jones broke her association with Charlie Francis with loud complaints, arguing that she is always being dragged through the mud. Perhaps she is so devoutly certain of her pure ability, so unconcerned and removed from the mere thought of chemical enhancements, that she does not care about Francis's previous fall from grace. Marion Jones was little more than a child in 1988.

It is in keeping with the rebellious streak in Jones's character that she would liaise with a character expelled from the athletics world. Equally, it is inevitable that virtually everybody concerned with athletics would voice concern at that liaison because of how it looks.

Whatever about Montgomery, whose star is more ephemeral than his partner's, Jones will probably leave Athens as the queen of modern athletics. Certainly Nike are banking on that much.

It remains to be seen, though, if athletics is worth reigning over any more. This latest episode just reminds us that it is still a tattered world, racked with self-doubt and whispered suspicion. The shame is its would-be golden couple could be the real thing. It is mankind's oldest conceit, beating his neighbour, and the sprint has always been the most elemental of contests, pure and simple as the wind.

It is messy and bedraggled at this period of evolution. The hope has to be that somehow the concept of this most simple of races, the all-out, heart-bursting sprint, is restored to the former glory in our imaginations. But if the magnificence of Jones and Montgomery cannot elevate it, then it may be dead already.