No one confuses the life of a world-class kayaker or an Olympic fencer with that of a basketball star. When NBA player Latrell Sprewell complained about his $14.6-million (U.S.) contract last month, saying "I've got a family to feed," there were no outpourings of support from the headquarters of the national badminton team.

Still, even in sports that penetrate the public consciousness only once every four years, the life of a world-class athlete has its attractions: travel for competitions and training camps, an active lifestyle far removed from desks and cubicles, and the chance to measure up against the very best in the world.

So when I finished university in 2001 and decided to train full-time as a distance runner in pursuit of an Olympic berth, I felt as if I were living out a lifelong dream. Sure, I had to move back in with my parents at the age of 25, since the money I could earn from racing barely paid for training expenses. Of course, while I was relaxing in the middle of the day between training sessions, my friends were all at work -- and while my friends were going out in the evenings, I was in bed resting for the next day of training.

I didn't mind, because I couldn't afford to go out with them anyway. My friends called me the "quasi-professional" athlete because, although I was working full-time as a distance runner, I was missing one key ingredient of professionalism: money.

Funding for amateur sports is an issue that stirs up controversy once every four years, as part of the collective brow-beating that follows the valiant but inevitably disappointing performances of Canadian athletes at the Olympics. Despite recent changes to funding levels for amateur sports, the gold that athletes are shooting for is still largely figurative.

Initially, the financial hardships I endured were outweighed by the fact that I was fulfilling a childhood fantasy. When an eight-year-old boy dreams of being a professional athlete, he imagines the crowd roaring as he hits a home run or hoists the Stanley Cup over his head, not the mercenary pleasure of inking a multi-year contract with bonus clauses.

To my surprise, though, no one seemed jealous of my life. Although some people were excited at first when they heard I was a "full-time" athlete, the conversation always seemed to get stuck in one place.

"You're living with your parents?" they would ask -- and enthusiasm would be replaced by a look of puzzlement, and occasionally disdain.

Even my peers in the running world seemed to be less than thrilled by the enticements of full-time training. One year after the 2000 Olympics, many of the people I had competed against through high school and university were retiring. Although distance runners usually reach their peak in their late 20s, these athletes were unwilling to commit to another four years of quasi-professionalism. They wanted careers and apartments and clothes.

Meanwhile, my season was unfolding successfully. I spent a month at a national-team training camp in the French Alps and qualified to compete at the World Cross-Country Championships in Belgium. I was ecstatic when I received my first national team uniform. The team veterans were less impressed: "The same stuff as last year," they said. "This warm-up suit isn't waterproof. Why do we only get three pairs of socks?"

Some of these athletes had closets full of national team gear. They were the ones who had resisted the lure of money and careers to chase Olympic glory. Some had competed at the Sydney Games in 2000; a few were veterans of Atlanta in 1996. But none had the serene and contented air that I would have expected from someone whose dreams had more or less come true.

As 2004 draws to a close, another generation of athletes is making decisions about the next four years. Those who competed at the Athens Olympics graced our television screens for a few brief weeks, and some are still on the tail-end of cross-country tours speaking at schools and community events.

But the Athens afterglow has almost faded away, and the country's top breaststrokers and pole-vaulters will be in the dark again for the next four years. With no hoopla to sustain them, they will have to decide whether the intrinsic pleasures of their athletic endeavours are enough to justify the necessary sacrifices.

For me, the novelties of quasi-professionalism gradually wore off. Seeing fellow athletes who had retired struggling in the job market, often competing with new college graduates for unpaid internships, I began to worry about my future. The romanticism of living in a garret -- especially one in my parents' house -- began to pall.

The end came 12 months after my trip to Belgium, when, having competed across North America and as far away as China, I went to Ireland for the next World Championships. When I received my uniform, I was unable to contain my disappointment.

"The same stuff as last year," I said.

Alex Hutchinson is studying journalism in New York.