It’s in front of me as I write – a target printed on yellow card, signed by a range officer, evidencing the results of 20-odd shots from a Morini 162E air pistol at a range of 10 yards. I fired the shots, which are largely grouped in an archipelago to the right of the central black circle.

In places, the holes in the card are conjoined, like frog spawn. My range officer, John, was enthusiastic about this. He thought the consistency showed promise. In my eyes, the target spoke of a marksman consistently off target. But there you go – maybe it would just be a matter of adjusting the sights…

It is beyond argument, however, that the shots were grouped. And it is beyond argument that the second series of shots I fired at a different target are all over the shop.

Why the discrepancy? Easy. In the intervening time I broke away from the range where competitors at last month’s World Modern Pentathlon championships were shortly to do their own firing, and ran a lap of the surrounding Crystal Palace track as fast as I could in blazing sunshine before being steered back to my firing position and invited to do my best within a couple of minutes.

It’s a while since I’ve run on a track. Okay, it’s more than 30 years since I’ve run on a track. In that time I’ve even resisted the temptation of joining in the unofficial sprints that seem to take place after every major athletics championship has come to a close. As scaffolding clatters and clangs, and TV commentators at the back of the stand re-record their spontaneous reactions with synthetic fervour, and technicians reel in their wires, and cleaners hover over sheaves of not-quite-finished-with results sheets, and engineers hover over not-quite- finished-with television screens, two or three youngsters always appear on the track to run their own clumsy 100 metres final. Usually one of them over-rotates, as athletes like to say, and falls on their face. At which point, the others laugh.

Such jolly larks. But as I say, I have nobly resisted the impulse to join in such merriment, which meant that my pace judgement, as athletes like to say, was lacking. At 300m I actually felt my legs beginning to tremble, to the point where I momentarily considered I might not be able to complete the circuit. With John awaiting, ushering arm outstretched, that would really not have been good.

That humiliation spared, I resumed my stance with the Morini 162E, left hand hooked, as before, in my belt loop, legs firmly placed. The problem this time was that my heart appeared to be beating in my right hand. Bump. Bump. Bump. The barrel was taking my pulse.

The thought struck me: why am I trying to do something that requires a steady hand after violent exercise?

It is an athletic oxymoron. Running and shooting – they go together like opposed magnets.

And this is what modern pentathletes now have to do. What next – combining the horse riding with the swimming, perhaps?

The decision of the sport’s international authority to streamline two of their elements is a fait accompli – strictly speaking, shouldn’t their sport now be called the modern quadrathlon? – but the attitude of many competitors is far from decided.

Jan Bartu, Britain’s long-serving performance director, says he has been speaking with counterparts in the Winter Olympics event of the biathlon to gain information about the best way of balancing the contending forces of shooting and running.
 
On being asked whether there has yet been any suggestion of introducing skis to modern pentathlon, the former Olympian manages a strained smile.
 
You could say there is a sub-text of dissent among many modern pentathletes. Heather Fell has been open about her disappointment over changes that have arrived just as she has established herself as one of the event’s leading performers. The word "gutted" has indeed been used.

Why do administrators do these things? As so often, the intention has been to jazz the event up, to eliminate the early morning longeurs of the lonely morning shooting session, offering spectators the more stirring prospect of a whiz-bang finale.

It’s all wrong. It’s going too far. It’s akin to the simplistic notion floated some years ago by FIFA of creating more goals in football by – wait for it – widening the goals.

Brilliant. But even the widest goal can be missed, gentlemen. I suggest introducing five or more differently coloured footballs into each game. Then watch those scores mount.

And while we’re at it – the marathon. Terrific event. Historical. But it goes on, doesn’t it? Hours of plodding. I’d say it either comes down to 5k or we get the runners to do something a little more alluring en route. Maybe we need to think about getting some gymnastics in there.

Swimming? Again – classic Olympic event. But it’s an extended exercise in avoidance, isn’t it? If we get rid of those outmoded lanes we’ll finally see those sporting rivalries manifest themselves in direct and passionate combat. Fight for the right to medal, sort of thing. Like Gladiators.

Anyway, you see the sort of thing I’m getting at.

Mike Rowbottom, one of Britain's most talented sportswriters, has covered the last five Summer and four Winter Olympics for The Independent. Previously he has worked for the Daily Mail, The Times, The Observer, the Sunday Correspondent and The Guardian. He is now freelancing and wrties regularly for insidethegames