We are literally trying to stop time.

Smith divided the 100-meter race into five stages. First comes "reaction time," a bloodless phrase for the violent moment when sprinters explode out of the blocks. Next, there's the "drive phase," when the runners leverage their forward momentum to propel themselves down the track. Then they make the "transition" -- often visualizing gear changes as they shift into overdrive and fly into the fourth stage, "maximum velocity." The goal at this stage is to maintain top speed for as long as possible -- for 30 or even 40 meters.

As they approach the final stage, the runners try to "hold on." They have pushed their bodies to the limit, and now their exhausted muscles stop obeying. Their limbs start to seize up. But if an athlete has run the first four stages correctly, he's in a position to control the inevitable deceleration. And that is Smith's great secret: The runner who slows the least over the final 20 meters usually gets the gold.

Smith's point about Greene's "taking his time" is that Greene didn't rush through those stages. He maxed them out, refusing to shift into the next gear until his RPM was just right. That allowed him to relax as he surged to the finish. He won because he stayed fast.

"Sprinters are most vulnerable in the middle of a race, because they want to punch that accelerator," says Smith. "But if you hit it too soon, you'll run out of gas. You've got to give your body enough time to unfold, so that you'll be in the best position to apply great force.

"People think that all a sprinter needs to do is to run all out, but that's so Hollywood. I want my sprinters to do just the opposite. I want them to show how easy it is to run fast."

The point, concludes Smith, is that there's a world of difference between "haste" and "speed." Haste doesn't win races. Taking your time just might.

Make Your Competitor Your Partner?

In the world of track and field, says Smith, long-distance runners often get along because they share a common obstacle: the race's distance. Marathoners, for example, must channel all of their competitive aggression into conquering a 26-mile, 385-yard course.

But sprinters are stripped of any such distraction. Their only obstacle is the competitor who lines up next to them, separated solely by the thin white line that demarcates the track's eight lanes. Metaphorically, that line is often crossed, as the rivals engage in race-day hazing: the territorial stare-down during warm-ups; the trash talk before the start; the winner's chest-thumping, fist-pumping strut after the finish; the loser's determination to ignore it all.

"You couldn't write the stuff that sprinters say to get one another off their game," says Smith. "They'll talk about you. They'll talk about your parents. [Olympic sprinter] John Carlos used to line up and announce, 'You guys figure out how you're going to place, because first is gone -- I got that. I'll be waiting for you at the finish.' "

It's all the more remarkable, then, that Smith has made teammates out of natural-born rivals. Greene, Boldon, and Drummond are among the world's top men in the 100- and the 200-meter races. Each of them is gunning for the other, as they vie for their sport's ultimate grail: the hard gold of the 2000 Summer Olympics, in Sydney, Australia. Most elite runners avoid one another, going head-to-head only when big money and a big title are at stake. Yet these three train together nearly every day, with Smith and his stopwatch at their side.

Smith's workplace is the rust-colored track inside Drake Stadium, on the campus of the University of California, Los Angeles. On a damp, late-winter day, he leads two of his charges -- sprinter Gentry Bradley and 400-meter runner Danny McCray -- through an advanced tutorial on speed.

After 45 minutes of stretching and warm-ups, the work begins. Smith tells his runners to do three "350s" -- sprinters' shorthand for 350-meter laps run at near-race speed, with 8-minute rest intervals. "This is going to be a little grueling," understates Smith. "At 300 meters, you're at the limit of a human being's ability to go all out. That's when all shit stops, and real men start running."

McCray toes the starting line. Bradley lines up directly behind him. "Set," barks Smith. "Go!" They take off from a standing start and quickly leg into maximum velocity. As the runners fly into the backstretch, Smith parses out split times and advice over a megaphone: "Don't lose him, G. Elbows in. Keep your rhythm up. Stay focused. Don't float on me. Now you're running. Take it in."

Watching Bradley and McCray push each other, the coach's game plan becomes searingly clear: By working together instead of alone, his athletes work harder. The more intense the workouts, the faster the two men run. Ultimately, the day-to-day grind of competing one-on-one will make them get fast -- faster.

Smith doesn't try to control his athletes' rivalry or ensure that it stays healthy off of the track. "They can be friends after practice. But when they're out here, I throw gasoline onto the fire. I want them to challenge each other. When someone raises the bar and achieves a higher level of performance, everyone else must rise to meet that person. When that happens, I've done my job."