Katie Archibald

LAST weekend I was at the Ladies Tour of Norway; a Women’s WorldTour stage race where the final stage was 160km. Next month I’ve entered the Glasgow Sprint GP where qualifying is decided by a flying 200m time trial. I’m thinking of changing my name to “Jack”. Or more fittingly to “None” after returning from Norway with a DNF next to my name, barely making it to the halfway point of that final stage before getting dropped.

I’m on a train to London to race the Prudential Classique. I’m sweating more than I’d like because of an issue booking my bike on, but otherwise the journey should be peaceful. I booked the quiet carriage see.

I HAVE been on the road, racing, for so long that none of my clothes smell like me. They smell of whatever washing tabs the team bought this week and whatever hotel/house we’re staying in. When I do go home for brief spats, the house doesn’t smell of me either because I don’t live there.

‘DO you have to be slim and sporty to be a cyclist?” A question asked of me by Maisie, age nine. It was asked over email (by her teacher who had sent through questions from the whole class) so luckily I had time to ponder it.

LAST week I was in London for the press launch of the Women’s Tour. If you’ve not heard of it, it is the UCI Women’s World Tour stage race that travels across the roads of Britain (well, England) and has been running for the past three years.

I’M typing this with my left hand/wrist in a splint. Or rather I’m typing with one good hand, while the other looks smugly on from its throne of incapacity. It was elected to such a position by a fractured radius (a lovely mosaic pattern in the X-ray), scaphoid and capitate. I’ve basically got three cracks that run through the bottom of my wrist and into my hand, from a crash in a race last weekend that sent me flying over my bike and landing with my hand out. It’s quite difficult to tell the rest of the story without sounding like a self-satisfied boob. But I’ll try.

AFTER the Olympics, which were way over a month ago now so, yes, I agree I should stop referencing the fact I attended at any given chance. However on this occasion it provides a useful time frame, so I’ll continue. After the Olympics, I moved in with my dad. Or rather “I moved into my dad’s house” would more accurately reflect the dynamic where he runs a fully functioning household and I benefit from said household, occasionally buying milk and feeling quite smug about my contribution.