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.

In fact right now, as I sit writing this over my morning Coco Pops, he’s hoovering the whole house which makes it really hard to concentrate. But am I complaining? No, mainly because he can’t hear me over the noise of the vacuum, but also because I’m a top lodger.

I’m 22 years old, so the move means I fall into that brilliantly popular category of 18 to 34-year-olds who live with their parents. In fact I’d say on a scale of popularity amongst my age category, moving home sits somewhere between lie-ins on a weekday (7/10) and The Great British Bake Off (10/10). My motivation wasn’t economical, but practical. I’m expecting to move back to Manchester – the base for the Great Britain Cycling Team – early next year so this allows me to train out of Glasgow for a few months without navigating short-term leases.

Though it would be an insult to my childhood to call this place (a three-bed, four-bathroom(!) house in Paisley) “home”. No, I grew up with my mother and brother in Milngavie. There, I spent many years building my self esteem to reckless heights with my mother not just telling me I was fantastic at whatever I tried, but actually believing it. My brother and I have always been fabulous you see, just ask no one except our mum.

So this shift to living with my other parent and his very different motivational tactics (“Oh, I can’t believe you’re going to that race with the form you’ve got: won’t it just be embarrassing?”) has caused me a lot of Sliding Doors daydreams. That and the fact that a recent return to training has left my body in so much pain I spend my evenings lying on the sofa staring into space, too dehydrated to cry and with just enough consciousness to fantasise.

As a kid I found it not just cringing but aggravating to know my mum thought I was brilliant at everything, regardless of any counter evidence. I thought she must have suffered a blow to the head to believe that I looked good in that dress, performed well in that play or could speak fluent French because of an A in that one test. I still get angry when, every time I see her, she tells me I’m looking remarkably slim. But I’ve come to appreciate the fact that my mother isn’t a critic: she’s a fan.

If I’d grown up with my father, however, I’m not sure I’d have ever got out of bed in the morning. If my mum is a fan then my dad’s an internet troll. But face to face, so it’s just called being mean. Would I have happily trotted off to any and every available sports club (ballet, swimming, gymnastics, football, freestyle dance, tennis, trampolining, hockey, rock climbing, kayaking and finally(!) cycling) if my father had been the one assessing my appropriateness for each? Maybe if he’d wanted me out the way, but generally I’m pretty grateful for my madly enthusiastic mum.

Though now that I’m an adult who doesn’t need their mother to tell them they’re fantastic (because I say it to myself three times in front of the mirror every morning, of course), I’m looking forward to my new living arrangements. The plan is that I should be away racing so often that I’m barely here to be told how lazy I am and how strong my competitors look. Although, if you’re wondering, the answers are: lazier than automatic soap dispensers and stronger than the scent of Lynx coming from a boys' changing room.

.

First up is the Glasgow round of the Revolution UK series, which is being held at the Sir Chris Hoy Velodrome on Saturday. Then I’m fairly swiftly into the European track championships in Paris.

I took a month off the bike post-games but I’m back training now (and doesn’t my body know it) so I’m hoping to have enough basic fitness and a bit of speed by then to give a good showing. Of course it’s selection dependent!

Maybe I’ll start developing some daddy issues with this house move and we’ll see my performances sky rocket. I’d have to trade in my ability to fall asleep at night content with life, but could it be worth it? Time will tell.