I’M writing this sat on a train to London. Except I’m not really sat, I’m perched on the luggage rack. The train is as packed as I hope, but don’t expect, my funeral to be. Why are we all trying to go to this one city? And why are we all dressed in black? At least the black t-shirt I’m wearing references a Nicki Minaj lyric; the rest of these guys don’t seem interested at all in promoting themselves as bad-ass bitches.

I’m feeling the same emotions as when I’m stuck in a traffic jam. Since I usually travel by bike, I try to get angry at the fact everyone is in a car without acknowledging the hypocrisy. Likewise, since this trip to London is a one-off, I’m reserving the right to think less of us should be going.

Especially since it’s so hot down there. A jacket might be 50 times the price of deodorant, but one lasts me years in Glasgow and the other half a day in London. But I’m ranting. I apologise. I’m clearly just jealous of everyone with a seat. 

The reason I’m headed south is to watch the GB women’s track cycling squad qualify in the team pursuit at the World Championships. The last article I wrote for this paper expressed a hope that I too might be competing, but I expect you know that British Cycling don’t send their riders down on the day of the race without a reserved seat. I’m purely attending for the pom-pom service (cheerleading support).

After a big cup of coffee this morning, I’m feeling better about the guilt piled on by the press for my not riding. You may have read online about how I rode my motorbike off a cliff, hand standing on the saddle, screaming “Death to British Cycling! Viva my ruin!” at 100mph.

Just in case my grandmother is reading this, appalled, that was a bit of sarcasm. My crash was, of course, an accident. I’m just as bummed about it as you are.

This experience has been my first of people actually going out of their way to say I’m a bad person. It has hurt, even though I’ve always suspected that might be the case.

When I was six, I filled my brother’s bed with itching powder in retaliation to pranks I had suffered at his hands that day and it has basically been downhill from there.

The bad news is that acceptance doesn’t bring peace: I still feel sick in my stomach knowing I’ve hurt and disappointed people. (Not about my brother’s rash that night though, he deserved that entirely).

All I’m going to focus on now though is getting sweaty watching some track racing in “the pringle”. I love being in the stands rather than track centre. For starters, you don’t get dizzy watching, but it’s also weirdly euphoric to shout encouragement as part of a crowd.

And I love pretending I’m the commentator and getting really angry if Hugh Porter says something that contradicts me.

It’s a rest day as well, so don’t go telling me off for my day out. I’ll be sat down most of the time and I’ve planned all my meals and protein sources. Get off my back! I’m already on the train and going anyway, so you can’t change it. But if you must, please send me your angry messages via Twitter.

After this wee expedition I’m heading home to Glasgow for a few days. I’ve got an intensive training camp booked for the weekend – going out riding with my dad. He’s your typical middle-aged-man-in-lycra and so a good training partner in that he will half wheel me for three hours but I’ll beat him in every sprint.

Like on every good training camp, I’ll also be staying in a five-star hotel called “My Mum’s House”. I’ve stayed there pretty often and the service is good (fabric softener in the washing, heating on all day) but the food can be over indulgent.

The owner’s rumoured to have a deal with the dairy industry that means she constantly has to comment on how “you need your good fats”. This means adding cream to one’s cereal and cheese to everything else.

The price is pretty steep as well. I’ll have to earn my keep by answering questions on my thoughts, my feelings and my love life. There’s only so many fictional partners I can create before I’m going to have to admit I’ve been with the same gal for years now and my mum won’t like it: she’s 6.9kg, carbon fibre and totally incapable of supplying a grandchild.

Truth is I can’t wait to be back racing with her. Once the squad gets back from the worlds and we’re all training together, things might possibly seem normal again. I look forward to it.

UPDATE: After a disappointing opening ride in qualification, the British women’s team pursuit squad, made up of Joanna Rowsell Shand, Laura Trott, Elinor Barker and Ciara Horne, won bronze on Friday in a time of four minutes 16.540 seconds, the fastest of the final round.