Katie Archibald column: A full year of long-winded, cycling-related(ish) rhetoric

It's been a year since these columns begun, and they still mention cycling (a bit)

This column marks one year of Katie Archibald being a regular feature in the mag. Have you been having a good time? To mark it I read back the first one from 12 months ago. It was written on a train and is mainly about my envy of a small child sleeping on the floor.

Now, you won’t believe this but I’m writing this in a cafe and a small child has just decided to nap on the floor!

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Boy, the envy is still as fierce. It burns in me. It weighs me down, this heavy craving to nap whenever and wherever. But I cannot. It’s both socially obtuse and hard to do without waking up in a panic two minutes nap-deep remembering that time I farted in a meeting. Or that time I farted at yoga. Or wondering where my third embarrassing public fart will be.

Little has changed in the year that I’ve been speaking to you about my life and pretending it’s cycling related. If you were wondering, alluding to cycling in that one sentence alone is enough for the whole piece to reach approval for printing in CW. I’m conning you.

This column isn’t an intriguing insight into the world of professional cycling but a cathartic outlet for me that’s cheaper than therapy (I could see a therapist for free through UK Sport, but CW actually pay me for these).

My father, who reads every week, is constantly concerned I share too much. I might have pushed him over the edge that week the column recommended you trim or wax but never (!) shave your pubes. This week’s shouldn’t cause too much stress though; we must surely agree that everyone farts.

Unless that’s subconsciously my very intention? Is the reason I so desperately want to tell you about the time my pants fell out my pocket at a race and someone noticed and told me and I stayed silent staring at the massive pants for 10 seconds wondering if I could deny they were mine before admitting defeat and picking them up, isn’t to lift the burden of memory from myself but to force my father’s cortisol levels up? Maybe I should ask UK Sport about that therapist after all.