Thursday, 18 January 2018

Cycling Weekly

What a disaster. You have found my blog.

These are not the articles you're looking for.

Saturday, 19 August 2017

Jeezo this whole blog is really out of date.

I had a meeting with an agent a couple years ago (when I was sure I was on the cusp of hitting the big time and would need someone else to answer my calls but this time never came PLEASE SOMEONE CALL ME I'M SO LONELY) and the agent told me how bad an idea blogs are because they inevitably end up as a graveyard of dated beliefs. I laughed because I knew that mine would be different.

Yet here we are, years between posts and a deep-wrinkle-causing cringe on my face if I dare to scroll down. Don't do it. I'm doing it now and I don't know why I'm not just kicking myself in the face instead.

I have continued to write. But mainly in the Scottish Sunday Herald. Some of them are archived here. Where are the rest? Erased from the internet in order to add value to my gran's collections of newspaper cut-outs.

I also occasionally write for Cycling Weekly. Most of them were never put on the internet so just believe me when I say that every word is hilarious. I mean the overall impact is confusing but every word is either Ecclefechan or boobies which are the funniest ones out there, so, yeah, pretty consistently lol causing.

And maybe one day I will return to here as a platform.

Alas I'm not going to delete the whole blog in an embarrassed strop. For the meantime, the photos and my palmares are still kept up to date, ish, so they can justify it's continuation.

Katie x

Monday, 26 September 2016

If you read all the way to the bottom you get to read the word vagina, incentive!

In many ways cycling can save you money. Transport is the obvious one. Healthcare is not so obvious (whoop, go Britain's NHS!) but your lack of obesity related illnesses is certainly saving somebody money. And not to be overlooked is mental health: a bike doesn't charge by the hour and, though is does make you sweat, you certainly don't squirm as much and cry about your repressive childhood.

But when you get competitive about your cycling (because of the lack of validation you got during that repressive childhood of course) it gets expensive. So I thought I would share my top tip for getting bang for buck gains.

If you're not an obsessive cyclist yet, here's some background to the cycling bang for buck argument.

Wednesday, 15 June 2016

The laziest training day there ever was.

Today I woke up at 10am, had some porridge for breakfast and sat for a while wondering how long I would need to stop shaving my legs before hair growth would plateau. Then I got into my shorts and set up the turbo.

By 11am I was starting a turbo session we do regularly. The first 15 minutes are pretty easy so I either rap/sing along to whatever I've got in my headphones or I think of all the things I have to do that I haven't done, can't do now and will forget to do once I get off. Today I was the third member of Outkast and who knows what's on my to do list.

I finished the session 40 minutes later, very sweaty. So I went up to my bedroom, put a towel on the floor, opened the window and patiently waited naked on the ground until my body cooled down. Then I looked out the window and saw it wasn't raining.

I got my kit on, ate some greek yoghurt straight from the tub and met El in the kitchen to go out on a ride. It was midday.

We got honked at by a couple cars seemingly dismayed by our transport choices, though only one tried to knock us off the road entirely. It caused me a brief surge of hatred for everything in the world, but that passed. El and I chatted about important Olympic prep, like this cool swimsuit I want to buy that says "Beach Please" on the front.

Then at 2pm we stopped for lunch. I sat down and looked at the menu so as to match El, though I knew I would be ordering the protein pancakes because my life is held up by two strong moral pillars. They are: 1. Always try to be the good guy. and 2. Whenever possible, order the pancakes.

They had run out of protein pancakes but I didn't panic because I knew the good guy would settle for the protein waffles. They had run out of those as well and I felt ill with disappointment. Though not too ill for a milkshake.

We sat in the cafe for a while wondering if a nucleur bomb hit Manchester whether we'd feel it in Wilmslow. Then by 3pm we were back on our bikes.

Once I got home I ran a bath and sat in there replying to emails until the water was cold. Then I lay there a bit longer hoping that if I fell asleep I would wake up before I fully drowned.

Eventually I got out the bath, lungs still filled with air, and took up the same position on my bed instead. Only this time instead of emails I started writing my column for the Sunday Herald sports section whilst eating a protein flapjack (you may have noticed a general trend to eat anything with the word protein in front of it).

It was when I finished my column that I noticed it was seven thirty at night and I had successfully done nothing but ride a bike, eat and sit on my arse all day. I felt a warm sense of pride and went to take a break from writing to write this blog post.

Soon I'm going to have to stand up and make dinner, but after that I'm likely to return to the good life and spend the evening watching a film. I'll probably have a glass of protein milk with it as well.

Friday, 18 March 2016

Driving home. Not for Christmas.

I don't know how many times I've driven between Manchester and Glasgow now. Enough times that I choose which services I stop at depending on which birds I'm in the mood for seeing (Annandale for geese, Tebay for ducks, Lancaster for one's in short skirts*).

Anyhows one constant that's always changing is the soundtrack. Constant because it's always there (and always loud), changing because sometimes I need to cry and sometimes I need to rage and sometimes I just need to stay awake. Always I need to sing/rap along though.

I thought I'd give you today's soundtrack with notes on the driving mood that flows with it, because, why not.

Sunday, 13 March 2016

Wheatfield with Crows

So mamma Archibald went to Amsterdam on holibags, visited the Vincent van Gogh museum, and came back with presents.

My present was a journal/notepad printed with Vinnie's good ol' Wheatfield with Crows, but it also came with a story.

My Aunt had explained to mamma Archibald that one day van Gogh is sat in his wicker chair, bummed as ever about life and ready to take more than just his ear: he's going to evacuate life for good.

Being the tortured soul that he is though, in this moment he has a vision that must be put on canvas. Compelled by artistic obligation to birth this image, he paints Wheatfield with Crows before getting back to real business and topping himself.

Horrible story.

But anyways I listened to it and decided that this would be perfect as my new existential angst journal. Only mistake was getting on Google and finding out the whole story is bull crap: wasn't even the last painting he did before he died.

Oh well, looks nice...

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

Speak to me!

Embarrassing news: I fecked up the forwarding of the email address I have listed here ( and so haven't read one single email in a year.

I always thought it was a bit weird that not one soul wanted to contact me about blog stuff ("Seriously? Not even abuse? The internet usn't what people say it is."), but turns out they did: I'm just the arsehole that didn't reply.

Better late than never, I'm all over it now! Send all the abuse you have, PLEASE, I got it covered.


Monday, 16 November 2015


... when I pull the plug out after a bath I stay lying in there whilst the water slowly drains away and if I get too close to the plug hole, the suction means it tries to grab my butt cheek and use it as a stopper and it feels like I'm in the sea and some little creature it trying to bite my bum and I get a fright every time it happens even though I'm expecting it. So, yeah, that's a thing.

Friday, 16 October 2015

Official Neanderthal

So a while ago Radio 6 Music contacted British Cycling to see if I'd like to be on Lauren Laverne's show, as part of the Biorhythms segment that she does. All they asked was that, first, I send them three of my favourite songs.

I sent them this list:

- Ed Sheeran: You Need Me. I Don't Need You.
- Kanye West, Jay-Z, Rick Ross and Nicki Minaj: Monster
- Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip: Waiting For The Beat To Kick In

The reply was a request to pick more indie songs in order to be on the show. I (stupidly) decided not to back down on my list in the hope that I'd get to go on the radio anyway and defend it. Obviously that didn't happen because, duh.

Whilst we're here, the longer list would have included:

Thursday, 1 October 2015

Top tips for tricking yourself into believing you're sane!

Top tip number 1!

Try and think of all the normal people you know. Can't think of any? Exactly! If they're all crazy, well, bingo bango bongo - that makes you the sane one.

Top tip number 2!

Read fiction. You may momentarily believe you are in fact the characters you're reading about, and if they're all sane then, hey presto, looks like you're sane too.

Tip top number 3!

Buy a scented candle. Sometimes the flame is so mesmerising you can stare at it and forget about everything that exists in the world. Ergo insanity doesn't exist. Ergo you're sane. I mean you use 'ergo' instead of 'therefore' - you clearly have your shit together. Side note: The scent aspect is simply to justify always lighting candles and a good alternative to staring at gas hobs.

Top pop number 4!

Wear flat shoes. Nothing screams sanity more than good arch support.

Tit pap number 5!

Act overtly crazy as a double bluff.