Regardless of the fact that I have never studied statistics in my life, I feel I come from a place of authority when I explain a recent correlation I’ve discovered. This is because my friend Fiona studied mathematics and statistics at Glasgow University and, just to brag, she was top of her class and I’m her friend.

Stats aren’t really what we bond over (our shared interests are the three Fs: food, feminism and other fantastic fings), but either way we’ve spent a lot of time together. Much like how being from Scotland means I know all five million other Scots and every 12th one is my cousin (should any American ask), being friends with Fiona means I fully understand how drawing correlations works.

When I had zero Olympic gold medals I got between six and 10 hours sleep a night. Now I have one Olympic gold medal I get between three and seven hours sleep a night. Conclusion: Olympic medals can reduce sleep by up to 50 per cent. Madness!

I’m sure you’ve heard people go on about Maggie Thatcher only needing four hours of sleep a night. I think she was maybe just constantly out on the lash but had too many commitments to bail on the next day. She would have happily slept until 1pm all the time but there was some press officer calling, saying “Mags, get up you lazy sod!”. Then night time rolls around and she wants to celebrate how well the country’s doing (Ha, this is where the parallel falls apart) and she forgets how knackered she is and cracks on. It’s a vicious, though raucously fun, cycle.

I’m not sure I can cope with it much more, however. I haven’t drunk this heavily since I was 16 and treated it as my main hobby. The more competitive I got at cycling the more unfathomable I found the acceptance of hangovers until eventually, aged 18 and legally allowed to drink, I lost interest. Or maybe even became fearful of the stuff, I’m not sure.

But either way, my system was not ready for this week of celebrations. I need a break from my break. Which would have seemed hilarious if you had quoted current me to me of four weeks ago. “You’ll have shaken so many hands your wrist will hurt. Your cheeks will burn from smiling.”

Me of four weeks ago (12 days before qualifying) had spent all night throwing up in a hotel bathroom, crying because I had nothing else to throw up (so why were you still trying, belly? Why?).

I was convinced it was game over and wouldn’t have believed current me would be in pain from too much fun. It’s a story (being ill, going badly, no longer being ill, not going badly) I’ve just tried to write but it’s a boring one that turns into an X Factor sob story. I shall not be responsible for perpetuating the idea that the Olympics is a sports-world X Factor and, well, you already know the ending.

If you don’t, let’s skip to it now: Myself, Laura Trott, Elinor Barker and Joanna Rowsell-Shand became Olympic team pursuit champions and broke the world record three times (the final time was 3.10.263) in the process. My fourth team-mate and fifth member of our squad, Ciara Horne, didn’t ride but was there and training with us right the way through.

So instead of that long, detail obsessed and convoluted story, which will be eked out in many different formats in many different interviews, I thought I’d tell you my favourite short stories from our time in Rio. The theme is “five idiots abroad”.

Number one: After arriving at the airport in Rio, Tour legend (and now Olympic legend) Mark Cavendish returned Elinor’s passport to her after finding it going round in circles on the baggage conveyor belt. It must have fallen out of El’s pocket without her noticing; once it was discovered the passport was hers, not one person was shocked.

Number two: On arrival in the village we started putting mosquito nets round our beds with Ciara taking it one step further and regularly fumigating her and Joanna’s room with bug spray. Unrelated info: the pair were drowsy for the next few days and we never discovered why...

Number three: We had to learn the route to ride to the velodrome our first day. We failed on our first attempt so on the ride back, three of us decided to follow Ed Clancy and Owain Doull who took us the cross-country (read: killer stupid, wrong way down streets) way. Laura spent the full 15-minute ride screaming whilst trying to overcome her, not totally irrational, fear of gravel. We survived.

Number four: Race day. We qualified fastest! And in all the commotion and exhaustion Joanna managed to fall sideways off her bike whilst being rolled off by a mechanic. I’ve yet to find video footage but Joanna insists she gave adequate warnings of “I’M GOING TO FALL!” to rid her of any blame.

And finally number five: I didn’t do anything embarrassing the whole trip. You might be thinking there’s a link between that and the fact that I’m the one telling the stories, but always remember that correlation does not imply causation. Trust me, I know how statistics work.

One final note to finish on, I’ve been told you want to know what it felt like to win Olympic gold. Well winning felt good. But what felt better was going faster than any women’s team had gone before – that felt like flying. If flying was a painful ordeal with the risk that the plane could crash at any moment. Just like flying.