Tacen quickly became one of my favourite courses, for a completely different reason than all the others.

Being a competitive athlete in slalom is pretty special. We get to train and develop aspects of mentality that I think are slightly diluted by 'linear' outcomes in other sports. The elite end of slalom displays a range of styles and approaches that are so diverse, yet produce such tight margins of success, that it's really comparable to nothing else. 

This blog isn't easy to write. A big part of being a competitive athlete is managing ego; this can range from managing expectations, to approaching relationships, to developing an objective approach to feedback and a million other very personal things. I really wanted to write about my experience here, in the hope that it helps some athletes who might have felt the same way I did when I first came to the incredible Sava river.

When we arrived in Tacen, the water was pretty high. I'd never been to this particular venue before, and I knew that I was coming to one of the biggest 'drops' in the slalom world. The top of the course begins with a steep slide that drops into the first few gates. In the whitewater world it's really not a big deal. There are few consequences of messing up the line other than time loss, and it's accessible to all levels of paddler. Even in the slalom world, there is very little time distinction between nailing the line and having a slightly 'off' run. But when we showed up on Sunday evening, and the water was absolutely pounding into the right hand wall - where I knew I should be 'aiming' - I just felt sick.

Honestly, it's one of the hardest things being open about this kind of feeling. We live to race, and Tacen is a regular venue for top events like the World and European Championships. Local Slovenian paddler Peter Kauzer, one of the most decorated and impressive paddlers to watch, can do the whole thing with his eyes closed. I knew all this while I watched the water folding back on itself at the bottom of the drop. I watched C1 and K1 paddlers flying down it, almost completely in control of their boats in the churning boils. I knew I had to do it tomorrow. I just really, really didn't want to.

This isn't an easy feeling, because as a pretty experienced athlete, my immediate reaction was to clamp down on these feelings and try to shove them out of my mind. It's easy then to get into a cycle of dismissing the fear as ludicrous, clutching at things you've heard people say like 'it's easy' or 'just stay right' or 'maybe they'll close it for the race', and sick fear that comes in waves. This is a bit dramatic; I wasn't actually sick, and I was excited to try something that was completely out of my comfort zone. But your brain so easily hangs on to these cycles of thought until they are blown way out of proportion. 

What I took away from this, while I was battling the cycles of thought that clouded my brain and made my hands sweat, was that trying to grip and shove feelings away from yourself actually has the opposite effect. It feels completely anti-intuitive, but the best thing I did for myself the evening before I tried the drop, was lean into those feelings. I stopped trying to resist the feeling of FEAR. I let it wash over me, and suddenly all those scary thoughts of slamming into the wall on the right or spinning into a death roll on the left became much less specific. Over the evening, the feeling of fear became just like the feeling before a race. Excitement, gentle adrenalin, and arms itching to get on the water. 

At the bottom of my first run down, I could have cried with laughter. Remembering the feelings I was grappling with when I first saw the drop, it felt absolutely absurd. But I wanted to remember how I'd felt, and try and explain that actually the best thing you can do is one of the most incredible learning experiences of all.

In all fairness, I spent the first two days on the drop doing some truly horrible lines. I went straight through the middle of the hole at the bottom countless times, paddles in the air, boat underwater, edges forgotten and upstreams missed. But every time I did it, the drop got a bit easier. It felt like I had more time to decide what was happening. On the day before the race, something clicked. I got all the way over to the right hand side, and it was like my boat had previously been paddling with an anchor whose rope had just been cut. You sit up on that pile of water, and the whole space opens up. There seems to be minutes, rather than seconds, to decide what line to take. 

I didn't get the result I wanted in the semi final at Tacen. I had two pretty serious mistakes that slowed me down and gave me penalties. But I was proud that over my three runs, I had three almost perfect deliveries on the main drop. What had been a really intense personal battle for me had become the easiest part of the course. I want to go back to Tacen, to keep learning about the water - because I don't think there is a better course for that. But I feel incredibly lucky for what I brought home with me.

Photo Credit: Jamie Grant @ Glen Lyon Coffee Roasters

Slalom athletes always look forward to summer sunny days and easier training conditions - some of them chase it across the globe all year round! Winter training is notoriously a difficult 'grind' and summer is a bit of a release, at the start. To be honest, some of my hardest, most exhausting training camps have been over the summer months, because they invariably come with racing, camping, socialising and a LOT of driving.

This year has been incredibly special. At the start of the summer I got to race at the Presidents cup in Krakow, winning a silver medal. Then I got to race my first EVER world cup, on the first slalom course EVER built at Augsburg Eiscanal - sorry if you read my latest blog post and this is old news! I then had a couple of weeks at home before driving out with the Scottish Slalom Squad for four weeks of training and racing. 

Now it's often seen as a bit of a whinge to say I 'trained through' racing. When someone says that, it means they didn't taper. They didn't take a rest, or alter their sessions to the benefit of the race weekend. This means an athlete gets maximum 'water' time whilst abroad, rather than cutting sessions short to optimise their fitness for race performance. 

Expectations have to be altered a little for this kind of situation. We raced at the Bratislava and Vienna Danube cups, and they were incredible events. The turnout of athletes and volunteers made the races worthy of a World Cup. It's difficult to have an entirely positive outlook on the results of the races, because I didn't make the final in either event, with a couple of mistakes pushing me back. But I was pleased with my style of paddling, and felt that my attitude on the water reflected the months of work I put in to developing certain techniques and mindfulness training. 

One of my favourite things in the world is to be 'training tired'. It's tough over a racing camp, because it can easily feel as though you don't have space to be tired, or have to keep something inside you running on alert so that you're ready for competition. That's basically the opposite of what is ideal. Being able to relax and fully regenerate your mind while under exhaustion is one of the toughest things to learn as an athlete if you're not already inclined that way - which I'm definitely not! So I had an epic camp, learned a lot about myself and enjoyed some familiar situations.

At this point in time it feels a bit silly writing about being tired, because I've been enjoying almost two light weeks in preparation for Tacen world cup - my second world cup ever! (Sorry if this is getting a bit 'dear diary', but I will continue to be over excited about world cups if I want to!)

Constructing recovery time for my body and my brain when I'm at home consists of:

1. Cleaning my little flat (I know)
2. Making coffee (always Glen Lyon, and currently Uganda Sipi Falls organic blend is my all time favourite)
3. Paddling on the lake next to my flat (which is more exciting just now because the swans have babies)
4. Driving up north and: visiting Glen Lyon Coffee, who make me feel like I have another family; paddling on Tully; walking into the middle of nowhere
5. Usually having too much cake

So without apology and with a huge amount of gratitude, thank you for reading (if you got this far) and I will update you after Tacen! If you want more 'real time' action you can check out my instagram and facebook accounts!

This year has continued the way it began; with me being astonished at every corner. I began a crowdfunding campaign to financially support my first world cup tour. Within two weeks I made almost 90% of the costs of the races. People I haven't spoken to in years, people I know for sure don't really have that tenner to spare, strangers I've never even met. It is the most bizarre feeling, in a world that is so connected digitally but so detached personally, to feel that astonishing mass of love and support. In a lot of ways, the words and comments and donations that were directed at me became a more important experience than qualifying for my first world cup race. People didn't even need to be asked twice; they jumped on board my journey with their palms open, and I cannot imagine being in a luckier position.

Another development over the last couple of months that I find incredibly exciting (and canoeists who share my love of coffee will totally get it) is beginning a new partnership with Glen Lyon Coffee Roasters. Scotland is where I have lived longest in my life, and my slalom life began here. Which is why after years of stopping by for flat whites and gazing lovingly into the roasting room, I'm absolutely blown away that this roasters, not half a kilometre from where I first sat in a slalom boat, wanted to be a part of my journey too.

My international season began in Krakow, with the Presidents Cup. I started at this race two years ago in 2016, coming 9th. This year I came 2nd, just 0.8 off the win. Not a tiny margin, but small enough for me to be able to feel the speed I need to keep pushing to the top.

After the presidents cup came demonstration runs, at Krakow world cup. Due to an unprecedented set of issues with the U23 World Championships course in Ivrea, the World Cup was un-released to me two weeks prior to the race. Setbacks are an inevitable part of sport, and while this is the most beautiful, difficult sport in the world, for it to continue to exist we have to accept that on some levels it is a business. And at that moment, business said that I would miss out this time. 

Demo runs were terrifying; during a race you can be absolutely isolated with yourself, completely focused on the job that is yours and yours alone. During demo runs, every single athlete watches you - and they DO care how you do! It was an amazing rush to be performing in front of about 99% of my idols, and I was proud of the way I handled it.

Augsburg was the first time I'd ever sat on a world cup start line. It's funny when you look back on moment like this; part of you really expects it to be a different level, a whole new experience that you weren't expecting. 

Actually, while the event hosted in Augsburg was exceptional, the race I put down felt incredibly normal. I was absolutely jittering with fear on the start line, ready for feelings of being chased down the course by the monstrous 'WORLD CUP' feeling. But finally I felt as though I was being released on the water to do my favourite session - full runs. I put down a slow, clean run in the first round of qualifying, unfortunately too slow to put me through to the semi finals. In the second round of qualifying I was fast enough to make the semi finals, but picked up three two-second penalties at the bottom of the course. A little too tight, a little too fast-and-furious.

But I feel like the richest human alive coming away from this first experience. I got to spend a lot of time catching up with people I haven't seen more than once or twice over the last couple of years, and meeting new people who I hope I get the chance to hang out with a lot more in the future. We talk a lot about slalom being a big family. But nothing feels like family, quite as much as when you have to run to them for help. Fifteen minutes before my first qualifying run in Augsburg, my 500 gram weight fell out of my boat. This thing had been resined in for nearly six months, so I hadn't planned for it to release its hold quite so soon. As paddlers know, if our boats are under the 9kg weight limit, we get disqualified. Holding in the panic, I (calmly, steadily, CALMLY) walked to the GB tent. Kim was the only person there. I explained what had happened, and I have never seen a person jump into action as quickly; 'right, we're DOING this.' Kim was preparing for her own race run, but was happy to help me finally wedge the weight in under my seat.

I'm grateful for everything that has happened to me over the last few months. I hope I can continue the chain of support and love to athletes and people around me, because it's truly the most valuable, life changing part of this experience. I'll check in again soon, from Bratislava! 

GB selection is a wild ride every year. There is something mind-numbingly gritty about winter training in Britain. It might be the routine, the cold water. It might just be that the temperature and wind inevitably extend into March and April. It's a celebration of dedication and determination. There's something glorious about the ache from training, and the way you fall instantly to sleep at the end of the day. And it's always with a singular focus; GB team trials in spring. 

My selection series this year was a mixed bag. I had some touches, and a couple of runs that could have been a lot better. On the final day, I knew that I had to put everything on the table. I had to express the techniques and the fitness that I'd been working on. It's probably the most terrifying race countdown of my life. But it felt good, the same way hurting after pull ups or your fingers stinging from the cold feels good. Having these feelings isn't necessarily good or bad, but the trick is to accept that they exist. Acceptance is the first stage of letting go, and your heart might be pounding in your ears, your tongue might feel like a piece of driftwood, and your muscles might be uncontrollably shaking. But if you can embrace those feelings as part of you, you can take the first step towards having a clean mind. 

 My last two runs in the series put me in sixth place, within the required percentage margin. After a couple of anxious weeks, the GB teams for the world cups were decided; and I'm going to three of them!

​Three world cups out of five is more than I dared to hope for. I feel exceptionally privileged to get this far in slalom, and it's completely down to the support I receive from family, friends and sponsors. The amount of failure it requires to begin succeeding wouldn't be possible to recover from without the people who have your back. My role models demonstrate the qualities of resilience and character in sports, and the way it can be applied to help anybody find their best life. Everything is true about getting up and doing it again. But getting up is made a thousand times easier when someone gives you their hand, and pulls. 

I'm excited to share my experiences this summer, and I think I'll be in situations that I've never experienced before. I feel prepared to cope after the incredible structure and support from the Scottish Canoe Association this winter, from my own mindfulness training and the support of everyone, in every way. I want to help younger athletes learn lessons that I am continuing to learn every day of being an athlete. 

If anybody reading this is able to help, I need to raise £1050 to get to the world cups. I'm overwhelmed by the generosity and kindness from everyone already. So even if you can just spare £2, it would mean the world to me. I'd be incredibly privileged if you would join my journey, from here.

Yours in sport
https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/lovetotrain

Photo credit: Toby Maudsley

This is a topic fairly guaranteed to get some people's blood boiling. The concept of 'talent' is attractive for all kinds of reasons. It can be a badge. It can be an excuse. A lot of people seem to think it is part of their character. I completely accept that for many athletes, performance development specialists and basically anybody who has a vague interest in sport, the concept of 'talent' is too comfortable and nice to reject. 

As with any approach to having an open mind, I have to consider both sides of this argument. It has always been fascinating to me that people will develop general overviews of something that they only possess a fraction of information about. I'm going to deconstruct my personal information about this, then make a conclusion based on just three sources. 

I started my slalom career around the age of fifteen. As in, I got in a slalom boat for the first time. When I was around seventeen (practising slalom for two years by this point, around 600 hours), I was told by a performance coach that I 'didn't have a natural feel for the water, so we're going to have to do some extra work on technique. It will be more difficult for you, because you aren't very good at reading water.' So I now think I can conclude from that expert statement that 600 hours of water time, elevates an athlete from novice, to beginner.

At around the age of 19 (practising slalom for four years by this point. I also began training full time at the age of 18. So I can estimate the practise time at around 1500 hours), I was told that I had very good fitness and strength, but again had not developed 'consistent technique because you train hard, not smart'. Now I can see the benefit of keeping a training diary, because I'd like to be able to say how many hours of training had been overseen by a coach. But I didn't, so I'm going to make a generous estimation that around half of my time on the water had been guided. I will conclude from this section that around 1500 hours of practise elevate an athlete from beginner to slightly more experienced beginner.

At the age of 22 (practising slalom for seven years, training full time for four years. I'd estimate around 5000 hours of water time by this point) I put down one of the best full runs of my life as a forerunner for the 2015 World Championships in London. I was commended by British senior team athletes (and a few others as well!) for having displayed consistent technique (after several practise runs on that course - which is not common practise for racing!). A coach, at this point, referenced me as 'talented'. So I would like to speculate that 5000 hours of practise elevates an athlete to intermediate level.

I'm trying to be as objective as possible here, because while slalom is an extremely dynamic, unpredictable sport, there are trends in improvement and mental development that are consistent with the amount of time an athlete has spent being guided through the processes of technique and mental approach. I also think that variety of training and being away from 'comfort zones' - not in the conventional sense of pushing hard, but altering routines and feedback systems, is important. I have never been to two races that have been laid out in exactly the same way, and so the physical environmental factors cannot be analysed in the context of peak performance.

Now I'm 24, and based on my quality hours of coached water time, I would say as an athlete I am elevated towards advanced/professional level. I often get referred to as 'talented' by people without previous knowledge of my background or racing experience. The reason I find this interesting is that the 'audience' of canoe slalom gets regular opportunities to observe and judge singular racing performances. We don't often get opportunities to see other athletes in the most critical, exciting parts of their development - everyday training. In the same way we never get to see the amount of hours that get put into mental preparation, and developing concentration endurance. 

The three sources I can relate to in this discussion are 1. myself, as a professional athlete. 2. Bounce: The Myth of Talent and the Power of Practise by Matthew Syed. 3. The Sports Gene: Talent, Practice and the Truth about Success by David Epstein. The two books are, in general, opposing sets of research as to the word 'talent' in high performance sports. Both reach a similar conclusion; with measurable factors of physiology, hours of practise, and ability to learn techniques, and less measurable factors of mental attitude and capacity, innate understanding and previous experience in similar environments, sports success can be predicted and measured. 

Now I can (sort of, sorry!) get to the point. I'm not really writing this as an autobiography of my experience in slalom. I wouldn't change the way I've gotten to where I am, because I've learnt so much and developed so much high quality experience that it would be unjust to say otherwise. 

I want to throw this discussion into the open, because there is a misconception by young athletes that there is a pre-determined rule of how much they can achieve. I want to say, that there is no such thing. If anyone says 'not talented', they aren't making a statement about you. They are displaying the amount of opportunities they've had to observe you. It is so very important that you understand that to take full responsibility for your training, you have to do just that. It has never been about what other people think. Your coach (if you have one) is an incredibly important part of your life. But only you know how hard you have worked in every hour you've been on the water. Were you concentrating for the whole loops session? Or were you too tired to think, and let your body go into 'auto-pilot'? 

At this stage I would say role models are incredibly important. It's far too easy to neglect this with an attitude of 'oh well they live here, and have this coach, or this team...' instead, athletes have to consider the amount of focus that has gone into the sessions, every day, for that athlete's life. There are no anomalies - just normal people who have worked exceptionally hard. Ability to concentrate is also something I believe is not innate. I believe it also comes down to hours of practise. Having a 'poor memory' or 'short attention span' is learned in the athlete's environment. Taking responsibility for this incredibly important part of development, looks a lot like removing those preconceptions, and identifying ways for you to practise something you know you could be better at. Because mental health and development are under-supported in modern sports, it can be tricky to find the right pathway for yourself to exercise this kind of practise. But that's what I mean by taking responsibility. You really, really want this! 

It's very easy in a blog to project my opinions as facts, but in reality they are my own thoughts. I understand the thousands of approaches to this discussion - and I love hearing about all of them! So in a slightly unusual conclusion, I would like to invite further discussion with myself and within the slalom community about this stuff!

I know it's cold up here, but it's still the most beautiful sport in the world! X

At the end of every season comes a time for unwind and rest. Canoe slalom is an incredibly high intensity sport - for your mind as well as your body. Having a long, heavy summer training block is tough, especially when there are no big races to taper and peak for. So having a few light weeks to rehabilitate your muscles and brain is essential to starting a strong, productive winter preparation block.

I love going into winter training - because right at the start, I always have a list of things that I want to have improved or mastered by the end of the winter. It comes with challenging conditions - getting 'better at racing' is extremely tough to simulate in a blizzard with ten paddlers and one stopwatch. I've actually learned over the last three years, that prioritising and preparing for your sessions in this environment is almost as important as the actual session. Being comfortable, nourished and having proper equipment are the bare essentials to this kind of training block. Having a strong training group who prioritise the session over the rest of their day is also essential. This is a pretty difficult situation to come by - especially because a slalom squad is a lot of individual sport athletes, having to function productively together as a team.

What is pretty awesome as a senior athlete, is seeing junior athletes you have trained with for years in 'different' focus groups, stepping up their standards to participate as senior members. Currently at Pinkston Watersports, we are productive and efficient: everyone builds the courses, everyone times one another, we share and work together with what we're learning. There are nearly eight years between the youngest and the oldest paddler. 

Strategically, we all have different goals for the end of winter training. The racing experience between paddlers is vastly different, and so are the performance criteria going into 2018 selection series. But a whole group of people who love being on the water, and are applying the same level of concentration and effort to each session, produces feedback that everyone can identify with and learn from. 

I want to spend this winter taking a step back to the basics. I've had an awesome summer, learning on some of the hardest and most technically challenging courses in the world. For the winter, I want to focus on basic sequences and simple stroke patterns. Because while I technically refine and solidify basic practise, I want to step up on my physical and mental preparation. Those are probably two of the hardest areas of sport to work on at the same time - a tired brain is not always a cooperative one. But I learned a lot over the last three years about regeneration and focus. You absolutely cannot focus constantly. But you can learn to allow attention to deviate less and less from the task at hand, until you realise that you've spent 100% of your time focussing on yourself. Which is one of the reasons resting your brain is so important - you wouldn't expect your body to run a marathon if you've been constantly jogging for a week!

Getting physically stronger for me is surprisingly simple. People do invent a lot of ways to improve specific areas of fitness and strength. I think it's quite easy to over complicate. I love strength and conditioning, because I enjoy weightlifting, but I think this kind of preparation is very specific to the individual. I want to do a lot of aerobic sessions for the first part of my winter block, to create a baseline of fitness for the really tough months in January and February. In slalom we often talk about 'training to train'. Our races are around 110 seconds of highly intense effort. In running and swimming this could mean a lot of anaerobic interval training, VO2 sessions and high intensity endurance. But because our sport is so technical, we need to spend a lot of time on the water doing hours of high intensity bursts of activity. Which you actually need to be incredibly fit for - so finally, it pays to have a long block of aerobic endurance under your belt, to be able to cope with the length of our technical sessions. 

So looking out the window at twelve degrees and Scottish drizzle, I'm excited firstly for a bit of brain regeneration - and then to get stuck in to what we've planned for the next five months!

After a long, hard, and extremely productive summer, we are home. I never thought I'd find myself looking forward to rain and temperatures below twenty five degrees celsius, and I'm sure I'll re read this post in January with regret - but it's SO good being back in a cooler climate! Jumpers and socks and waterproof jackets are something we use daily in the UK, and I actually missed them.

Alongside the high volume of whitewater training plus strength and conditioning of the last three months, we have been in the process of launching a not for profit organisation: The Phantom Project.

Over the coming years, this will be an endeavour to create a support structure for athletes like ourselves, who feel we are on the edge of making our national senior team. Slalom has a huge variety of athletes, with an even more versatile range of peak performance ages. A peak performance age is when an athlete reaches the height of their skill and physical capability. In slalom, this can be anywhere from the age of nineteen to late thirties. 

Currently there is a slight gap in the support structure in the UK, for non-junior athletes who narrowly miss the margins of making senior team. The principle reason for founding The Phantom Project, is to create a structure that can provide services for these athletes, who want to give everything to make the final push into the elite level of senior team. 

Of course creating this support structure requires investment from people who can provide these services, and as with any industry this involves financial backing. Slalom is currently still a 'smaller' sport in the UK, with fewer athletes in the premier category than in 'larger' sports such as swimming or cycling. With the success of canoe slalom in the Olympic Games, we hope to see slalom grow at every level, from recreational to high performance. 

What we would like to make potential investors aware of, is the accelerating growth curve of slalom. It's a highly aesthetic, exciting sport to watch, and as we establish better viewing methods for world cups and smaller international races, the viewing figures are increasing annually. What we are offering people is an opportunity to firstly expand recognition of canoe slalom, a sport that the UK excels at. We are in the top three most successful nations in the world at it, and as we develop more ways to integrate people at a recreational level, our elite performance level will only continue to improve. It's a rapidly accelerating curve that is open for the taking - and the opportunity to jump on board and be a part of the development is approaching. Secondly, we want to develop a support structure that continues to develop qualities in people that are rarely given an opportunity to develop in any other way.

These qualities are clean minded thinking. They are persevering in the most versatile, volatile sport in the world, through successes and failures. The principle of elite canoe slalom, is to create a mindset for yourself that allows you to live absolutely in the moment, while performing at a world class level. These are the ideals that we want to reinforce and nourish, for people who would otherwise be forced to drop off in training through lack of financial support and performance structure. 

As an athlete, I really do love to train. I love racing, and I love every part of what can be identified as a high performance lifestyle. I want to be part of creating a wider base for this to be possible for more people, because the opportunity to learn personal development skills is becoming increasingly important in society. 

I guess the point of this post is to condense what our social media and website say about The Phantom Project. Phantom: ‘a representation of something abstract, ideal, or incorporeal.’ Project: ‘a specific plan or design'. I want to help create the specific plan that can make the abstract of this endeavour become palpable and productive. Canoe slalom is the most beautiful, difficult sport in the world, and I simply think everyone should have a go!

I have some more training and racing specific posts lined up as we enter the second half of our racing season in the UK - meanwhile, I hope everyone continues to #lovetotrain and #beyourselves. Our small slalom family is growing, and those are my two favourite bits of it!

I've always found one of the most challenging parts of training to be knowing when to hold off, or go a little easier. It's easy to say that you know your limits, but in reality athletes are constantly pushing, constantly trying to reach the edge of their limits. The 'limit' isn't even about making revolutionary changes to training or technique - it's about pushing your limit a little further, about making it slightly harder to reach next time. And the next.

In slalom it's kind of hard to define, because we don't really push physical limits in the same way as cycling or swimming. It's more about exploring what quality of training you can project each day, and how consistently you can maintain it. To simplify it a little, it's easy to have a great day when the sun is out, you happen to wake up in a good mood, and your boat does everything you want it to do. Mistakes seem less significant, and it's easy to think your way around problems. It's harder to have a great day when it's snowing, your boat is a little bit battered, and you've let something put you in a bad mood.

These things are always in an athletes control. It's a choice, to let something put you in a crappy mood, or to allow yourself to get brought down by something out of your control (boat repair, in retrospect, is 100% in a paddlers control!). You decide how you feel, and with some effort, you can put yourself in the same zone day after day.

So my problem is when to know it's time to back off. I know that a few things can clear my mind and put me in a good mood. Climbing (which I'm terrible at, but love), cleaning (modern-day 'nesting' I suppose), running (which I never thought I'd acknowledge in any positive way but hey) and other easy, feel good things. So when it comes to a session, it feels like the loveliest part of the day. I spend all my time making my brain happy, in order to have a quality session.

Then your body says no, I'm done today. Sorry. My elbow hurts, and I'd like you to take some time off. I know you're not tired, but you're gonna have to suck it up and do what's best.

I spend a lot of time ignoring excuses that my brain and body offer me. Nothing is too hard, because the price of a good session can't be too high. So a niggling pain that won't quite go away after the session, or a little itch in the back of my throat, feel like really easy things to ignore. But they always creep up on me. I'm prone to tendinitis in my forearms, but to be honest in slalom forearm pain is part of the package.

In a world full of uncontrollable variables, I just want something that tells me exactly when to stop, to let certain things recover. When is pain bad? Should I ignore it or keep going, because keeping going is what we do? I guess the answer is, don't expect black and white answers in a world where nothing is as easy as that. I think paying more attention to what my body is relaying to me is also fairly key - it sounds stupid but it's really hard for some athletes to open up to that. This year I've caught tendinitis before it gets bad - icing and rest, sauna and ice baths. It's hard not to question yourself, but at the end of the day, you know your body best.

So my birthday came around in March, carrying me into my first senior year of competition. Approaching senior selection, where only the top three boats can qualify to race at the world championships, I knew this was a time to lay down everything I had learnt in the winter, without fear or reservation. A chance to throw caution to the wind and display what I know. I think it's possibly the first time I have ever sat on the start line of a selection race, and really looked forward to the run. Other races have always felt different; you can play with different approaches, different plans and styles of attack. Selection has for me, always been a time for reservation, for using only what I know I can do 10/10, every single time. 

I started the series with a strong race, coming fourth overall on the first day. The second day was a little tougher, a tricky, technical course that I never quite found my flow on, leaving me with a fifth place. Over the three day race, it's your best two results that count in the end, and so I felt strong and confident coming into day three. 

What happened on day three was a little bizarre for me, and I felt it highlighted an area of racing that I can now spend a year developing and enhancing. I spend twenty five minutes warming up for a single race run, running through physical and mental processes that I have found put me in the right state for racing as hard as I can. I do turning drills, some stretching, sprints to build my lactic levels up to optimum and breathing exercises to prime my focus. I run through the course a set amount of times in my mind, and going up the conveyor belt to the start pool I know exactly how I will feel, and what I want to do. 

In my semi final run on day three, the start person called fifteen. At this point my vision focusses, and I get that first rush of adrenalin that absolutely directs every stroke. I pull into the flow, and at ten seconds to go, I begin my start sprint. In my semi final run, I heard a hiss and bang, but it didn't register at all. I was already absolutely in the moment, in the perfect zone. I flew through gates one and two, and was on the charge to gate three when I heard voices and shouting that were absolutely out of line with what is normal. People were shouting for me to stop - some of the pumps had overheated and stopped. 

I sat like a gibbering mess in the eddy next to gate three, my brain already four gates ahead, underneath the bridge. My whole body was shaking with suppressed energy that didn't know where to go. Finally a friend told me to get out of my boat, I had to go back to the start pool. My coach carried my boat to the top, and I was told that in five minutes I could start again. A better athlete would have refocussed. At the time of course, I was confident that I could reset. You have to be - there is no other option when approaching a race. To be honest, perhaps my whole race run would have gone like that anyway - off camber, nervous and hesitant into all the moves. There is a good chance that was what could have happened anyway. But I'm annoyed with myself for letting an opportunity to practise self mind control, overcome my race. I don't know how I would have finished with a perfect run. I am only absolutely concerned that it was not how I planned it would go.

But the beauty of this is I am free to travel around the best slalom courses in Europe, and commit to essentially a second block of winter training - in the summer months. I can go away and work on what it was that let me down in London, and bring back everything when we race all over again next season. Thanks everyone for your support, love and making my kayak life the best it could be. I look forward to sitting on the start line with everyone again, and hope to watch and celebrate our senior team demonstrating the highest standard of racing in the world series 2017. 

Thanks Peter Milsom for the photo!

In a world of intense concentration, critical analysis and repetitive training, I think I'm learning some of the most valuable cycles of thought. Everyone talks a lot about relaxing and regenerating, but I think for people like me it's quite hard to understand that thinking you are relaxed is very different from actually being in a state of relaxation. When you are truly in the zone of regeneration, it doesn't make sense to apply a word to it. Why would you waste energy saying it? Or bother thinking about how relaxed you are? Being absolutely focussed on yourself is one thing when you are training or thinking about improving. But it is absolutely another exercise entirely to focus on yourself in a kind, gentle way. 

For me this often means giving myself permission to do things that are not essential or directly 'productive'. I know already that if I can sit down and do a couple of hours of work, or organise the dreaded paperwork for the next few weeks, I get a feeling of 'relaxation' that is lovely and makes me content. But that's a cycle that involves doing something non relaxing in order to feel satisfied. Which is quite similar to training, so one could argue that it is not the same kind of 'relaxed'. 

What I think true 'brain recovery' is, is doing things that in society are often negatively identified as being lazy or unhelpful. When you are in a zone unconnected with the future or past, there is nothing to worry about other than what is directly in front of you. I think training should revolve around this principle, but the nature of sport requires that we look at our times from the session and analyse what we have done, and what we will do to improve. So the only time you can truly be 'in the present' is actually when you are required to do nothing at all. Maybe a film, or playing a game, or in a particularly exciting conversation. Or even just drawing, napping or reading. 

Quite often I can get stuck 'trying to relax,' as ridiculous as that seems. I don't know if my brain just ticks over too fast for a whole week of the training and relaxing cycle. But sometimes taking a step in what feels like the opposite direction of relaxing actually works. Going for a long walk or sitting in the sun isn't what I'd immediately think of as a relaxation technique, especially as an athlete. But I think it works to firstly clear my brain a little bit, and when I finally get down to doing some serious chilling, it contrasts so that the relaxing seems a bit more lovely. You can get quite committed to this; I think doing exhilarating things are the best methods of clearing your brain, like cliff jumping or swimming in cold water. But they put you in the most receptive position to relax properly afterwards.