“You’ve not travelled up just for me, have you?” asks Imogen Wolff, mortified by the fuss being made around her inside the Manchester Velodrome.
To her left, among the blue seats, two light stands have been set up, ready for the photoshoot. A small huddle has formed around the makeshift studio. Instructed by Cycling Weekly's photographer to raise a finger, denoting she’s number one, Wolff demurs. “Really?” the teenager flashes an embarrassed smile. As she lifts her arm, the medals around her neck clang together. Her silverware is proof that she deserves the attention. She’s just not used to it yet.
