From the faint whiff of corporate jolly at the hotel housing the International Cycling Union delegates and officials to the thrum of rubber on Siberian pine, via cobbled streets, red-brick viaducts and brash, new, canal-side office blocks, Manchester is gearing up for the pinnacle of track cycling.

'Blood, sweat, no gears' proclaim the street-lamp posters around the streets, heralding five days of lycra-clad, pumping thighs powering fly-weight machinery at phenomenal speeds around 250m of ridiculously steep velodrome.

Welcome to the Track Cycling World Championships.

Tuesday's bright morning soon gave way to more typical Mancunian fare as low, grey cloud carrying a hint of rain and even snow rolled in from the west on a biting wind.

But whilst the weather provided a colour-coded backdrop for east Manchester's Sport City, inside the velodrome was a buzz of colour and activity, riders pounding the boards to familiarise themselves with the track, put in final training sessions and, in some cases, secure selection.

And over eight hours later, they were still going at it; with 37 countries represented, practice time on the track is precious – and shared. At any one time several nations' riders will be warming up, warming down or powering round at speeds that can reach up to 70kph - 46mph in old money – and all without crashing or getting in each others' way. It's almost as if they have eyes in the back of their helmets.

The most impressive sight and sound of all is when a train of riders winds up to full speed. Clad in matching outfits, topped by the aerodynamic 'Alien' helmets, they thunder round the circuit at 40-degree angles, wheels barely inches apart. So fluid and fast is the motion, they appear to be one single entity; train is certainly an appropriate term.

Then there are the legs and butts that power them. Legs and butts the like of which you will never be able to appreciate until you get up close. We're talking seriously hefty thighs; the bigger specimens would give many waistlines a good run for their money, and would feed a cannibal for weeks.

Away from anatomy, the mood in the British camp is relaxed and jovial, from the riders to the mechanics, the soigneurs (masseurs), coaches and the psychiatrist. Even Dave Brailsford, GB's Performance Director who might be described as focussed, managed a smile.

Indeed, the vibe was positively buoyant, and with good reason; the whispered word on the ground is that Chris Hoy is riding faster than ever, and that the women's pursuit team broke the world record in training recently.

A good sign, as team GB aim to be world-beaters again.

But perhaps the best chat of the day came from Steve Peters, GB's psychiatrist, trying to describe the different personalities in the team in layman's terms: "They're all different, like breeds of dog."

Chris Hoy, apparently, is like an Alsatian; knows what to do and gets it done, whereas Vicky Pendleton is more a Labrador; needs plenty of training and attention but never lets you down when the time comes.

I'll leave you to guess which riders might Peters describes as a Terrier, a Wolfhound and a Rottweiler...

What do you think? Will the Brits clean up once more?