Taking a holiday from being a mountain bike guide, Ian Bailey goes mountain biking in Italy and lets another guide take the strain. He also lets his sense of self-preservation have some time off too.

PHOTOGRAPHY IAN AND FRIENDS

IAN BAILEY

Right this second I’m sitting in the pristine kitchen of a brand new, stunningly situated apartment, directly overlooking the church spires and jagged roofs of Finalborgo, old town Finale Ligure. The heavily vegetated hillsides of the surrounding valleys masking a plethora of some of the finest mountain biking in the world. My beloved Stanton Sherpa is lying on the lawn adjacent to the swimming pool where I dropped it an hour ago. I won’t be needing it again this week.

The upper-left side of my body has been rendered almost totally inoperable. I’m unable to lift, or even hold the weight of my arm. A searing pain is emanating from a deep gouge in my elbow that I fear to view, but know I’ll soon need to address. Somewhere out there my friends are still tearing up the trails – a touch slower and more reserved than this morning, wisdom generated at my expense. I’m the fall guy and through pain and self-pity I want to curl up and cry, but instead I write, to encapsulate my feelings as adrenaline and painkillers subside, to maybe help others avoid my idiotic mishap. This is a tale of simple statistics and I’m one of the victims. Take these words at face value because they’re as raw as the pain I’m experiencing right now as I angrily one-finger type, the implications of my stupidity becoming ever more apparent.