Singletrack

IAn BAILEY
PHOTOGRAPHY IAN AND FRIENDS
THE GRAND FINALE
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.
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.
I’d planned on writing an article anyway, a
glowing account of the obvious joys of holidays
with friends, incredible biking, Italian cuisine and
hospitality, and that wonderful combination of
circumstances that make riding trips so memorable.
I even sat down this morning and began to write as
the excitement mounted at the prospect of an upliftassisted
guided tour of the best trails in one of the
greatest riding areas in the world. The article will
still come, but the ending is seriously abrupt.
By 11am Saturday morning we’d landed –
sunshine dominating the Nice skyline, strong
coffee and baguettes already consumed. Our driver
Giovanni combined a total disregard for road safety
with possible chronic lack of vision and the first
crash of the holiday seemed inevitable on four
wheels. However, destination reached intact, the
holiday proper was ready to commence.
Change of inclination.
By day three there was a change of tack from the
big ups and big downs of the previous days. I pride
myself on freakish fitness and have been quoted as
claiming ‘I am the uplift’, but it’s good to let the
over-revved and clutch-weary minivans take the
strain once in a while. Today was going to be an
all-day gravity fest. Hours of smashing dusty berms,
chasing tails and firming up pecking orders.
As with all big smashes, everything happened in
an instant. Vague awareness of bars snapped to 90°
and my shoulder and chest slamming hard into solid
ground. Pain and shock are instantaneous as I skid
to a halt and rapidly take stock, immediately aware
that this is a bad one, knowing that you don’t just
walk away from crashing at that speed. Instinctively
I shout, ‘rider down’ to alert Brian as he bursts out
of the corner, just having time to brake hard before
hitting my bike as it bridges the full width of the
trail. I crawl to the trailside and lie on the sun-dried
leaves, spitting gritty dirt from between crunchy
teeth.
Some pains subside while others sharpen and
the familiar nausea of significant injury threatens to
eject my morning cereal. Deep breaths and nodded
answers to concerned questions; we’ve all seen this
before and everyone knows I need time to formulate
correct answers, adrenaline masking the inevitable
burning. Eventually I rise and send the others on
before tentatively remounting and riding the last
steep drops to a more suitable stopping point.
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