Three quarters of an hour later and Peter was finally being stretchered away by professionals, his lower left leg by now the size, shape and consistency of a severely clubbed baby seal. 'Um, yes, his leg's broken, you'd better go and phone 999 immediately,' she said. By the time she'd clambered down the bank in her high heels, another 20 minutes had passed, and Peter's face had gone a bit green. Tim's mum had suspected it was a 'practical joke', and had insisted on seeing the broken leg for herself before alerting the emergency services. The ambulance was on its way, then? Er, no, actually. Eventually Tim reappeared, waving, way above.
Tim's house was the nearest, so he was dispatched to phone 999, leaving the rest of us time to hide the Montesa, and concoct a story that wouldn't get us into trouble. 'My leg, my leg,' he was yelping, and we could see what he meant: his shattered shin bone had pierced the skin in three places.
We climbed down, and could hear his groans. Looking down over the edge, we saw he was now spread-eagled at the bottom of the quarry, with the still revving bike beside him.
