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.
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