Sometimes you just get these days where things are going to go wrong. 12th May 2005 might just go down in my diary as one of those days.

When the alarm went off at 0430 I already knew I was onto a loser. As well as being tired I had a very sore neck for some reason. But hey - the sun was shining and, after grabbing a quick breakfast and jumping onto the bike, it transpired that there was very little traffic around and it looked as though it could be a Good Day. My combination of wanting to avoid the tedium of motorways and trying to get something resembling a round profile back onto my back tyre meant that my route, though pleasant and interesting, took rather longer than I expected and I was really having to press on. But regardless of how hard I pushed, I was still a good forty minutes later than scheduled when I got to Mallory Park. The marshals let me straight onto the track as the sessions hadn't started yet, and I was able to pop into the wrong end of the pitlane and sneak in un-noticed.

Well, almost un-noticed, anyway. Rapid Tracks are far too efficient to allow someone to arrive late without any mickey taking, so a degree of good natured ribbing ensued. But no problem - there was still time to get breakfast and I've been on enough Rapid days that missing the morning briefing wasn't too big a deal. So, signed on, indemnity forms filled in and finest Leicestershire bacon and tea coursing through my system we were ready to rock.

The first session, as usual on a Rapid day, was just ten minutes and was intended to remind everyone where the track goes and how to ride properly. No problem - Mallory is easy enough to learn and the group was all well behaved. One thing that this session conformed for me was just how fast and agile the GSX-R 750 is. It's a fabulous bike and instills an enormous amount of confidence, seeming as it does to almost invite liberties to be taken without the attendant risk of highsides and large amounts of physical pain.

So, onto the first proper session, then. The pace soon hots up, though the temperature is still low enough to cause me to leave my roll-neck on under my leathers. Sliders are being scraped all over the place and the overall speeds are pretty damn' respectable, actually. There's a Bimota V-Due in my group. It's not especially fast but the handling is sublime and it is so very beautiful. It's worth staying behind it for a bit to savour the sound and smell. I'm tempted to ask for a try but the cost puts me off. There's also an ex BSB GSX-R 1000 racebike, complete with slicks and tyre warmers. It's quite quick. Maybe a bit too quick for Mallory, which is a quite short circuit that doesn't really make use of huge power. Anyway, the guy is going pretty well until he highsides it coming out of the Devil's Elbow. It's a very common place to go down, and results in the session being stopped a few minutes early while the unfortunate rider is taken off to hospital. Paddock gossip says he's broken a collarbone.

There's forty minutes before the next session, so I take the time for a chat, a look around and a general catch-up. I'm scheduled to do some one-on-one coaching later so I make arrangements to change groups to make sure that my student and I are on the circuit in the same group after lunch.

The next session comes up and a couple of laps in a ZX9 rider loses the front and slides straight on at Edwinas. He's up and picking the bike up before I have even reached him, so no harm done. I've found my rhythm, I've got some space on the track and I'm starting to up my pace. Everything feels great. The track is smooth and grippy where it needs to be, the occasional other riders I come up on are riding cleanly and predictably, making passes (or being passed) safe and straightforward. A few laps from the end of the session and I get a warning. Gerard's is wide and fast, and there isn't really a right or wrong line around it. If I'm not worried about holding a race position then I like to make it two apexes, going wide in the middle and then slicing back, getting on the power reasonably hard earlier than would otherwise be possible, probably somewhere around where the lead bike is in the photo above. Sacrificing a little mid corner speed by turning harder I get the bike stood up earlier and so I'm quicker on the exit. It also leaves more of a margin for slides and other upsets mid corner. So as I pitch into the second part of the corner I get a slide from both ends and a moment or two of wobble. Nothing too terrifying but a distinct warning that I ought to back off a bit. Perhaps the tyres are getting hot. Anyway, I decide to do a couple more laps and then pull in early. I take the next lap very gently and everything feels fine. Maybe I'm over-reacting? No matter, it's nearly the end of the session so I'll go in after this lap.

I'm approaching Gerard's at somewhere between 100mph and 120mph on my final lap. I have lots of space and the bike feels great, so I just roll off a little as I pitch in to the first part of the turn. My speed brings me out to exactly where I want to be for the next part, so I push the bars to tighten up and feel the speed scrubbing off as the bike turns. I'm almost lined up as I start to feed the power back in. The first suggestion that something is wrong is when, instead of feeling the back slide a bit as normal, I actually see the bike starting to pivot around the headstock. Yes, I'm sliding rather a lot. No problem - pull the inside bar to try and pick the bike up and roll off just a fraction - the last thing I want to do is highside, right? That didn't work. The slide is still getting bigger and I've resigned myself to a fast lowside. It'll be hot and embarrassing but I'd probably be able to ride the bike later on. Then I blew it. I listened to the arrogant little racer in the back of my head, berating me for giving up and telling me to have another go at catching it.

So I did.

My next clear recollection is looking down at my bike. "This is going to hurt" was the next thought as I started to get my arms in to avoid flailing around. I'm probably six feet or so off the ground, maybe more.

Landing wasn't too nice.

Then I'm sliding along the track on my back, looking over my shoulder at my bike. I can see every detail so clearly. I can read the writing on the tyre. I can see the valves going past as the wheels turn. And I can see it all catching me up. Those wheels are doing around 130mph. And they're getting closer to me. I'm yelling "Go away, go away!" at my bike and trying to figure out where I can out my hands to push against it when we hit the grass.

I've stopped. The bike hasn't hit me.

I count to three before getting up. It's good to be sure you really have stopped.

My bike is lying a few yards away. The headlamp is hanging out of the fairing like a tongue. I tell it I'm sorry and start to run towards the tyre barrier. The next bike comes around the corner and I put my arm up to say I'm OK.

That hurts. Actually I think I should sit down for a moment.

The marshall reaches me and looks worse than I feel. He's just sprinted a fair way and he's not a young man. I assure him I'm fine.

He assures me that I'm not.

I'm hustled into the ambulance and taken to the medical centre. All I can do is curse my stupidity for falling off and thank the medics for looking after me but no, I'm fine really.

We get my leathers off and one glance at my right elbow assures us all that actually I'm not fine at all. My left wrist is sore as well, and my left foot feels as though it's been stamped on.

If you're squeamish or would rather not read about what happens after you prove to yourself that, no matter how strong your willpower, gravity is stronger, then I suggest you dive back to the index now.

Standard procedure is that while I'm conscious and reasonable I get a line put into my arm. The needle appears to be about a foot long, and my arm veins react the way that any other blood fuelled part of the body does when faced with a threat.

They shrivel.

It takes the paramedic a few goes to find a vein and I reward her by bleeding like a stuck pig. This, apparently, isn't unusual so it is all dealt with in good humour and without fuss. There are an enormous number of forms to fill in, so I have to go through loads and loads of questions. But this is fine as it fills the time before the other ambulance gets back and I can be taken to Leicester.

We spend the rest of the time examining my kit. It's a bit of a state, but it's all done the job admirably.

As I'm wheeled (not allowed to walk - I'm strapped into a stretcher) out to the ambulance there's small deputation waiting to see what's going on. I manage to let them know I'm OK and tell them that I've certainly broken my elbow and probably my wrist as well. There is a little light hearted banter but to be honest the reality has just set in and the sense of fun has evaporated somewhat.

The ambulance ride takes an age but it's quite a laugh. The paramedic in the back is an interesting bloke, he's been around a bit and he's got a sense of humour. Getting into Leicester Royal Infirmary is far easier in an ambulance than by car, though, so the last part flies by.

The hospital has recently been improved and the A&E department is one of the biggest beneficiaries. I was wheeled into one of the cleanest, nicest hospitals I have ever seen. And the staff carried on what appears to be a Leicestershire tradition. Not only is Mallory known as The Friendly Circuit, but I'll always think of Leicester as The Friendly Hospital. Even the pair of slightly intoxicated gentlemen of the road who were encamped in there were amiably drunk rather than obnoxious. I'm sure it gets worse, but at around 1300 on a sunny weekday afternoon it's a pretty nice place to be. Relatively.

Well, the rest became fairly standard. More forms and things to check, then off to X-Ray where Clare the radiographer managed to move me where she wanted without causing any pain at all. Outside, waiting to be wheeled back (still not allowed to walk) I grabbed a sneak peek at the X-Rays.

Ah. That'll explain a couple of things, then. Like the odd shape of my elbow. And the fact that I can't move it.

Back to A&E where an earnest doctor explains what the problem with my elbow is and is reasonably happy that my wrist isn't broken. I'm told that I will definitely need surgery. Then I meet the surgeon. Now I live in South London, which is a long way from Leicester. Especially when you can't drive (and I was guessing that I wouldn't be able to). So I was already thinking about going home and checking into a local hospital. The surgeon gave me no reason to want to stay there, so we made the arrangements and off I went to get plastered.

Oh I wish.

No, what I did was went to get a temporary cast so that I could travel without doing myself more damage. The plaster technicians were two of the nicest people I have ever met. Verity and Kathy (I think) looked after me, made me laugh and dealt with me as kindly and warmly as it's possible. Anyone who gets all cynical and jaded about the NHS should go see those two. Then think again.

More pictures as they come, and the next instalment will go rather more into the medical side of things.

You have been warned...