Singletrack Magazine Issue 115: Last Word

Mediocrity

Words Ian Bailey

Ian Bailey has a confession. He wants to tell you something that’s been weighing on his mind.

I’m mediocre.

There, I’ve said it, that’s a relief; finally, publicly, accepting my limitations is mildly therapeutic. 

I don’t have to share this nugget of knowledge – in fact, in this social-media age where selective camera angles and well-written prose can create credible fake personas, I could have easily maintained I’m a legend on fat tyres. However, closer examination demonstrates that my technique is deficient in some notable areas and may never improve.

Now why would anyone really give a shit about my competence on two wheels? Normally, they wouldn’t, except that I make my living teaching others how to ride, to push their personal boundaries and stretch their limits. Clients of mine often arrive with presumptions regarding my skills that I never dispel, rarely needing to swing leg over top tube except for the occasional demonstration and to keep up with them on familiar trails. Am I selling them short?

Not necessarily; I said ‘mediocre’, not ‘average’. 

And that’s an important distinction to make in this context. ‘Average’ implies middle of the road, the mean, mode or median, a genuine mathematical concept, whereas ‘mediocre’ has a degree of subjectivity attached, allowing comparisons against unrealistic expectations. I’ve an extensive line of race results, podium photos and a drawer full of medals that dispel the notion of averageness. I’m definitely pretty quick, but as I age I’m further discovering my insecurities. 

Coaching others gives unique insight into what I can’t do, a state we call ‘conscious incompetence’. Observing my clients achieve states of balance and poise  that have eluded me for three decades can be a sobering experience, despite the obvious professional pride, particularly if they’re relatively new to the sport. 

The media must shoulder some blame for feelings of inferiority, bombarding us with images of the near-impossible being made to look run-of-the-mill. I’d dearly love to be styling up 50-foot gaps, and pinpoint-landing huge drops, and a pile of edits featuring an endless conveyor belt of young talent insinuates that it’s only a lack of desire and balls that is preventing me.

I always swore that I’d spend my 40th year learning the unique set of forces that create perfect rear-wheel balance, popping endless manuals and casual wheelies in the manner that every rider under 14 seems to have attained as a birthright. I may yet pursue this dream; I’ve not reached that milestone yet, but deep down I’m aware that the horse may have already bolted.

I could blame my parents, I suppose. If only they hadn’t brought me up in the stunning Exmoor countryside I’d have spent my time honing wheelies round the local housing estate on a skip bike, instead of being forced to endure idyllic spins over open moorland and through fairy-tale forest. Resultantly I’d describe my skill set as ‘trail-smart’, but not ‘car-park savvy’, able to hang with the best on the singletrack, but shrinking dejectedly whenever the kids demand to see a trick.

Up until very recently I still truly believed that at some undefined future moment I’d be sending huge whips and throwing in tricks, but painful occurrences have triggered a timely epiphany, restructuring aspiration with a healthy dose of realism.

As a mountain bike guide, through necessity I’ve long since honed a reserved riding style that near-guarantees safety at the compromise of all-out speed. Good old middle-aged responsibilities have spawned repercussions to personal injury that far outweigh the notional gains of short-term adrenaline fix; or so I thought… On a recent riding holiday my guard lowered just long enough to smash the left side of my body to pieces, chasing full-gas with a friend’s back tyre as my sole focus. Rehab and recovery time has allowed the requisite soul-searching and prompted the realisation that I’m prepared to sacrifice the notion of ever truly excelling to buy maximum future ride time.

Call it the ageing process, call it maturity, but almost instantaneously I’ve lost the impetus to shatter my own boundaries. The split-second brutality of crashing and the ever-increasing timescales of bodily reconstruction have conspired to alter the way I view success on the bike.

I’ve broken numerous bones before, a relentless assault on my beleaguered skeleton, but this latest accident has broken my desire too. That sounds massively over-negative, but it isn’t. I may finally be happily resigned to my lot, elevated beyond the need for unrealistic improvement and extrinsic reassurances. I’m hoping that next time I’m able to ride properly there will be a notable unburdening.  

All hail the mediocre, without us who would make the best look good?