CAREERING downhill at breakneck speed, my feet bouncing off the lush mountainside heather which provided a soft purple carpet, I was, to use a technical term, bricking it!

I was 2,800 feet above sea level near the top of Morrone Hill which towers over the village of Braemar in the Scottish highlands.

This was one of the most prestigious hill races in the Highland Games calendar, part of the Braemar Royal Highland Gathering on Deeside.

I had just spent the past 25 minutes on a gut-wrenching, lung-busting, hamstring-hurting, back-breaking climb to the summit.

At the top, a small posse of marshals slipped a band on my wrist to indicate I had indeed reached the summit, before making the sometimes suicidal run downhill.

"Enjoy the view when you get to the top," said one of the experienced runners beforehand.

The view was impressive, staring at miles upon miles of the Cairngorms, and down below the multi-coloured specks of cars parked neatly in rows behind the small, but smart Braemar showground.

But there wasn't much time to enjoy the spectacle. It was head down trying to run as fast as you dared down a terrifying slope which stretched out below.

The feeling of heather underfoot was bizarre; soft and springy. Then just as I was coping with an even pace disaster struck. My right foot reached out for terra firma and met thin air. It reached into a hole and suddenly my body was hurtling face forward.

I was scared. Nine months of racing, 53 races down with 27 to go, about to be shattered with my foot caught in a hole and the rest of my 12 stone body crashing to the ground like a felled tree.

It happened so slowly. I was in freefall, and then impact. I waited for the crack in my leg, I waited for my brain to register the pain, I waited for the realisation that the bid to run around the British Isles in 80 races was over.

But nothing. Nothing at all. I gingerly lifted myself up still expecting the pain to sneak up on me, my legs crumbling. But despite being winded, as well as picking up a few scratches and my ankle aching I was fine.

The number pinned to my vest had come free, so I took half a minute to adjust, get my breath again, and set off gingerly.

Very soon I was into my stride, and as the heather carpet was swapped for a rocky path, I chased down those runners in front.

I had come into the race worried I wouldn't be competitive. All the runners taking part in a relatively small field seemed to be seasoned fell runners, small, sinewy and tough. Guys who would make mincemeat of the Sassenach.

I surprised myself by more than holding my own, steady uphill and then pushing on downhill.

The downhill part took me less than 15 minutes as we were ushered through gates towards the main arena. There, a crowd said to be around 17,000 strong, greeted the runners for a final circuit on the grass turf.

Around us were highland dancers performing, the tossing the caber competition was going on, and a Highland band were playing a stirring tune on the bagpipes. But the applause was shattering as we came into the arena. It was a long 300 metre finish and I tried to put on a sprint passing two runners on the way.

I paced it poorly because by the time I reached the finish beside the Royal Box, I was shattered. My legs were like jelly, my energy levels were spent and I felt sick.

But I had competed the 3.4-mile hill race, survived and not disgraced myself. A time of 41 minutes for the run sounds slow, but believe me that was some run up that pig of a hill.

More than that, I was delighted to have escaped injury free after a fall which I thought would put an end to the year-long adventure.