Page 93 of The Highland Game

Besides . . . maybe impressing Maisie one last time wouldn’t be so bad either.

“All right,” I say finally. “Why not?”

Her face lights up with triumph.

A large group of competitors gathers at the base of Ben Garve, a ripple of excitement and nerves running through the crowd. I stretch my leg, wincing slightly at the dull ache settling in after the strength events. It’s nothing serious—just enough to remind me that I’ve already pushed my body today. Beside me are my brothers, Ally and Lewis, both limbering up with an ease that makes me grit my teeth.

The three of us used to do this race every year as lads, sprinting uphill like we were invincible. Then came the accident, and I stopped. So did they—out of sympathy, although they never outright admitted it. Lewis muttered something about a knee niggle once, and Ally claimed work commitments got in the way, but I knew better. When I suggested fifteen minutes ago we all run it again for old time’s sake, they barely hesitated before agreeing.

The field is packed with maybe fifty or sixty runners—more men than women but still a decent mix. Some look like seasoned athletes ready to dominate the course, while others appear to have wandered in on a dare after one pint too many. It’s entirely possible. Unlike the strength events, which require advance sign-up before the Games, the hill race is open to anyone brave (or mad) enough to give it a go.

The atmosphere is buzzing, infectious. The crowd has turned out in force too, lining up to cheer us off and welcome back whoever returns first.

I spot Emily in the throng with wee Ru perched on her hip while Iona keeps Bruce calm on his lead. Aidan bounces Callie on his shoulder—Grace is off somewhere running a yoga taster session for those who’d rather stretch than sprint. Cat waves when she sees me looking and calls out, “Don’t fall on your face!” When I remind her it’s not too late for her to take part, she just smirks and says she looks too nice today to ruin it by getting sweaty.

The starting gun fires with a sharp crack, and suddenly there’s no more time for banter—we’re off.

Chaos erupts as everyone jostles for position on the uneven ground. Elbows bump; feet tangle; someone curses loudly as they nearly trip over a tuft of grass. But soon enough the pack begins to thin out, and I find myself near the front alongside Ally and Lewis. Not surprising—Lewis practically lives at the gym, all protein shakes and deadlifts, while Ally spends half his life scaling cliffs or rafting rivers like some sort of Highland action hero.

We charge past a group of sheep grazing on the hillside. They lift their heads, bewildered by the parade of kilted daredevils storming through their patch of tranquillity.

The climb gets steeper now—brutally steep—but I push forward. My breaths come hard and fast, and every stride burns in my thighs. But there’s something exhilarating about it too. The rhythm of my feet pounding against rocky earth. The wind whipping past my face. That raw, primal drive to go faster than everyone else.

It floods back—the freedom I used to feel when running flat out during a game of rugby. The sheer joy of knowing nobody could catch me if there was open space ahead. God, I’d forgotten how much I loved this.

Finally, blessedly, the summit comes into view. A steward stands at the top, and as I close the gap between us, he raises a smoke flare high. I dig deep—legs screaming, lungs shredded—and reach him first. He grins and lets off the flare. It hisses violently before erupting in the sky in a plume of orange smoke.

First one up! Despite everything—my leg, all those years spent doubting myself—I might actually win this.

The downhill is where things get risky. Momentum builds fast on these steep slopes, gravity pulling you forward whether you like it or not. It doesn’t take long before you’re less running than hurtling downwards at breakneck speed with only your legs—which are screaming bloody murder—to keep you upright.

I pass runners still climbing uphill. Their shouts of encouragement blur into white noise as my pulse hammers in my ears. This is incredible—like flying without wings or engines or parachutes.

And then disaster strikes.

My foot snags on something—a root or rock maybe—and before I can react, I’m pitching forward into empty air. I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind clean out of me, pain exploding through my leg.

Shit.

For a second all I can do is lie there stunned while agony radiates from my leg up into my hip.

No, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. I wanted to charge across the line triumphant, arms raised like a bloody champion. I’ve no interest in some Cool Runnings underdog moment where everyone claps out of pity while I limp across the finish line.

Ally and Lewis streak past without stopping—not because they don’t care but because this is a competition. They’ll check on me later, I know that, but right now this is about the race. And that’s how it should be.

I force myself upright, a groan escaping my throat that quickly morphs into a growl of sheer determination. The pain in my leg pulses like a drumbeat, but I shove it to the back of my mind. No bloody way am I letting this stop me now.

I start running again, each step a battle against the screaming protests of my muscles. The gap between me and my brothers is significant, but I don’t care. I’m not done yet.

Up ahead, Lewis has edged past Ally as they close in on the finish line. My lungs are on fire, my injured leg feels like it’s about to give way at any second, but I dig deep. Deeper than I thought possible. I pass Ally first, sparing just enough breath to yell over my shoulder, “You’re looking great back there—like a majestic, panting tortoise!”

Ally’s bark of laughter follows me. “Torn between being pissed off and proud of you, ya wee shite!”

I’m closing in on Lewis now, his bulky frame powered by years of gym sessions and protein-fuelled stubbornness. The teasing practically rolls off my tongue before I can think better of it. “Oi, Lewis! Ally just said you curl like you’re scared to break a nail. You better stop running and sort him out!”

The gibe riles him up—enough, apparently, for him to reach out and grab a hold of my kilt as I pass him.

“Oi! Let go!”