You're never too old to get on yer bike . . . or fall off it!

But it's become something of a tradition among my friends and I to head off into the hills once a year on a weekend cycling trip.

I came a cropper on the third and final day of this year's outing, a route that took us through remote parts of Durham, Cumbria and North Yorkshire via Britain's highest pub, the Tan Hill Inn.

You know how they say you experience things in slow motion during an accident? Well, let me tell you that's just not true.

One moment I was hurtling along a dirt track surrounded by stunning countryside, the next I was tasting blood and dirt. There was nothing remotely slo-mo about it.

As I lay there, with two of my travelling companions urging me not to move (the thought hadn't entered my head) I did a little mental arithmetic.

It turned out I wasn't far wrong . . . about 20 miles left to go before Barnard Castle, the end of the line.

Once fingers and toes had been successfully waggled, the lads helped me to my feet and I was back in the saddle.

My left shoulder felt badly bruised; my right wrist ached like hell; my left knee was decorated with deeply ingrained gravel and my face felt numb.

The lads pointed out that my cheek was bleeding but what none of us knew at the time was that I had punctured it from the inside out . . . with one of my teeth!

Drunk on adrenaline, I somehow made it over the off-road section. Then there was a long climb uphill on a quiet country road to tackle.

It was around this time that I became aware of a strange whistling sound. To say the penny dropped instantly would be a lie.

I assumed the noise was in some way the result of my punctured inner cheek, but it never dawned on me that air might actually be escaping through my cheek.

It was only when we eventually stopped for a beer and my cycling companions gaped in horror at a droplet of lager oozing out of my face and slithering down my chin that I knew something was amiss.

Thankfully, the mouth heals remarkably quickly (indeed, I've had more painful mouth ulcers) so within a week I was back to normal.

I've been left with a small scar - a badge of honour - and even as I type this my right wrist is still encased in a support bandage.

The bike, meanwhile, has been put away for the winter months but we're already planning next year's outing.

Maybe it's because I refuse to acknowledge my age . . . or perhaps I'm just a glutton for punishment.

Either way, I can't wait until next year.