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2 miles | JC47
If any mortal harboured a lingering shred of doubt that summer had truly arrived, the searing inferno that gripped Macclesfield this week surely scorched away their ignorance. A brutal, record-breaking wave of heat smothered the region, pushing theoretical suffering levels so perilously high that the organizers gravely debated if launching our heroes at the extremely unforgiving heights of Croker Hill constituted sheer madness. Yet, we severely underestimated the magnificent masochism of our army! As the week dragged on and temperatures spiked toward unbearable, elemental extremes, the tide of brave entries actually accelerated. Knowing full well that the bleak, oxygen-thin altitudes of the great broadcast tower are famously among the most unforgiving, bitter environments in the Peak District during the dark of winter, perhaps they thought a scalding summer ascent would act as a rare, twisted blessing?
They were catastrophically wrong.
The weather attempted a brief intervention on the very morning of the race, brutally pummelling the scorched valleys with sudden, violent thunderstorms. But this offered no cooling mercy; it merely birthed a stifling, inescapable humidity, wrapping the looming mountain in a thick, breathless mist. Launching a desperate pilgrimage in the hottest part of the day to erect the signs and survey the route for looming roadworks, organizer Bhima Bowden confronted this equatorial terror head-on. Beginning the climb under a warm tailwind that denied him any cooling airflow, his instruments clocked a devastating 36 degrees! Beneath the fat wheels of his sluggish mountain bike, the baking asphalt had melted into a sticky toffee pudding in parts. Heavy sweat pooled continuously, unable to evaporate in the suffocating moisture. Shifting out of the saddle for momentum yielded total failure, as hands saturated and sticky from dripping sun lotion could find absolutely no grip upon the drenched handlebars. And when the steepest sections forced him to a grinding crawl, he was immediately stalked by thick, relentless clouds of persistent flies. Orbiting his struggling head like microscopic planets, they repeatedly launched coordinated, flesh-biting strikes like a horrific swarm of winged piranhas! This was the very atmospheric hell waiting for our warriors at sundown.
The physical terrain itself promised to be no less punishing. Following a fierce initial surge up the smooth, sweeping superhighway of the A54, ascendants must rip their steeds away from the asphalt with a unexpectedly sharp angled turn and throw themselves onto a decaying, private, rugged farm track. Scattered along this crumbling upward plunge are three distinct cattle grids; gnarled, metal teeth sunken into the earth that grow more warped, bent, and viciously corroded as the rider goes upward.
One does not simply ride this realm. To venture beyond the main road is to enter heavily guarded, holy ground. The formidable residents of this sweeping farm track do not merely live here; they act as the final, unquestionable gatekeepers of the universe above. It is purely through their gracious blessing that we are granted safe passage to cross their domain but once per year. Respecting the omnipotent landlords is our utmost law; vehicles and rogue parking are strictly forbidden, as the iron gates remain fiercely sealed to protect livestock, safety, and deep, enduring privacy.
Beware the wrath of the mountain when approaching uninvited. Upon his first scouting run to the heavens many years ago, our organizer swerved swiftly from the lane and onto the grass when meeting a high-speed tractor. The driver, not expecting cyclists, had eyes only for the soil. Retrying the assault, his path was suddenly barred by an unyielding, coordinated legion of territorial cows refusing to surrender their grazing lines! Finding loose, soul-crushing gravel stealing all rear-wheel momentum upon his final, frantic sprint, he was met squarely with an impenetrable iron barrier entirely denying him the true peak or a glimpse of the most panoramic viewpoint in the region. Tonight, however, curses were cleared from the path. Opening their barricades for this sole twilight window, our exalted gatekeepers permitted us rare, honored status: we rode as highly privileged guests of the heavens, allowed above the clouds for a brief, terrifying peek into Macclesfield's next level.
Yet, even with an open road, existential dread began claiming victims before they ever clipped into their pedals. Fresh off his colossal battle on a massive tandem machine during last week's chaos, a thoroughly unnerved Snowdon Brierley found himself returning to pilot his rocketship solo. Studying the scorching sky, the heat spelled total biological doom for his upcoming effort.
"Hmm, I'm now somewhat regretting my life choices," Snowdon openly lamented to his rivals via message before the race. A calculating specialist of colder, breathable conditions, his grand strategy evaporated alongside the thunderstorms. "Last time I checked the weather it was saying 21 degrees and drizzle, which would have been perfect. It's now saying 26 degrees and full sun. 18 degrees is about right for me. Beyond 23, I go into full shutdown!"
An astonishing wave of totally new warriors flocked to this private torture chamber. The treacherous path unbelievably summoned 2 mighty, familiar heavyweights for their grand Croker debut: both former Club Champion Tom Bowers and relentless powerhouse Nick Brownbill shockingly plunged into this inferno as first-time rookies! Yet, lurking ominously alongside them on the start sheet was an utterly formidable ghost from a not-so-distant past. After a brutal, season-ending crash two months ago left him sidelined in agony, the legendary Daniel Herterick had at long last returned to wage war against our new King-in-waiting. Daniel was the sole mortal warrior capable of breaking Jack Morris's dominance throughout our entire 2025 season, savagely wrestling the overall Guest Championship away by a mere whisker. With 8 unforgiving rounds remaining, the title remains fiercely up for grabs. However, with Daniel's physical condition a complete unknown following his incident, tonight would stand as the ultimate test to determine if his ferocious challenge could be resurrected, or if Jack's tyrannical reign will extend into an unconquerable dynasty.
However, rather than breathing fire at his great rival, a deeply humble Daniel simply embraced the grueling ride to come. "I was gutted I missed Croker last year," he declared, treating the slope as a huge target. "It should be a really good top end fitness test to see where I'm at." Fully acknowledging the blistering uphill supremacy of the reigning favorite, he warmly conceded: "Haha he's absolutely crushing it this year. I'll be thrilled if I can get anywhere close to his times." But the psychological pressure upon Daniel's recovering engine is magnified by the timesheet itself. He will launch into the inferno relentlessly hunted by his own frighteningly fast teammate, the resurrected Wincle powerhouse Eddie Forster! Realizing the threat, Daniel nervously laughed off the intra-team ambush, saying, "Wow yeah it's a really stacked field tomorrow. I think I'll be happy if Eddie doesn't catch me! Just going to be awesome to back racing. Will certainly be a good challenge." If anyone is to upset the natural order, they must answer to Jack Morris. Ascending this exact slope last year in suboptimal conditions, Jack carved out a spectacular 9:35. Entering the fray tonight as the heavy, undeniable favorite under baked tarmac, his crosshairs are surely locked onto the hallowed Senior record of 9:14. With Jack wielding this much mythical summer power, who knows what shattering history awaits?
Meanwhile, royalty returned to her high-altitude throne! Having claimed the hallowed women's course record upon this very summit, the unconquerable Rebecca Richardson launched her first furious ascent here in 5 years. After storming so agonizingly close to her historic Cat & Fiddle benchmark mere weeks ago, all eyes locked fiercely upon Rebecca and the merciless ticking of the stopwatch, desperate to see if her roaring 2026 momentum would be enough to shatter her own Croker PB of 10:21.440. But she was not waging this war alone. In a truly magnificent spectacle, her esteemed partner, Rick Bailey, stepped out from the shadowy realm of mechanic and team chief to enter the furnace himself! Rick races so incredibly rarely that his very presence upon the asphalt immediately elevated the evening to pure myth. Old lore whispers of his brutal strength back in the day as an undisputed force of nature. Moreover, as an obsessive disciple of gravel grinding, his supernatural skill in navigating broken, crumbling terrain on two wheels could prove to be the ultimate, deciding factor on Croker's treacherous, mangled upper path.
When the brutal realities of the mountain were finally etched into the timekeeper's unforgiving ledger, the sheer, mythical might of Jack Morris was laid bare for all to witness. Storming through the suffocating humidity, dodging the biting swarms, and tearing over the gnashing iron teeth of the cattle grids, Jack unleashed total devastation upon the field. Crossing the desolate summit line to stop the clocks at a jaw-dropping 9:21.425, he firmly secured his ultimate, commanding victory. Though the hallowed 9:14 overall Senior record miraculously survived his blistering assault by a mere handful of seconds, his devastating pace definitively crowned him the undisputed King of the Croker inferno!
In his apocalyptic wake, a spectacular, breathless war raged for the remaining steps of the supreme podium. Making a glorious mockery of his rookie status on this specific hill, Tom Bowers conquered the heat demons to snatch a brilliant 2nd place! Cresting at 9:41.769, Tom showcased an incredible evolution; despite this towering climb demanding vastly more minutes of pure suffering than last week's sprint, he impressively managed to shrink the ultimate time gap to Jack! Yet, Tom's journey to the silver medal was haunted by an utterly terrifying phantom directly upon his heels. Stomping over the finish in 9:43.207 was Eddie Forster! Trailing Tom by an agonizing 2 seconds, hilariously maintaining that exact same, microscopic haunting gap from last week, Eddie captured a colossal 3rd place overall. Realising how perilously close he was to seizing the silver, Eddie wildly blamed a catastrophic pre-race wardrobe malfunction! Relinquishing none of his fighting spirit, Eddie laughed off the heartbreak: "Might've come 2nd if I'd managed to squeeze into my skinsuit, think I'd still be trying now if I'd persevered!" Such is the heavy, suffocating tragedy of marginal aerodynamic spandex in 36-degree heat!
Right behind the leaders, the true magnitude of Daniel Herterick's glorious resurrection unfolded! Slicing through the mist just 2 seconds behind the soaring Junior phenom Ed Stubbs (who captured a majestic 4th overall with a phenomenal 10:06.719), Daniel roared across the summit line in a jaw-dropping 5th place! Though he mounted a completely blind assault on the great tower, rode heavily penalized winter training wheels, and fell victim to the ultimate physiological sin of pacing the violent opening stretches far too quickly, his recovering engine miraculously forged a brand new, all-time 10-minute power PB! Ecstatic simply to survive this post-crash comeback, he was overwhelmed with the joy of the fight, declaring: "Massive thanks for organising this! Was such a fun (and very painful haha) first climb back. Managed to set a new 10 minute power pb which is absolutely crazy." The peloton is officially warned. Daniel has returned to the frontline, although Jack can still sleep comfortably!
But there is an entirely different war waged between 2nd-place Tom and our Wirral-based powerhouse, Nick Brownbill, who laid claim to 6th place (merely 14 seconds adrift of Daniel's blazing return). Yes, they relentlessly trade blows for the uppermost spots on the leaderboard, but their truest blood-feud takes place behind the lens! Waging fierce, cinematic warfare, these two titans actively compete to produce the most compelling, breathtaking video documentation of the suffering. Their glorious propaganda serves as ultimate, heroic advertisements to lure the next generation of riders to our blocks! True to his role as a connoisseur of the climbs, Nick launched a highly cautious, early reconnaissance mission to scout the unknown upper gradients. Tumbling back down the mangled track prior to his start time, onlookers were met not with the expected grimace of fear, but an impossibly smug, cheesy grin plastered across his face, yelling "it's so cool!" as he hurtled past.
Thrust finally into the boiling ether for his race, however, Nick frankly confessed that his physiological arsenal tragically misfired: "Legs felt terrible, just not there today." Yet, a true conqueror's spirit remains unbowed by biological betrayal! Finding zen amidst the blistering torture, he profoundly acknowledged the harsh, beautiful reality of the peak, noting simply: "But a great climb, beautiful evening, just happy to have done it."
Unbeknownst to the suffering riders, however, the organizers had covertly deployed a secret layer of technological espionage this week! Stationed precisely at the concealed, sharp turn where the smooth superhighway ends and the ruinous private track begins, corner marshal Bartosz Lukasik pulled heroic double-duty. While physically pointing riders toward the hidden heavens, Bartosz simultaneously manned a set of experimental timing equipment. Training for a glorious future as a master finish-line timekeeper, he operated under zero pressure, but his execution was flawless! Slicing the mountain into distinct zones, Bartosz successfully captured our very first set of mid-race split times! And the digital readouts unveiled magic. The unyielding mathematics proved that on the brutally steep, shattered, and unpredictable upper track, Tom Bowers actively wrestled the giant and won, out-pacing the all-conquering Jack Morris by over half a second!
For mortal men without off-road wizardry, this treacherous midway point became a devastating psychological ambush. Teammates Shane Skillin and James Summers brilliantly summarized the mountain's cruelest optical illusion. Ascending the wide, exposed tarmac of the A54, they felt like soaring deities fueled entirely by the merciful hand of a surging tailwind. Their speed was magnificent! But the very moment they ripped their steeds around Bartosz's corner and hit the private farm track, they were broadsided by the true, invisible foe: punishing, suffocating crosswinds! Robbed instantly of the tailwind and bogged down by gravel, their magnificent pacing strategies completely shattered, transforming the final ramps into a survival grind.
Meanwhile, a titan clash unfolded amongst the elite Veteran Vanguard! Deep in the blistering inferno, reigning VET champion Thijs Geurts successfully defended his supreme crown! Powering up the brutal final ramp, Thijs missed an impossible course PB by a razor-thin 7.6 seconds. Crediting a new tactic, he confessed, "I've lost a bit of weight recently, which will have helped." He surely needed every missing ounce, as he waged a desperate war on the asphalt to physically reel in the legendary Paul Whittaker. Both heavyweights crossed the summit bathed in thick, glistening layers of sweat, a shining testament to the thermal limit of their bodies, with Whittaker desperately holding off the rampaging Dutchman on the road to finish a mere 5 seconds ahead! Breathing heavily down their necks was a glorious newcomer: Johnny Winbolt-Lewis of the Manchester Wheelers, boldly planting his flag just a handful of seconds behind the veteran legends. Hot on his wheel was Maxwell Smith! Though bleeding 33 seconds to his own historical PB in the heavy, suffocating air, Maxwell's noble spirit remained entirely unbroken, graciously blessing the hallowed tarmac upon his survival: "A privilege to race up a private road to the mast."
However, gazing down the resulting timesheet from the blistering 10-minute barrier, the merciless brutality of the great mountain was revealed. Yawning chasms of time began to rip the midfield entirely apart. For Ed Stubbs' legendary generational nemesis, Seb Hines, the great broadcast tower proved to be a theatre of profound heartbreak. Even on this very asphalt, famously heralded as his favourite battleground in the entire series, Seb's engine suffered a tragic meltdown in the boiling mist. Limping home in 15th place with a 12:05.996, the margin between these once-inseparable prodigies has undeniably ruptured into an abyss. Yet, true salvation is not completely lost for the battered star! Should Seb somehow summon the raw grit to subject his legs to the identical, punishing training regimes Ed currently employs to forge his roaring engine, a glorious renaissance could still await! Of course... executing such a monstrous turnaround is vastly easier said than done!
Immediately behind Seb's suffering in 16th place, and perfectly summarizing the horrifying scale of the atmospheric onslaught as the time gaps severely deepened, was Chris Wood. Stopping his desperate march at 12:54.227, Chris declared his war was fought squarely against: "tonight's opponents: croker hill, gravity and the surface of the sun".
If the blazing sun wasn't a lethal enough foe, the cruel gods of machinery unleashed devastating curses upon the Veteran combatants deeper in the field. Occupying 21st and 22nd overall, a terrifying twin-tragedy struck both Fred Wardle and Warren Jackson. In absolute defiance of basic mechanical loyalty, both seasoned warriors suffered catastrophic dropped chains! The mountain exacted maximum, agonizing cruelty upon Fred, whose chain derailed at the worst possible coordinate on the entire map: right after the sole, fleeting downhill drop, at the precise millimeter the road kicks savagely upwards! Stripped instantly of all vital momentum and forced into a frantic, frantic rescue mission in the baking heat, Fred survived to log a 15:17.303. Staring pure injustice in the face, his fighting spirit remained roaring as he fired a warning shot for his next attempt: "Will be after a 14 next time without a dropped chain!"
Directly behind this mechanical carnage, capturing 23rd place, one rider orchestrated a magnificent heist to steal the mountain's one remaining luxury: silence. Harbouring a deep, noted aversion to the chaotic, screaming frenzy that typically swallows our finish lines, the heat-loathing Snowdon Brierley deliberately deployed early. Wrestling his machine up the impossibly steep track as number 4, he was completely spared the ringing cowbells and howling crowds. Arriving at the desolate summit in an eerily hushed 15:32.892, his only company was the finish-line timekeeper and the haunting, high-altitude whistle of the fierce wind ripping through the iron gates of the broadcast tower.
Embracing the grim truth of the stopwatch, a philosophical Snowdon calmly accepted his brutal, scorching reality: "1 minute 30 seconds down on my PB. Bit of a common theme this year," he confessed. Harbouring no illusions about his highly specific track-cycling physiology, he admitted, "To be honest, training for two events, one sub 40s in duration and the other two and a half minutes isn't the best prep for hillclimb. It is what it is. Think I've just got to forget the PBs and enjoy it (type 2 naturally)." But do not dare believe the mighty Snowdon rode without ruthless, competitive vengeance in his heart! Out upon the merciless slope, he sensationally chased down the very ghosts of his past! Ruthlessly reeling in the heavy, massive twin-engine battleship of Mike and 11-year-old Sophie Merchant, who crested bravely with a 17:27.055, Snowdon did what he could not do on Barlow Hill. Stripping a colossal one minute and fifty-four seconds out of the towering tandem, he emphatically clawed back his heavy-weight pride!
The brutal warfare raging through the men's ranks was brilliantly matched by the sensational clashes upon the women's leaderboard. Yet, in a beautiful display of supreme compassion that rightfully trumped all racing ambition, Tammy Lewis Jones honorably refused to take the starting blocks, refusing to subject her beloved sideline-supporter dogs to the dangerously lethal heat. Her noble withdrawal opened the battlefield, leaving our exalted queens to face the blazing furnace.
True to her mythical pedigree, the unstoppable Rebecca Richardson emphatically conquered the elements, slicing straight through the scorching mist to seize the outright women's victory in 12:02.112. Showcasing total tactical domination akin to the leading men, Rebecca actively chased down the heroic Alice Larkin before the finish line! Trapped inside the boiling, high-altitude oven, Alice wrestled to a brilliant 2nd place in 13:06.327, though the survival effort almost broke her limits entirely. "Felt like I had cafe legs the entire ride, and thought my head was going to explode in the heat. Never inhaled so much hot air!!" she gasped, surviving only by gratitude for the marshals and the long-awaited descent! Taking the 3rd place bronze in 15:44.581, Rebecca Bowler heavily echoed this brutal sluggishness, celebrating only the mercifully "slightly cooler" sanctuary of the summit, whilst Maggie McPhillips dug deep to capture a glorious 4th in 16:40.760.
Yet, despite securing an undeniable overall victory, Rebecca Richardson arrived at the timekeeper not to celebrate her own dominance, but to bitterly demand answers concerning her own intra-household rivalry! Approaching the organizer, she ruthlessly cut straight to the point: "Go on... How much has he beaten me by?" Sensing the dreadful reality that her partner, Rick Bailey, had crushed an 11:30 and beaten her by exactly 32 seconds, hilarious indignation erupted! Unbeknownst to her, Bartosz's secret mid-race timing gear had clocked Rick deploying absolute, unadulterated gravel genius on the upper sectors; his mastery of the crumbling, gnarly off-road cattle grids perfectly matching the pace of elite men placed many spots ahead of him! Gesturing to a man whose cycling diet mostly consists of such off-road meandering, the Queen vented her complete, bewildered disbelief to the mountain gods: "I spend every day training hard. He doesn't race for 5 years, does no training, and then this happens..."
Yet, the greatest, most pure euphoria of the entire scalding night belonged undeniably to Kathleen O'Donnell! Waging an intense, months-long crusade across multiple fronts to unearth an all-time Personal Best, her hour of true glory miraculously arrived exactly when conditions were most impossibly savage. Throwing every muscle fiber of her legs into the tortuous final gravel climb, Kathleen stopped the clock in staggering perfection at 19:59.746! Utterly crushing her long-hunted PB by 2.566 seconds, she dramatically shattered the hallowed 20-minute barrier.
Totally overwhelmed by joy and exhaustion, she turned to the heroic 11-year-old Sophie upon the peak in total disbelief: "I said to you at the bottom, I need to go under 20. I can't believe it!" Finally seeking absolute confirmation from the bewildered timekeepers, a breathless Kathleen cried out, "Are you serious? Really?!" As she basked in the fading summer twilight, this glorious 5th place conquest officially signaled that Kathleen's golden era had finally, wonderfully arrived.
Armed with magnificent momentum and limitless confidence, our exhausted army now gazes deeply into the abyss of next week. With our brutal design of alternating intensely short and steep walls with drawn-out, agonizing odysseys now operating in full swing, the endurance-grind of Croker Hill directly yields to the horrendous cliff-face sprint of Pym Chair! Whispers of an escalating mechanical arms-race are already vibrating fiercely through the recovering peloton. Seeking ultimate vengeance against the mountain for tonight's pacing torment, James Summers ominously promised the arrival of a highly-classified "secret weapon" upon the start blocks... When grilled as to whether he had spent the season secretly forging an impossibly lightweight climbing-machine in the shadows, James stared back and unleashed a dramatically stern, "NO!". Leaving the rest of the warriors consumed by creeping paranoia, he noted he would first subject the mysterious contraption to extreme testing before the grand reveal.
The air grows heavy with anticipation, and a heavy-metal surprise awaits... Ensure you are on the start line. We'll see you next week!
Full Results: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/race/?c=Avb8Jep6U9#R
Photos from various people's phones: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-06-26/
Photos from Paul Jones:
Zoom: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/croker-hill-260626-cam-1?ct=2
Wide: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/croker-hill-260626-cam-2?ct=2