Our grand campaign crossed the halfway threshold this week as the celestial wheel turned to mark the Summer Solstice. Twilight is stubbornly fighting back the night and daylight hours seem to stretch on for an eternity. Harnessing this solar blessing, the next 4 rounds now deliberately venture into the largely-uncharted borderlands, staging battles at our most far-flung, remote venues right at the outer reaches of Macclesfield, sometimes only mere centimetres from the edge of Cheshire. With the lingering sun offering safe, illuminated passage homeward through the valleys until 9:40, traditional doctrine often claims this sacred weekend for massive endurance training from dawn till dusk, with many opting to stay away to tune their engines in isolation for the grueling peaks yet to come.

Yet, a magnificent, hardened host of 24 fearless warriors outright refused to yield to solitary rides, desiring an intense wake-up call to begin a monumental weekend. They answered the call of Barlow Hill, though the mountain exacted a sudden, brutal test of their faith before they even arrived. At 5pm, the skies violently darkened and unleashed a terrifying, torrential monsoon across the valleys! While the asphalt miraculously managed to bake dry under the breaking evening sun just in time for the opening skirmishes, early travelers were hopelessly soaked to the bone upon their pilgrimage. Worse still, this tempest completely fractured the weather patterns, cruelly twisting the merciful tailwind they had prayed for into a fiercely unpredictable crosswind! Against these chaotic elements, they geared their machines for a grueling 6-12 minute all-out war.

Standing resolutely at the base of the climb was the ever-faithful hillclimb champion of bygone eras, Graham Wood. Residing practically upon the very doorstep of this Wincle battlefield, he took honorable pride in holding the combatants and safely launching every single rider into the fray. But once released from his steadfast grip, the terrifying, twisty corkscrew of the climb instantly seized control. Lured into an early trap by a deceptively brief false flat, practically every warrior exploded with vastly too much speed, paying the ultimate, horrific price the moment they slammed into "the wall." It is a sheer, towering cliff of asphalt that must be witnessed to be truly believed.

Escaping this near-vertical precipice does not bring mercy; it merely traps the rider upon a brutal, soul-crushing drag spanning all the way to the heavens. In darker, wetter times, heavy tractor treads coat this treacherous lane in mud, causing catastrophic wheel-spin that robs riders of all momentum. Mercifully, the drying gusts and tree cover ensured grip was available tonight, so no Watts were lost.

Absolute urgency gripped Shane Skillin before he even reached the foot of the mountain! Locked in a breathless, frantic race against the unforgiving hands of the timekeeper's clock, Shane came hurtling blindly down the descent from the sign-on just as his starting window was vanishing. Sweating and adrenaline-spiked, he aggressively slammed on his brakes and plunged onto the starting block with an agonizingly terrifying 5 seconds to spare! Treating that chaotic, panicked plunge to the valley floor as a highly involuntary warmup, his pounding heartbeat barely had a single second to stabilize before Graham threw him directly onto the course!

The agonizing requirement for hyper-precise pacing was vividly prophesied hours before the war. Delivering his traditional pre-race social media sermon, super-fan Phillip Coates laid bare the sheer terror of the slope:

"Barlow Hill tomorrow night, never has so much pain gathered itself on such a short stretch of tarmac. I love this course, it puts you in full hurt from the off, steep, long, ever changing gradient, and you'd better keep your eyes glued to your data to stop the inevitable detonation of your lungs or legs if you deploy too many watts at the wrong time. My plan, 350 Watts average power, around 7m30s. Best laid plans and all that."

Yet upon his arrival at the battlefield, a stunning revelation fundamentally altered destiny: his eternal tormentors, Paul Whitaker and Thijs Geurts, were mysteriously absent. Thrust instantly out of their colossal shadows, Phil realized the supreme Veteran crown was completely ripe for the taking. However, the pressure to execute was monumental. History sat heavily upon his shoulders, as he claimed honors as the fastest Veteran during both his 2024 and 2025 campaigns here, crushing his own PB both times (striking 7:56.024 in 2024, and bleeding it down to 7:22.894 in 2025). Riding a newly forged, ultra-lightweight steed and practically buzzing with enthusiasm, he plunged into the trees. Delivering a brutal display of mastery upon the slope, his "best laid plans" crystallized into utterly spectacular reality! Pacing as he said he would, slicing completely through the crosswinds, Phil stopped the unforgiving clocks at a monumental 7:12.939, ripping a colossal 9.955 seconds straight off his personal best to violently keep his historic upward trajectory alive!

But as the digital numbers settled, a deeply terrifying truth was revealed: this gargantuan, 11-second effort wasn't just for personal glory, it was a frantic fight for survival! Unseen in the darkness behind him, a lethal ambush was mounted by formidable newcomer, Chris Read. Storming the summit in an astounding 7:22.147, this phantom challenger sneakily plunged mere milliseconds beneath Phil's previous, 2025 lifetime standard! Had Phil rested on his historical laurels even a fraction, the usurper would have boldly stormed his territory and mercilessly stripped the M VET crown right from his head. Instead, by unlocking a whole new, brutal tier of suffering exactly when it mattered most, the King magnificently defended his kingdom, repelling the newcomer to cement his veteran throne!

The Coates family waged a fierce campaign on multiple fronts tonight! Embarking upon her own savage crusade was Phil's daughter, Lily-Anne Coates. She faced a monumental psychological crucible born of terrible misfortune. Originally scheduled to be separated from returning VET Champion Alice Larkin by the presence of Maggie McPhillips (Stockport Clarion CC), Maggie tragically fell victim to sudden illness and could not make the start line. Her withdrawal vaporized the vital buffer between Lily and Alice, violently rewriting the mathematical laws of their race. Alice, an established powerhouse, would now launch exactly 2 minutes behind the newcomer. But with 3 minutes separating their lifetime bests, a brutal reality set in: the unyielding calculations of the clock dictated Alice was surely destined to catch Lily on the terrifying slopes. Riding with the heavy dread of a monarch hunting her down, Lily faced a grueling test of willpower to hold her off as long as humanly possible. Though logic promises a mid-hill capture, the magic of the mountain thrives on defying the odds!

Eventually, the inescapable, grinding calculations of the stopwatch enacted their heavy toll. Powering furiously through the staggering gradient, the inevitable arrival of the monarch came to pass. Sweeping wide across the punishing asphalt, Alice Larkin finally bridged the chasm to make the momentous catch around the halfway mark. As she drove her machine past, the beleaguered youngster was showered with roaring, vocal encouragement, yet this was met with sheer, agonized silence from the winded prodigy! "I passed wide and cheered her on. She didn't say anything!" Alice later recounted, bursting with deep admiration. "Big respect to her. Not easy coming along as the youngest female amongst all the blokes. Totally take my hat off to her."

Yet, this relentless, sweeping momentum ultimately sealed an even grander fate for the returning veteran. Emphatically surviving the mountain's wrath, Alice cemented herself as the winner of Round 8! Snatching the ultimate women's crown, her majestic ride landed just 14 heartbreaking seconds shy of her lifetime personal best. Thoroughly broken by the asphalt but radiant in victory, she gasped, "Pain all the way. Convinced I was going to grind to a halt. Thank goodness for the downhill relief. But no doubt I'll be back!"

Further down the roster, a fiercely waged generational war arrived at a spectacular crossroads. Junior phenoms Ed Stubbs and Seb Hines brought their unrelenting, weekly rivalry to the Barlow "wall". Throughout this magnificent 2026 season, Ed has decisively turned the tables, heavily suppressing his long-time rival week after week. However, this specific mountain harbours an undeniable historical bias. Looking strictly at their past ascents here, Seb holds an iron-clad 33-second advantage. Tonight acts as the ultimate crucible: can Ed's soaring modern momentum finally shatter Seb's deep-rooted historical dominance of this particular tarmac? And watching closely from the sidelines of this raging warfare was a heavily anticipated, resurrected speedster. Sidelined since 2025, a phenomenal year where he unleashed unbelievable progression to ascend the ranks at lightning speed, the wildly fast Eddie Forster had at long last returned to our slopes! All eyes turned fiercely upon him as he approached the blocks, hungry to see if his power has only continued to secretly build in the shadows.

As the smoke cleared, an utterly scandalous truth was revealed: where was Seb Hines? Without a single trace of his arrival or any prior warning of retreat, it appears our grandest suspicions from last week are entirely correct! Trapped in the glamorous, inescapable vice of 'hillclimb celebrity' life, Seb was seemingly swept away to attend yet another elite midsummer soirée! With his generational rival utterly absent, Ed Stubbs charged up the wall unfettered, capturing a magnificent 6:16.675! Yet, mere seconds up the road lay the terrifying answer to Eddie Forster's return. Descending from a period of strict academic exile at Leeds University to wage fresh warfare on his homeland, Eddie's latent power absolutely erupted! Striking the finish with an astounding 6:14.104, Eddie ruthlessly severed a staggering 13.2 seconds from his personal best, instantly planting himself upon the supreme overall podium in 3rd place! Missing the silver medal by barely more than a single second, the peloton is now gravely warned. The returning speedster is armed to the teeth.

But this evening did not merely belong to the solos; it heralded a deeply seismic, rumbling clash of the heavyweights! Two massive tandem battleships laid siege to the mountain. Roaring back onto the slope following their sensational, flawlessly scouted Round 7 debut, Mike and 11-year-old Sophie returned upon their sprawling twin-seater. Yet tonight, their dominance over the heavy-class category was violently challenged. Rising from the mechanical ashes of a tragic past were Snowdon and Josh. Caught preparing their machine earlier in the day, Snowdon was spotted furiously stripping the heavy mudguards entirely off their tandem! Confronted by onlookers about this suspicious, eleventh-hour tweak, he defensively laughed it off, explaining away the frantic modifications by claiming he simply needed to make space in the family car so his daughter Anwen could join as a spectator. He vehemently swore that ditching the mudguards had absolutely nothing to do with a desperate, creeping dread of being physically bested on the mountain by a certain 11-year-old girl that stormed up the Cat & Fiddle last week. Oh, no. Definitely not!

With quick-release axles safely and securely locked into the frame to miraculously prevent a repeat of Round 1's explosive, wheel-ripping disaster, both massive twin-engines were finally unleashed onto the treacherous slope side-by-side. Pushing the sheer mass of the tandem directly up "the wall," Mike's vivid memory of the assault was one of pure, blinded agony. Desperately clinging to the bars at maximum bodily strain, with stinging sweat flooding into his eyes, he prayed to the mountain gods for the fabled 'downhill' recovery section to arrive. Yet, when he finally crested into it, the relief was agonizingly, disappointingly brief. In a mere heartbeat, the slope kicked brutally upward once more, plunging them headlong into the unrelenting, seemingly never-ending final drag.

Upon the roaring finish line, a deeply shocking drama was about to unfold! Knowing Snowdon and Josh frequently tore up the high-speed velodrome circuits, the gathered spectators assumed these fearsome track specialists, arriving fully armored in sleek skinsuits upon a hyper-tuned machine, would orchestrate a devastating, inevitable catch on the road. Yet, when Mike and young Sophie crested the summit to heroically cross the line and stop their clock, the crowd stood completely breathless. All eyes snapped intensely back down the twisty slope... waiting... watching... but there was no sign of the chasing tandem! An eternity seemed to drag by until Snowdon and Josh finally heaved themselves into view around a minute later!

When the timekeeper's ultimate judgment was declared, the margin was staggering! Much like the skies above, where ominous, heavy dark clouds dramatically dueled with bright rays of sunshine, the stark contrast between these two rival factions was poetic. Despite wielding supreme aerodynamic advantages and elite velodrome pedigree, the heavyweights had barely scraped out a victory, edging the father-and-daughter duo by a spectacularly razor-thin 9.05 seconds! Snowdon and Josh seized the crown with a 10:38.845 against Mike and Sophie's truly phenomenal 10:47.895.

Deeply humbled by how perilously close they came to utter defeat at the hands of the promising 11-year-old, a winded Snowdon gasped his frantic, ultimate defense: 'The difference is, on the track, our specialty events are about 5 times shorter than this 10-minute effort!' Yet, all competitive hostilities instantly vanished past the timing strips. Thoroughly bonded by their mutual two-wheeled torment, the opposing juggernauts parked their colossal battleships together, happily trading glorious war stories and intimately discussing the secret alchemy of gearing until it was time to go home.

To lay claim to the absolute pinnacle of this punishing ascent, one local king completely abandoned all conventional logic. Confronted by the dreaded 15% wall, most mortal riders cried to the heavens for lighter equipment or smaller climbing gears, notably Snowden, desperately turning his massive tandem rig. But Jack Morris utterly rejected this. Mercilessly shoving his chain into the largest, heaviest ring his machine offered, Jack wrenched himself violently out of the saddle and bludgeoned the sheer cliff with raw, terrifying, brute force! Smashing the unforgiving slope in an earth-shattering 5:48.721, Jack laid waste to the battlefield. Staring at his unbelievable wreckage, it officially marks the 2nd fastest recorded time in the entire, grueling history of Barlow Hill! Thoroughly dumbfounded by Jack's mythical, ascending superpowers this season, Ed Stubbs watched the slaughter and helplessly asked the heavens the question we all laugh about: "He seems to just ride indoors all the time?!" Indeed, to forge this undeniable outdoor climbing supremacy, Jack bizarrely acts as a dedicated disciple of the stationary turbo trainer, turning virtual indoor pedals deep into the searing summer months.

Such was the crushing magnitude of Jack's alchemy that an utterly cavernous, 24-second wasteland opened behind his smoking rear wheel. Earning a highly distinguished 2nd place overall, Tom Bowers seized the silver with a deeply impressive 6:12.804. However, while several heavy-hearted gladiators, including the fatigued organizer himself, willingly marched onto the mountain upon desperately tired, heavy legs from previous skirmishes, no other rider was witnessed engaging in as much tortuous, bodily suffering as Tom. Dragging himself over the finish strip wearing a deeply agonized mask of total, horrific suffering, Tom visibly fought against his very machine in a final, brutal death-wrestle, ultimately surviving a devastating misfire in his physiological engine to firmly hold off the looming threat of young Eddie on his heels.

With the ancient solstice sun sinking beautifully behind the far edges of Macclesfield, our 24 battered ascendants refueled at the summit. Yet, even as they fought to catch their ragged breath, their weary eyes were drawn inevitably across the sweeping peaks. Piercing the twilight horizon like an undeniable beacon stood an unmistakable silhouette: the great BT Tower.

There stands the towering colossus of next week's challenge: Croker Hill. The battlefield to come offers a staggering contrast to the claustrophobic, twisting lanes survived tonight. Round 9 will commence upon the sprawling, wide-open asphalt of the A54 climbing out of Bosley, before violently hooking onto a secluded, private farm track that plunges straight into the clouds to reach that very tower. The visual promise of this looming giant is a traditional hallmark of the Barlow Hill finish line, yet so powerful was the gravitational pull of the tower tonight that several of our restless warriors, their blood still burning hot from the fray, rode straight across the ridges in the twilight to actively scout its fearsome gradient. For everyone else, the long ride home offers a brief, merciful rest before we march upon the great tower next week.

Full results: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/race/?c=xuAqIrKCvj
Photos from various people: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-06-19/
Photos from Paul Jones (£1.25 each):
Zoom: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/barlow-hill-190626-cam-1?ct=2
Wide: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/barlow-hill-190626-cam-2?ct=2