The velvety perfection of last week's ascent was but a fading dream. Exactly as foretold, 31 daring combatants of Round 5 arrived to the unforgiving, shadowed canopy of the woods to face the raw terror of Macclesfield Forest and its notorious Standing Stone road. Though a record-breaking heatwave had scorched the earth relentlessly all week, the evening brought an unexpected grace: perfectly tempered heat, carried ever upward by a strong but steady tailwind pushing against their backs.

Yet, here the cruel laws of nature are entirely inverted; rather than granting eventual relief upon approach to the summit, the treacherous path demands an ever-increasing toll of pain. The crumbling, ancient surface violently deteriorates the higher one climbs. It unleashes jarring debris and craters that merely worsen with every agonizing yard. In fact, one such problem had grown so monstrous it recently triggered a small collapse in the earth. Safely barricaded, this newly formed hole closed the road to motor vehicles, granting our heroes a wholly traffic-free sanctuary, a rare gift, even if this venue normally summons no more than 1 or 2 rogue cars on a Friday evening. Ultimately, this tough path culminates in a staggering climax right at the finish line, where the mountain ruthlessly rears into an impossibly steep, brutal wall exceeding a 25% gradient.

A profound anticipation for these impending clashes buzzed wildly during the warmup, an atmosphere stoked mightily into a roaring blaze throughout the week by the devout Phillip Coates. Shouting the holy word from the literal rooftops to colleagues, friends, family, and anyone who would listen, his zealous hype embodied the spirit of a true fan. Knowing exactly what terrors lurked upon the Standing Stone gradient, he painted a vividly grim prophecy to the racers the night before:

"Standing Stone Macc Forest tomorrow night. Lily is on the line at 7:06 and I'm starting at 7:19. Mr Paul Whitaker is right behind me just to pile on the pressure and keep me motivated. This is a seriously tough climb, undulating in then once it gets you it's well and truly got you, you think it's tough as it kicks initially then it turns right and you die a thousand deaths, it's so easy to look up at the finish and think NOW, EMPTY THE TANKS NOW, only to find the line is over a minute away and you're now in a world of pain and it's still getting steeper to over 20% as you cross the line to the sound of cow bells and your own pulse hammering on your ears."

In the long, looming shadows that Phillip painted, rivalries forged purely on distant spreadsheets at last took bodily form. Phenomenal junior riders Ed Stubbs and Seb Hines had both practically come of age battling our merciless gradients over the passing years. Though forever separated by mere milliseconds on digital leaderboards, cruel fate had previously dictated they only ever ride Standing Stone when the other could not attend, bizarrely yielding near-identical completion times across the eras. Tonight, the grand alignment had finally arrived. They would match pedal against grinding pedal beneath the dark canopy, settling the question simultaneously, face-to-face. Ultimately, it was Ed who conquered, yet mysteriously, he crossed the peak with breath to spare. Comparing it to the week prior, he calmly noted he "wasn't gasping for air as much as Blaze", a terrifying testament to his rapidly evolving endurance. Before the event, upon telling Seb that Ed was "on fire" at the moment, his response was something to the effect of "he's on fire and I'm dead in the water!"

Others waged wars simply to make the start. Forest lover Rob Gittins launched a roaring dash across the country, riding high on the proud triumph of his daughter's graduation. Tragically, the highways proved a more unyielding foe than the gradient itself, and time expired before he could answer the mountain's call. Elsewhere at the sun-dappled starting line, a frantic comedy broke out, silent tension of the seasoned veterans silently tinkering with their machines. Realizing mere moments before his designated hour that he lacked his race number, Ben Clark staged a panicked, maddening dash to retrieve his Number 8! Returning breathless just as Kathleen O'Donnell prepared to launch, Ben took the line upon a heavy mountain bike and boldly hammered out an awe-inspiring 5:42 time! Perhaps those fat, knobby tyres were the ultimate mechanical weapon against the forest's violently crumbling surface?

Even for the grand orchestrator of the series, escaping the woods was impossible. Feeling the profound fatigue of a boiling hot week, organizer Bhima Bowden had truthfully planned only to spectate. The punishing gravel and brutal terrain of this venue typically curse him with woeful fortunes, practically guaranteeing nothing but a creeping, slow flat in his paper-thin tyres on the bittersweet journeys homeward through the twilight. Always attempting to sweep a clean racing line up the mountain, it is seemingly never enough to ward off the puncture gods! However, upon learning that old friends were excitedly traveling from far and wide to engage in this dark woodland theater, the gravitational pull of the forest proved too intoxicating to ignore.

While slated to launch her own fearful ascent at exactly 6 minutes past the hour, the deeply enthusiastic Lily Coates ultimately bowed to the wisdom of her body, not at 100%, honorably stepping aside to stand as a dedicated fan for her father. Her spot in the inferno was embraced by the fiercely eager Kathleen O'Donnell, whose highly audible, vibrant nerves broke the pre-race silence. Stationed at the line under the incredibly kind, encouraging watch of the timekeeper and holder, she turned to joke with her immediate chaser, the sole youth warrior to answer the mountain's call, 11-year-old Joshua Leong. Wishing the brave boy well, Kathleen cheerfully warned him that he would certainly catch her on the slope. When the young hero politely stated he wouldn't because of his youth, Kathleen laughed, declaring: "You haven't seen me ride yet!" 

Setting out into the lovely, deceivingly gentle serenity of the lower forest, Kathleen's peace eventually shattered as the gradient cruelly ramped up. Haunted by disembodied cheers and the chime of cowbells ringing loudly from entirely invisible corners of the forest, wondering purely, "how did they know I was coming!?", she clawed her way to the peak. Suddenly triggered by a roaring spectator screaming "don't let him catch you!" Kathleen unexpectedly launched a final, glorious sprint, paced on foot through her harrowing final yards by her north star: Alison Dockney. Kathleen successfully laid claim to the peak, but turned her eyes back downward to look for her young friend.

What emerged from the shadows was pure, magnificent grit. Conquering a 25% gradient that habitually destroys grown men, Joshua had been momentarily stymied by a vicious pothole upon the steepest crags. Yet the boy's iron will refused to shatter. Unclipping from his pedals, he seized his machine and resorted to violently running on foot up the brutal wall! Watching this glorious display, Kathleen, a seasoned, hardcore fell runner who admitted she would outright refuse to run such an incline even without carrying a bicycle, was utterly awestruck by his resolve, praising him from above: "Go on, Sir!" The boy had crossed the line merely seconds behind her on the road. Thrilled by the race, his family proclaimed his immense enjoyment. "Great friendly environment for first timer! Absolutely enjoyed the cheers and atmosphere at the finishing line!" A hunger for future battles now burns fiercely within him.

Stationed bravely upon the banks, armed to document such physical greatness through a camera's precise eye, was elite Team GB Paralympic coach Ben Brown. And oh, what undeniable majesty awaited his lens! Riding in on extremely tired legs from the day-job was an athlete he knows well: Jenny Holl. Possessing no known historical times or tactical pacing knowledge on this twisted path, she fearlessly and uncontrollably hurled herself straight into the treacherous gradient with breathtaking power, securing a commanding outright victory and charting the third fastest women's time in the history of the climb. Racing almost totally blind right beside her, embarking upon her first attempt of this hill in a long, long time, Bronwen Jenkinson carved out a mighty second place. Yet, holding to tradition and stationed majestically at the dead absolute back of the battle lineup, was the commanding, final guardian: Egg Cameron. This was her hill, her territory. The ultimate burden of proof rested heavily and firmly upon her climbing shoulders as our returning two-time club hillclimb champion. Though slightly off her own mythic lifetime best, she joyfully claimed third on the night, finishing a mere 5 seconds away from the legendary standard she set during her own reigning eras of terror. Another 2-time club champion Alison Dockney was by her side on foot in the closing harrowing and wobbly moments to ensure she made it all the way: "That wasn’t pretty, but it’s good to be back. Ran out of gas with 330m to go and it was a crawl to the finish. Highlight was absolutely Alison ringing a cowbell 1m from my ear whilst screaming EGG LEGS EGG LEGS!!!"

Above the gnarled trees, the forest shook from their unrelenting march and the sheer, deafening noise of the roadside spectators. After walking up the hill for a warm-up, being "bitten to death" in the process, piercing through the heavy clamor of ringing cowbells was the undeniable shriek of Patrick Green's daughter, her devotion echoing across the canopy to will her father upward. Yet, the roaring adulation was a double-edged sword. For Snowdon Brierley, the direct, screaming encouragement became too much. Realizing he thrives in the ambient roar of a velodrome but suffers under targeted shouting, the well-meaning cheers summoned an overwhelming desire to simply turn his steed around and abandon the crusade entirely. A strictly silent finish line for him is planned in battles to come!

This atmospheric mayhem extended into the men's ranks. Carrying forward his supreme form, Jack Morris rode a blistering 3:47.746 to claim a definitive second place overall; a truly breathtaking speed that stood as final confirmation that the sole man who bested him must truly be a physiological alien...

The most thrilling, razor-thin warfare of the evening was waged further back within the Veteran ranks. Propelled by the roaring sideline cheers of Lily, Phillip Coates sprinted desperately toward the summit, physically wrestling his bike to reel in the blurry figure of Dale Peakall fading on the road before him. That frantic visual target granted Phillip the surge required to best the legendary Paul Whittaker (who was climbing with no such target to chase) by a microscopic 2.882 seconds! Yet, both titans were ultimately usurped by reigning champion Thijs Geurts. Despite complaining that the "road surface is getting worse and worse", surging out of the darkness and not feeling "too bad at all" somehow, Thijs slipped past Phillip by an invisible 2.274 seconds to snatch back his VET crown for another year. Rather than despair, Phillip was utterly ecstatic. He noted proudly that trading such vicious, razor-close blows with revered rivals offers a far greater, intoxicating thrill than the massive, yawning gaps that so often separate the lonely leaders of the mountain. 

Which brought the forest finally to those very lonely leaders. Though Bronwen and Kieran Wynne-Cattanach now reside among the towering Lake District, former Macclesfield resident Kieran returned to the Peak District tonight as a heavily armed crusader on a deeply personal mission. While his fearsome, high-revving engine has recently been honed on National Championship podiums, tonight wasn't merely about outrunning 30 mortal racers. It was about chasing pure, untouchable immortality. Lurking deep in the history of Macclesfield Forest was the mythological 3:25 course record, a sacred benchmark established in an ancient, legendary era by Darryl Webster, which Kieran had maddeningly missed by just over 9 excruciating seconds in years past.

Such was the deep, shadowy mystique of this ancient run that Darryl himself knew nothing of the standard he had forged, most likely in the 1980s when this course was first devised by the Manchster Wheelers cycling club. When their events ended and the Standing Stone road was abandoned to nature, lying utterly dormant for decades, all living memory and statistics of past conquests threatened to fade entirely into thin air. The sacred 3:25 mark was only saved from oblivion by another reigning titan of a later era, National Champion Jim Henderson, who actively safeguarded the lore, speaking the mythic number back into existence to haunt our challengers when we returned in 2021 to wake the slumbering forest.

To shatter his ultimate physiological limits and hunt this phantom record, Kieran deployed a tactical ally in 3rd place overall finisher Chris Mann. Setting off just moments prior, Chris, himself a rider of majestic National Championship pedigree, willingly embraced the fiery, harrowing role of the sacrificial carrot. Plunging into the twisting darkness, Chris forced Kieran into a desperate, explosive, uphill chase, igniting a war of pure wattage: 8 to 10 Watts per kilo to be exact. While Chris is a master of steady, controlled, sustained climbing, the chaotic beast of Standing Stone wholly rejects rhythm. It demands exactly what Kieran was born to do: wage a savagely explosive, violently shifting sprint over ruinous surfaces to conquer an impossible summit.

When Kieran at last exploded over the summit line, finally granted the mercy of freewheeling across the "easier" 8% gradient that served as his landing strip, the forest's illusion of an unchanging, timeless realm was shattered forever. Stopping the clocks at a mesmerizing 3:19.435, he completely obliterated the sacred number, dragging his name from the mere rankings and into pure legend.

The riders have little time to tend their wounds, however. Next week's gradient demands exactly this same ferocious explosive power, but thrusts it immediately off the start line! Shorter than this evening, true sprinters will thrive...

Until then, our battered survivors could only bask in the euphoric aftermath of survival. Coasting back down through the darkness with a lovely, happy buzz vibrating through the peloton, rivals old and new shared their breathless tales, gratefully refueling upon glorious, hand-baked coconut and cherry flapjacks; a sweet, perfectly timed reward for vanquishing yet another mythological summit.

Full results: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/race/?c=NF3CGsgf8k
Photos/Videos: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-05-29/

Direct links to the clearest photos of winners by Ben Brown / Adrian Pennington (Cheshire Cycling Snaps)

https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-05-29/full/Ben%20Brown_jujerXplwD_20260530-112705.JPG

https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-05-29/full/Adrian%20Pennington%20Cheshire%20Cycling%20Snaps_VF6z1RCYVP_20260530-204021.JPG