The stifling fires of last week's heatwave were gone, quenched by a long, dark week of unrelenting, soaking rains. Typical Macclesfield. Yet as Friday evening approached, the storm clouds miraculously broke, leaving relatively dry tarmac upon one of the most savage battlegrounds in our calendar: the brutal trench of Smith Lane. Though a light southerly crosswind blew across the peak, those who fought up the gradient were largely shielded more than they realise. Looming high upon their right side, imposing stone walls provided shelter, creating a shadowy arena that felt as though the road were carving a tunnel directly through the heart of the hill.

Where past summits demanded endless patience and intricate pacing, Smith Lane demands pure, unadulterated violence. It is the shortest clash in the entire series, yet it holds a horrifying secret: arguably the steepest opening gradient of any race on any calendar known to us. The very start line hurls combatants straight into a 13.8% cliff face, requiring a blistering, all-out sprint of pure fury for a full minute to break the steepest jaws of the trap. But a fatal physiological deception awaits those who unleash too much. Following a brief levelling of the slope, the road ruthlessly kicks upward for a final, agonizing sprint to the finish line. Any rider who mistakenly paces the climb only to completely blow up and fade on the flat will inevitably find themselves utterly crushed by that ultimate, soaring ramp. There, the spent and broken remnants of previous victims gather at the summit like a flock of vultures, looking on as the mountain claims its next sacrifice: YOU!

Remarkably, the call to such a highly niche, agonizingly specific "hill climber's hill" summoned an unusual and massive influx of fresh blood. We normally expect newcomers to brave only the more famous peaks, yet tonight, 7 completely new challengers joined us! As a hidden hollow not at all obvious to local cyclists, Smith Lane had long managed to conceal itself from even the oldest stalwarts. In total, a warring host of 28 men and 11 women stepped up to the starting line, with a staggering number flying headfirst into the darkness entirely uninitiated.

For warriors like 51-year-old newcomer Kristian Spreckley, who has travelled these valleys on two wheels since the tender age of 11, tonight was astonishingly his very first dance with this specific devil! Plunging entirely blind into the unknown, he miraculously survived, later recalling a visceral deception at the midpoint: sensing his legs were totally spent for the mercifully brief flat section, a bizarre, saving second wind eventually carried him gallantly over the final uphill rise. Also joining the uninitiated ranks was newcomer Rick Air, who tackled the mountain as a scientist of speed. Spending significant time meticulously testing pacing and optimal gear choices for the brutal launch, his tactical caution paid immense dividends. Discovering a comfortable rhythm out of the saddle, he paced it beautifully, fading slightly near the summit but successfully recovering in the dip to push fiercely upward, successfully unlocking a new level: this was the most powerful three minutes of his entire lifetime. Yet, perhaps the most emotionally triumphant debut belonged to Sarah Langridge. Bearing the physical scars of a Total Knee Replacement three years prior, she stood bravely at the base of this steep wall and refused to yield. Though she was lower in the final standings, she was overflowing with profound joy just to race a hill climb.

Stationed firmly at that monstrous start line was our guardian of the clock, Bartosz Lukasik. Holding deep memories of the exquisite pain this short slope inflicts, he wholly refused to mount his own steed tonight, opting safely for timing duties rather than volunteering for another slaughter. Yet, merely waiting at this start line inevitably triggers its own psychological warfare. Believing herself perfectly safe deep down the start sheet as Rider 37, Kathleen O'Donnell was casually savouring a piece of Soreen malt loaf, happily chatting away amidst the growing storm. It was only the sudden intervention of hill-climb royalty, Matt Lawton, a former multiple club champion and two-time (nearly three-time) VET winner on this very hill, observing quietly from the shadows, who spotted the fatal miscalculation. Seeing rider 26 already taking the blocks, Lawton calmly alerted Kathleen she had a mere 60 seconds before her own launch! Plunged instantly into glorious, beautiful panic, she nonetheless commanded Fred Wardle snap a pre-race portrait with 45 seconds to spare before frantically scrambling to lock her cleats.

Tasked with the immensely precarious duty of holding and pushing riders off upon such an impossibly steep gradient, Fred Wardle anchored the plunging ascendants—like the panicking Kathleen, who completely trusted him to hold her fast and physically run alongside her upon launch—with sheer might while quietly debating a glorious, final-hour ride of his own. Having launched an early, mighty assault on the mountain himself, Michael Mulroy descended down from the heavens, returning to the line to relieve his teammate of the upper-body burden and give Fred the literal push he needed. Conquering the ramp put Mulroy on a high after enduring fragmented seasons of on-and-off training. His fiery spirit had been reawakened; his ecstatic verdict for the evening was a triumphant, "BACK ON IT". Unchained by this knight in shining armour, Fred warmed up and launched his own attack on the final slot of the night, securing a phenomenal time merely half a second shy of an old PB set under vastly superior tailwinds. His roaring summer form is here.

Looking to avoid the chaotic, last-minute competitive temptation he fell victim to during the previous round, organiser Bhima Bowden arrived entirely immune to the siren song of the mountain. Possessing no true sprint capacity to survive, he arrived securely astride a colossal, fully loaded 32kg fat bike, transporting crucial snacks for all. By forcing himself to pilot such a heavy beast, he not only ruled out any hope of a spontaneous entry but tripled the length of every minor foothill on the commute there, keeping body heat high and the biting evening chill at bay!

When the battles finally commenced, the once-silent ascent screamed in unison with the burning agony of the riders' legs. Taking up their faithful vigil exactly halfway up the dark tunnel, a pocket of dedicated local residents known as the 'lovely family' by Kathleen, known so well to this series, brought magnificent chaos to the climb. Striking castanets, beating tambourines, and producing the raucous clatter of pots and pans, they heralded the riders as they closed in on the false flat section. Rising directly into this acoustic gauntlet was Kathleen, her mindset bolstered by a deep positivity, knowing from an earlier scouting pedal just how short the agonizing distance truly was. Reveling in the joyful noise, she actually bellowed back into the void at the family: "I love tambourines and castanets, so hit them harder, please!"

Passing the cheering, roaring sideline allies like cargo-bike king, Chris Mount castle, Kathleen attempted to return heroic thumbs-up to the flashing cameras, a vastly precarious, wobbling challenge on such an impossible, steep tilt. Lifting her eyes toward the peak, the massed finish-line crowd suddenly loomed high overhead, looking altogether like the mighty herd of sheep that she just passed, clinging to a crag. Driven by the surreal vision, she put the pedal entirely to the metal. Though her legs spun wildly in an uncontrollably frantic, perhaps overly-light gear, she ultimately blitzed over the final lip, successfully holding form just long enough to throw one final, triumphant thumbs up over the finish line.

There, like clockwork every year, standing watch over the spectacle unfolding exactly upon his border, the true guardian of the summit, a local farmer astride his quad bike, shook his head in quiet disbelief. Also lying in wait at the crest were the cheering ranks of the Gittins family. Injecting an immense, deafening wall of sound at the finish, they came out in force to witness a magnificent, playful blood-feud between the "brothers in arms". Crossing the line with merely 28 seconds of separation, Billy conquered the grade, but his rival, Rob, pursues with deadly intent. Only recently trading his elite fell-running shoes for his first proper bike this past winter, it is only a matter of time before Rob's rapidly evolving fitness ruthlessly closes that familial gap!

This familial electricity soon manifested as a pure, breathtaking tenderness when Phillip and Lily-Anne Coates approached. Following the intensely potent storm of start-line emotions, Phil brimming with fiery excitement while Lily battled creeping fear, the father-daughter duo launched late into the race as the clouds closed in. Ascending through their individual torment, the profound tension immediately melted at the summit, transforming into a moving, tearful, and beautiful hug between father and daughter. Eliciting deeply warm comments from witnessing spectators, their breathtaking reunion upon the peak closed off a wonderful evening.

In a clash of such overall magnitude, ultimate glory invariably draws returning royalty. Thomas Bowers, the current club champion, successfully returned to defend his crown with a thundering victory of 2:12.794. Yet, rather than glowing with pure elation, the King arrived at the top wearing a mask of disgust! Despite laying down the exact catastrophic wattage as his victorious campaign last year, a wicked phantom wind severely battered his time. Escaping the shelter of the stone walls and hitting the treacherous false-flat near the peak, a thick pocket of resisting air cost him nearly 10 invisible seconds. Cursing the crosswind and mourning the sensation of an evaporating sprint, Tom remarked, "The cold air tore through my chest as I came over the crest," before solemnly confessing, "I was just crawling."

Trailing merely 1.002 seconds behind Thomas in 2nd place was the relentless Jack Morris. Armed with utterly ridiculous climbing form this season, Jack waged a glorious uphill war that was tragically stifled by a catastrophic shifting failure from his gears. Locked into a suboptimal spin and bleeding precious momentum, the mystical climbing spell was broken. Standing over his handlebars in the painful aftermath, one must surely wonder: without the cruelty of mechanics, could that single, devastating second have been definitively closed? Finishing 3rd outright behind them was his teammate, the junior phenom Ed Stubbs, registering a jaw-dropping 2:15.789 to lock away an all-important 9-second margin against his fierce generational rival, Seb Hines. Emerging from the brutal gauntlet right behind them was Oliver Handley. Though 4th place seated him a massive 7 seconds behind the blistering tempo of young Stubbs, Oliver stared down at the data bleeding onto his cycling computer in pure joy: he had successfully unleashed his dream power numbers.

Proving that this foul air was no hallucination of the mind, a hilarious battle of meteorology waged quietly beside the gasping leaders. Pitting cycling logic against geographical certainty, Ed's father, Phillip Stubbs, entered a deeply animated, comical, and hotly contested sideline debate with Snowdon Brierley to pinpoint the exact, sinister, physical angle of the summit's chilling headwinds. Everyone had an opinion, but the only way to know was to race it...

The true severity of the evening's foul air ultimately showed no mercy to our female fighters. Forged in the high-stakes, polished velodromes of British Cycling where the standing start is an ultimate art, Jenny Holl possesses a terrifying physiological weapon. Even the most enduring, diesel-like engines within those elite ranks harbour an incredible, explosive 'snap' off the line. On a savage, short course that demands a zero-momentum launch directly into a cliff face, that sheer, unadulterated track acceleration makes her a terrifying spectre. Opting for furious, stationary spectating over a proper warm-up, Jenny unceremoniously seized her crown at 2:43.391!

However, her sprint is elevated entirely to myth when learning the sheer absurdity of her evening. Bound to a designated, supposedly easy 'rest day', she inexplicably arrived to the starting blocks via the infamous climb of Blaze Hill. Enduring those endless slopes for the first time in her 9-year cycling history merely to commute to Smith Lane, she humorously found the drawn-out horrors of Blaze to be vastly more terrifying. Yet upon capturing the Smith Lane finish, she threw a haunted gaze of disbelief toward her observers. "Oh my God..." she panted, her face painted with shell-shock, "...that start was just..." Discovering she was notably down upon the mythological course records set in golden, windless eras by legendary 3-time champion Monica Greenwood, Jenny's face simply expressed profound awe at Monica's raw abilities... before randomly unleashing a strange, deeply relaxed yawn of fatigue as she waited on the final racers to approach.

Cresting in a defiant 2nd place for the women was reigning dual club champion Alison Dockney, claiming a resolute 3:14.528 under the angry skies. While the winds undoubtedly suppressed her history as the owner of the 4th fastest time ever laid on this route, another phantom entirely was haunting her engine: Ultra-endurance. Because Alison's body is actively adapting to the efficiencies necessary for monumentally long, soul-crushing odysseys spanning the map, the 3-minute, lactate explosion of Smith Lane hilariously offended her honed physiological systems. Reaching the peak, Alison quipped of her misery: "Current skills: long, steady suffering. And descending. This race was approx. 3 days too short." Despite this elemental clash, she refused to concede the top steps of the podium. However, an incredible ambush of the 3rd step followed right behind her! Stomping an explosive 3:32.388 over the crest, Rebecca Bowler fiercely claimed the next place, usurping a bewildered Tammy Lewis Jones by merely 5 and a half seconds. Rebecca's surge was fueled by the returning banners of Station South CC. Last year, this magnificent club launched a massive invasion, marching upon these slopes in huge numbers to wage a legendary, head-to-head war against the Macc Wheelers. Their impact upon the scene was undeniable, and tonight their surviving vanguard proved they remain utterly lethal. Cheered from the misty banks by clubmate Peter O'Hare, who had traded his race bike for a camera to document the fray, and heavily fortified by the ascents of fellow racing combatant Ben Peirson-Smith and the earlier 4th-place phenomenon Oliver Handley, Rebecca's strike was a glorious triumph for her clan. Meanwhile, Tammy, the hero of the slopes mere weeks prior, fell tragic victim to pre-race engineering doom. Stricken by fatal mechanical issues immediately before her ultimate call, she mounted a wildly chaotic panic-swap onto a slower gravel bike! Bound to fat rubber tyres meant for the grit and mud, she survived rather than thrived.

Witnessing this brutal theatre unfold at the summit was Bhima, experiencing a joyous, unforeseen reunion with his old post. In eras past, he was cursed to perform the finish timing for every single event himself, deeply paranoid that the monstrous, military-grade laptop or the complicated technology would fail him. Trusting only his own steady hand to capture the agonizing 0.001-second accuracy required to separate these gladiators, he was forever chained to the screen. But in recent years, a glorious uprising of expert volunteers has stepped into the breach. So many capable hands have mastered this vital duty that tonight was actually the very first time all year he was granted the privilege of capturing the times and actively savouring the raw drama of the finish line! It is a truly beautiful problem to have, born of a magnificent community. For this, immense gratitude must be poured out to all the marshals who make these events possible, including Lia Stynes, who managed the distribution of the riders' race numbers among the chaos of suffering finishers, many of whom were still at VO2 Max while trying to undo safety pins.

Once the fierce, lung-busting sprints concluded, our recovering warriors plunged tired hands into a brilliant treasure chest of sugar. The magical, performance-enhancing, high-carb, low-fat vegan flapjacks of past weeks were gone from the dinner table tonight. Supplying a wild, colorful pick-n-mix box of sweets, the organizers ensured the riders' adrenaline and spirits soared into the damp, shadowy evening, so that the ride home through incoming rain would be tackled as strongly as the climb. Amidst this feast, joyful kinships blossomed. Catching her breath, Kathleen bonded with an uninitiated Bollington newcomer upon a heavy mountain bike. Swapping tales of sheer exertion, they laughed over the highly transferable skills binding his technical MTB world to her lifelong career as a fell-runner, proving that vertical suffering translates beautifully across all realms.

With teeth sufficiently sweetened, our battle-worn army now turns its collective gaze toward the long and looming mountain of next week: a return to the Cat & Fiddle.

Results: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/race/?c=znpQVT9aFY

Smith Lane photos from various people: https://hillclimbproject.co.uk/shots/2026-06-05/

Smith Lane photos from Paul Jones. £1.25 each and all proceeds go back into running his Monday night track league at the velodrome.
Zoom: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/smith-lane-hill-climb-050626-cam-1
Wide: https://www.photodesport.co.uk/time-trials-1/smith-lane-hill-climb-050626-cam-2