Peak Divide 2024
Manchester to Sheffield, on foot.
There’s a certain atmosphere that you expect to greet you when entering a brewery tap room, and this isn’t it.
At first glance there isn’t a huge difference in what might have been happening here only twelve hours ago. Young and old folk, chatting and joking with one another. Some are hugging, as if reunited after a long time apart. Others standing alone, on the sidelines, looking around the room in hope of catching someones eye.
A heady aroma of brewers yeast and unwashed trainers fills the air and there’s enough fluro clothing to make you question the decade.
Track Brewing Co, in central Manchester, is as full as if it were a bank holiday Sunday afternoon, only it’s 8:30am on a Saturday morning. The gulping of craft beer replaced with the sipping of fresh coffee.
An informal intro and briefing from Tom, one of the creators of Peak Divide, sets the tone for what is about to be as arduous as it is life affirming.
We’re reminded ‘’Peak Divide is not a race.’’
I’m handed my event pack, complete with brevet card, postcard and branded bamboo toothbrush, all designed with careful consideration. Then, in a peculiar turn of events, a hatchet is placed in my hand and I’m sent towards a chopping block, where I’m instructed to lay down my new toothbrush and take aim, in order to ‘officially’ declare my weekend begun! I was running out of room in my vest anyway, I guess.
Alongside 200 others, a good old friend* and I have made the decision to journey from Manchester to Sheffield, on foot, through the Peak District National Park. The route is split over two days, with an overnight camp in Edale, covering a total distance of 76kms (47miles).
*recently entered into his 4th decade.
We’re all ushered outside towards a large Luton van where our overnight bags and tents are being loaded for transit. This leaves us to travel light with extra layers, fluids and snacks for the marathon distance day ahead of us.
A large purple flag on a stick of Hazel is held high up against the Manchester skyline, and to nervous applause the gathered crowd makes its way on foot towards the famous Vimto sculpture for a group photo and the start proper.
A chorus of buzzing and beeping GPS units tells me that the day has now begun and before I know it my feet are shuffling through the streets, over tramlines and cobbles, towards the tow path of the Ashton Canal.
Ten minutes in, on the steps opposite the Etihad Stadium, we pause to gather one last time as a group. Initially this feels like an inconvenient flow-stopper, but in hindsight it set the tone for a slower-paced, communal approach to this unconventional event.
‘‘You’re on your own from here.’’ Tom shouts to the crowd ‘‘We’ll see you all again at Gnocchi Gap for lunch.’’
Kilometers pass by alongside the murky waters of this industrial backdrop, and I have thoughts about how running with others through unfamiliar territory brings a certain sense of confidence to your being.
The morning haze is burning off the further we run out of the city. Passing beneath a buzzing stream of traffic on the M60 we take a set of tight switchbacks up into the suburb of Audenshaw. Weaving our way through quiet streets, past shopfronts and houses, we’re guided towards a glowing beacon of potential to any discerning trail runner - a yellow footpath arrow.
We’ve covered 12kms so far and now it feels as though the trail is really softening beneath our feet. The River Tame flows fast below the steep bank to our left and we hop over patches of mud, aware that having wet feet this early into the day might have painful repercussions later.
By the time we reach the town of Gee Cross, 18kms in, the air is starting to feel cooler; we’re gaining elevation now.
A group of shufflers has assembled on the green over the road from Tesco express, stretching against benches and planters, taking a break to shovel in confectioneries before heading East and deeper into the hills.
From this point onward the terrain really ramps up, and with Manchester falling ever further behind us we feel as though we’re running through the national park, not towards it.
At around 21kms we pop out of a densely wooded valley and back on to tarmac, and mark the half marathon distance covered to the group we’ve naturally fallen into. ‘‘Halfway there for the day’’ we tell ourselves, and continue following lines on our watches, leading us to a narrow footbridge crossing the River Etherow.
The sharp ‘‘peewit’’ call of a Lapwing cuts through the conversation I’m having with another runner and I turn to see it’s unmistakable silhouette against the sky ahead of us. Now it feels as if the city streets of Manchester are a distant memory.
The next 5kms are almost all uphill.
The gradient increases the further you climb towards the summit of Monk’s Rd and by the time we’re halfway up a familiar sight comes into view – the purple flag!
Peak Divide appears to be as serious about food as it is about running, and the lunch stop on day 1, at 27kms, is no joke. The smell of parmesan draws us off the summit and faster downhill with every footstep and we arrive to vats of freshly cooked cheesy gnocchi, hot coffee and good vibes.
The urge to indulge too heavily is extreme, certainly fatal, so with half full bellies we shake out and restart our GPS devices and legs.
Limbs are now locked in battle with digestive systems for circulation as 250 vertical meters of elevation rise into the distance ahead, up on to the slopes of the notorious Kinder Scout.
We’re on the Penine Way now, and the beautifully laid line of flagstones underfoot, taken from derelict Mill buildings, is a reminder of how remote we might feel up here if not for human intervention.
One final short and severe climb takes us up onto the Kinder Plateau, which in the stunning weather is understandably busy with day trippers.
Moving through the hikers with relative ease we hop over rocks and boulders on the footpath. Rounding the corner at Kinder Downfall my friend pauses to wash his face in the clear waters of the namesake river, before it plunges 100ft into the valley below us.
We’ve really broken the back of this day now and remind ourselves not to get too carried away on this terrain, as one wrong step up here would mean a long and painful descent into Edale.
The views are breathtaking, as good as could be expected, and we navigate the boggy trail through Woolpacks as we look South towards Jacobs Ladder.
The final descent into Edale is paused only to throw back a shot of coconut liquor, at the appropriately named Mt. Malibu, another one of many brilliant touches that have been woven seamlessly into the fabric of the event.
The rattle of cowbells and hoots of encouragement keep our feet moving forwards, through the campsite, and past the finish flags, where a large group are already relaxing around firepits in bougie camping chairs.
Within 45 minutes we’ve joined the finish-line party, having set up our tents, showered and grabbed a cold can from the on-site bar. As afternoon turns into evening we’re plied with trays of delicious focaccia and bowls of hot veggie-chilli, cramming in as much as we can in preparation for more of the same tomorrow.
For those looking for some active recovery before bed, there’s an egg and spoon spork race to be run.
The haunting cries of Curlew echo through the campsite as the first creaky shufflers unzip their tents.
It’s a beautifully calm morning and we’re nestled right in among the Peaks. The few clouds sitting overhead move slowly – the weather gods are being very kind to us this weekend.
Breakfast is a big deal.
Boxes full of pastries and croissants, bowls of oats and granola and importantly, coffee. We gather again around the firepits, discussing the day ahead and showing off the fruits of yesterday’s labour; it’s unclear whether some people have black toenails or just haven’t quite scrubbed feet hard enough after squelching through bog.
‘Bog henna’, as I hear one lady call it, appears to be the trail runners equivalent of a chain oil tattoo on the calf of a cyclist.
At around 9:15am we leave the campsite together, as one group, guided by beacon runners in purple hats.
Immediately we’re climbing. In 2.5kms we gain 300 meters of vert, up onto the high ridge overlooking the Hope Valley.
The conditions are nothing short of spectacular this morning and with 35kms of trail to cover spirits are surprisingly high, given yesterday’s marathon.
This morning I’d overheard Tom (event director) telling someone at breakfast not to listen to their moaning legs. ‘‘They’ll be fine after they’ve warmed up on the first climb’’ he said confidently. Luckily, for me at least, he wasn’t wrong.
The gradient began to shift downward and a narrow ribbon of singletrack cut its way beautifully through the heather in front of us.
With legs feeling light, we skipped along the dusty trail, towards a magnetic Ladybower Reservoir, shimmering away some 10kms in the distance.
This section of the route was undoubtedly my favourite. Perhaps one of the most memorable sections of trail I’ve ever run along. All the confidence of yesterday’s marathon, none of the discomfort of the afternoon to come.
The iconic summit of Win Hill, perched high above Ladybower, provides panoramic views in all directions. We stop to have our picture taken by an old lady, who ironically finds the panoramic setting on my phone, capturing an hilarious photograph making us look as if we’re in a hall of mirrors.
The summit track dives steeply into a dark woodland, eventually spitting us out on the shores of the reservoir where we take a brief stop on the dam for resupply of food and water.
From here the route climbs steeply again, over 200m, to the high plateau of Bamford Edge. A group of six of us have fallen into a good rhythm together and after slowing to a walk on the ascent we break back into a trot, as we see mile 10 pass by on our watches.
Navigation on this high and featureless moor is challenging, but the route is designed such as to retain our hard-earned elevation, turning sharply northeast in the direction of Stanage Edge.
Bog turns to bridleway, and that into boulder field, as we continue to climb the gritstone contours of this iconic British outcrop.
My knees are screaming.
Hopping between and over boulders after two hours of running is something I hadn’t trained for, so it’s no surprise when I drive the front of my left foot into an un-moving mass of stone. At least that distracts me temporarily from the pain building in my right knee and the blisters forming on my big toes.
By the time we’ve descended to Burbage I’m ready for a rest. To be honest, I’m almost ready to finish.
Once again, the purple flags that appear in the distance keep my feet cycling beneath me, and before I know it, I’m tearing through a table stacked with hot-cross-buns and peanut butter sandwiches. This is our final resupply stop for the day, but with 12kms left it’s by no means over, so we load up on coffee and hit the trail after 5 minutes rest, cautious of losing momentum.
‘‘It’s all downhill from here’’ shouts Stef, as we begin our last climb up on to the moors above Burbage, ironically.
This area is notoriously boggy, and after a wet start to the year we weren’t about to set any records on the trail to Ox Stones. At least my trainers might actually look as though I’d just traversed the Peak District when we eventually arrive in Sheffield.
The gate swings open into Lady Cannings plantation, marking the end of the rugged terrain behind us and the start of Sheffield city limits. Approaching from this aspect, through the wooded valley along Porter Brook, is a stark contrast to the industrial connection Manchester seemed to have to the National Park.
10kms to go from here sounded good in my head, but at our current pace that was over an hour of running. Luckily by this point it really was all downhill.
By the time 70kms vibrates on my wrist my body is aching in all sorts of places I’ve not felt before from running. But then, I’ve never run for two days straight before.
5kms of tarmac now separate us from the finish line, where beer and pizza await.
I’m hanging on to the back of our group, who are still united after three hours together. We’ve all had time to get to know each other pretty well today, by running event standards, and I’m reminded again why this weekend is so much more than the distance we’ve covered.
Luckily we’re guided by Sheffield locals who, like homing pigeons, weave through the streets of their city, towards the final destination of Perch Brewhouse.
We can hear the clatter of cow bells as we pop out of an alleyway, beneath scaffolding, and tackle the final ramp towards the purple flags and the finish line.
High fives, hugs and phone numbers are exchanged over pints of ale, as more tired and happy faces appear among the finishers crowd.
Yesterday morning at the pre-start briefing, 76kms ago, the three event creators told the story of how this thing came to be; an idea born in the pub.
As is the start of many great stories, this one for us is no different.
It started in a pub, ended in a pub and will be retold over pints for many years to come.
Peak Divide ‘Classic’ will run again in April 2025. Sign up HERE.
Peak Divide ‘ONEr’ (Shef-Manc innaday) will run in September 2024. Sign up HERE if you think you’re hard enough!
Sister event Lakes Divide runs for the first time September 2024. Sign up HERE.
Thank you to contributing photographers -
DAN KING | HANNAH SHAW | TOM HILL | CALLUM HOWARD | LIAM CLARKE
Absolutely loved this - took me right back. Agree Edale to Stanage is possibly the most beautiful trail ever. Great write up. Had me chucking nostalgically 👏🏼
Wow Wigsy! Well done mate, this is incredible. Beautifully written and what a feat! Hope the blisters have subsided and you can bask in the memories x