From Café Racers to Combat Ready | Classic Bikes, Family Farewells & Duty Calls | The Parallel Four

Chapter Thirty roars to life with classic bike fever — teaching Vinka and Marlin to ride, rebuilding vintage Triumphs, and storming the Ace Café in full retro leathers. From teasing doubters to dominating the ride-out challenge, they earn respect and headlines in equal measure. But it’s more than petrol and pride — it’s about family, friendship, and the heartbeat beneath the helmets.

The four of them take their restored Manx Nortons and MV Agustas to the track for a day of thunder, laughter, and teamwork, before trading grease for grace at a quiet farewell dinner. Over a final toast of Château Claude, their children raise glasses with the same courage their parents once carried into battle.

Then comes dawn. The kit is packed, the goodbyes are quiet, and duty calls again. Six soldiers, two families, one unbreakable bond. This is what service life really looks like — love, legacy, and leaving home with the promise to return.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Thirty.

We stood there that Saturday morning, side by side, mugs of tea in hand, admiring the fleet like a pair of proud parents outside the school nativity.

“Looks a bit… complete, doesn't it” I said.

Johan nodded. “Which means we’re about five minutes away from getting bored.”

I looked at him sideways. “No. No, we’re not buying another bike.”

He smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

Pause. Sip.

Then he added, with casual menace, “We teach the girls.”

I blinked. “To ride?”

Johan nodded again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You sure that’s not just your way of justifying another two bikes?”

“Absolutely,” he grinned. “And you know what? They’ll be better at it than us inside a month.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Once we agreed to teach them, things moved fast—because Vinka and Marlin aren’t the type to do things slowly once they’ve said yes.

We picked up two Honda CB250s—sensible little bikes. Reliable, light, and forgiving. Not flashy, not fussy. Perfect for learners, and cheap enough not to cry over if one got dropped. Spoiler: neither did.

We trailered them home, parked them up next to the GS850s, and got straight to work.

First session was in a quiet layby just outside Hitchin. Vinka adjusted her mirrors like she was checking sight lines for a covert op. Marlin gave hers one firm nod, pulled on her gloves, and said:

“Alright. Where’s the ignition?”

Our Training Format

Johan led the rides on his GS850—calm, steady, the shepherd. I rode sweep, offering commentary through my helmet like a bored rally co-driver.

“Bit more clutch, love.”

“Ease it through the turn—not a dance floor.”

“Marlin, I know you’re overtaking, but try not to scare the pigeons.”

To be fair, they took to it like ducks to water. Within two rides, they were shifting cleanly, shoulder-checking like professionals, and even navigating roundabouts without drama.

Vinka’s style was precise. Minimal corrections. Brakes smooth. Balance perfect.

Marlin was confident, slightly mad, and grinning every time she opened the throttle.

They both loved it. So did we.

Test Centre – Mid-December 1989

Stevenage – Cold hands, warm hearts

The morning of the test was bright, crisp, and crackling with nerves. We’d double-checked everything: indicators, brake lights, paperwork, backup chocolate bars.

They rolled in like they’d done it a hundred times—helmets on, jackets zipped, visors down. Cool as anything.

The examiner came out, clipboard in hand, and blinked.

“Are these two with you?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “Fresh off training.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Army?”

I smiled. “Close enough.”

They passed. First time.

Clean sheets. No minors. Nothing but praise.

He shook both their hands. Even asked if they were thinking about joining the police. They laughed. Politely.

Back at the house, we wheeled the Hondas back into the shed with honour, made a round of tea, and watched as they tucked their pass certificates into the top drawer beside the spark plugs.

Vinka raised her mug and smiled. “So... when do we ride to the coast?”

Marlin added, “And can I paint mine black and red?”

They were riders now. Full stop.

And the roads had just opened up in a whole new way.

Of course, the girls weren’t content with just passing their motorbike tests—oh no. Not our lot. They’d barely finished tucking away their pass certificates before the next sentence came out:

“We want our own classics.”

And that was it. Gloves off, spanners out.

Vinka, ever the elegant tactician, bagged herself a stunning Triumph 650 Thunderbird. Classic lines, a bit of muscle, and just the right amount of British stubbornness to make it interesting. Marlin, naturally, went for something with a bit more bite—a Triumph Bonneville, racier and a little rowdier, just like her.

The Rebuild Begins

What followed was a solid few months of Haynes manuals, grease-stained overalls, late nights, and the occasional swearing match with bolts that hadn’t budged since the ‘60s.

They stripped the bikes right down to the last washer. Frames were blasted, powder-coated, and finished with more care than a ceremonial sword. Every engine component was scrubbed, measured, inspected, and either lovingly restored or ruthlessly replaced.

You’ve never seen two people more determined to master valve timing.

Johan had just wrapped up a gorgeous BSA 650 A10 Gold Flash, glistening in chrome and ready to hum. I’d completed my pièce de résistance—a black and gold Norton Commando 750 so slick it could’ve melted your trousers just by looking at it.

Honestly, I caught Johan wiping away a tear. Might’ve been the fumes. Might’ve been pride.

Modern Magic for Vintage Machines

But we didn’t stop there.

We contacted that brilliant little British firm making electronic ignition kits for vintage bikes. That was a game changer.

Out went the kickstart tantrums, dodgy spark plugs, and carb choke rituals. In came effortless starts, smooth throttle response, and the satisfying purr of well-tuned fury.

Suddenly, our bikes weren’t just restored—they were revived.

Proper vintage on the outside. Slicker than an F1 pit crew under the tank.

The Look – Go Big or Go Home

Naturally, once the bikes were sorted, we turned to our wardrobes.

We went full retro.

Leather jackets with belts and buckles that could take someone’s eye out.

Replica open-face helmets, complete with aviator goggles.

White scarves, because nothing says “classic British biker” like a scarf flapping dramatically in the breeze.

Boots—tall, zip-up the back beasts that made you walk like you meant it.

Even added sea socks, for the simple reason that we could.

We looked like a squad of stunt doubles from The Great Escape—just with fewer barbed wire fences and more thermos flasks.

First Ride-Out – Spring Weekend Down to the Coast

As soon as the girls had those Triumphs gleaming like they’d rolled off the production line at Meriden, they were itching to take them out.

So we plotted a weekend escape—just the four of us and the kids—to a charming little seaside hotel.

No schedule. No map. Just winding B-roads, hedgerows, and the thunderous harmony of four British classics roaring in formation.

Nils and Vera rode pillion with me and Vinka. Otto and Olivia with Johan and Marlin. Wide-eyed, scarves fluttering, hands gripped tight.

We dodged the rain, flew past fields and villages like we were chasing the sun, and pulled up to the hotel grinning like teenagers on a summer jolly.

The Return

We rode back the next day a little sun-kissed, a little windswept, and smug as anything.

No breakdowns. No hiccups.

Just that wonderful, unmistakable sound: British thunder echoing down the lanes, rolling deep in our chests and lingering in the trees behind us.

We were a gang now—leather-clad, tea-fuelled, utterly content.

Everything to enjoy and the open road?

It was just getting started.

We rolled up to the Ace Café just before eleven, engines rumbling like distant thunder on the North Circular. The sun was out, the chrome was blinding, and the scent of fried bacon mixed with oil and bravado in the air. Classic.

With the kids left safely with Ingrid—armed with a board game, a picnic, and the patience of a saint—it was just us grown-ups on the prowl:

Me on my black-and-gold Norton Commando

Johan straddling his freshly polished BSA A10 Gold Flash

Vinka commanding her elegant Triumph Thunderbird and Marlin, grinning ear to ear on her fierce Bonneville, like she was ready to eat someone’s ego for breakfast.

We lined up beside a row of waxed-and-polished museum pieces, engines ticking down as we pulled off our lids. Cue the curious glances and then the usual reaction…

Enter: Local Legend, in his own lunch break.

A bloke sidled over—late fifties, all moustache and mockery—wearing a Triumph sweatshirt about three decades out of date. He eyed Marlin’s Bonneville, then clocked Vinka’s Thunderbird, and smirked.

“You two ride these, do ya?”

Marlin tilted her head. “No, we just polish them and stare at them wistfully.”

He didn’t get the sarcasm.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he shrugged. “Just rare, that’s all. Bit like seeing a dog ride a skateboard.”

There was a pause. One of those moments where you either laugh… or start removing earrings.

Vinka, serene as ever, adjusted her gloves. “We built these bikes ourselves. Every bolt. Every gear. Every gasket.”

She said it in that calm, measured Swedish tone that meant trouble if you kept talking.

But the bloke didn’t stop.

“Still, must be handy having the lads do the heavy lifting, eh?”

That’s when Marlin dropped the hammer.

“I’ll race you for your patch, Grandpa.”

The Ride-Out Challenge

As luck would have it, there was a ride-out scheduled that day—just a casual loop through the countryside, no trophies, no fanfare. Just pride. Which, in this case, was about to get very bruised.

We joined the lineup. The girls at the rear, us behind them for moral support and a front row seat to the carnage.

Engines fired up.

Clutches bit.

And Marlin’s Bonneville howled like a banshee as she took off from the line.

Vinka was smoother—poised, almost surgical. The Thunderbird slipped through traffic like it was on rails. The poor old boys never stood a chance. Half of them were still arguing about choke settings by the first roundabout.

By the time we’d hit the halfway café stop, Marlin had overtaken everyone who dared challenge her. Vinka followed seconds behind, cool as ice.

Back at the Ace

We pulled in an hour later.

Victorious. Glowing. Not a single drop of oil spilled.

The bloke with the Triumph tee shirt looked up from his lukewarm tea as Marlin dismounted. She handed him a flyer for an upcoming bike meet.

“Try again there, if your pride recovers.”

He blinked. “Fair play.”

Vinka gave him a polite nod. “We accept apologies in coffee form.”

We grabbed a table, ordered tea all round, and shared a quiet little grin as the crowd slowly began adjusting their expectations.

That day, the Ace Café learned a new rule:

Don’t mess with girls who tune their own engines and look good doing it.

We all agreed—if we were going to thrash four priceless vintage race bikes around a track like loons, we’d best do it dressed for the part. So down we went to Lewis Leathers, the holy grail of speed wear, nestled between posh cafés and confused tourists.

We were after the real deal—one-piece racing leathers, all-black, just like the legends of the fifties. No stripes. No flash. Just pure ton-up boy attitude.

The shop hadn’t changed in decades: all steel racks, waxed jackets, and the scent of aged cowhide and oil. The bloke behind the counter clocked us as soon as we walked in.

“You lot looking to race or rob a bank?”

“Bit of both,” said Johan.

The Fitting Room Fiasco

Now, getting into a one-piece race suit is like trying to crawl back into the womb—backwards, wearing boots.

We each grabbed a suit and vanished into the changing cubicles. That’s when the trouble started.

From my end came a muffled grunt, then:

“Er... I think I’m stuck.”

That was Johan, halfway through pulling it up, bent at the knees like a constipated chimp.

Marlin started laughing in Swedish.

Vinka called out, “Stephen, do not break the zip this time!”

I’d managed to get both arms in, but my backside was still hanging out. I looked like an accident in a wetsuit factory.

From Marlin’s cubicle:

“Mine fits! I look like a sexy ninja!”

Then silence.

“…I can’t breathe.”

It took us a full forty-five minutes, two sales assistants, and a full can of talcum powder before we emerged—red-faced, vaguely traumatised, and absolutely chuffed.

Strutting the Leathers

When we finally stood in front of the full-length mirror—all four of us, zipped up tight, boots done up, gloves tucked, we looked like a gang of 1950s racing outlaws on the run from the law and loving every minute of it.

All-black leather from collar to toe.

No branding, no gimmicks.

Helmets tucked under arms like we were waiting to be called onto the grid at the Isle of Man TT.

Even the grumpy fella behind the counter cracked a smile.

“You’ll do.”

The Aftermath

We strutted out of Lewis Leathers like we were walking in slow motion to our own theme music. A couple of tourists asked for photos. Someone muttered “Steve McQueen” under their breath.

We didn’t just buy leathers—we’d become riders.

Real ones. The kind who didn’t just own a classic bike, but lived it.

The day dawned crisp and clear, not a cloud in sight, and the smell of petrol already in the air. We’d set off before sunrise, the rented Transit van loaded with the Manx Nortons—the M30 3 50 and the M40 500—strapped in with military precision. The MV Agusta's, a gleaming 3 50 3C and a roaring 500 4C, rode proud on the trailer, like royalty under wraps.

Johan was behind the wheel, Marlin riding shotgun with a thermos of strong coffee. Vinka and I were in the back with the bikes, checking straps like we were prepping aircraft for take-off.

We didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. We were focused. Suited. Ready.

The paddock was already humming with activity when we rolled in. A few curious looks as we opened the van doors and revealed the hardware: four showroom-quality classics, two from Norton’s golden era, two born from Italian speed dreams.

The moment the black leathers came out, though—proper one-piece racers, not fashion statements—we got nods. Respect. Even from the seasoned club racers and blokes tinkering with their Yamahas, Honda's and Suzuki's.

We weren’t just there for show. We were here to ride.

Warm-Up Laps

First up, the Manx M30 and MV 350—our “gentler” machines. Vinka took the Norton, Marlin the MV. They glided down pit lane like pros, engines thumping in that unmistakable rhythm of open megaphones and hand-tuned carbs.

From the pit wall, Johan and I watched them take the first few laps—me squinting with pride, Johan muttering times under his breath like a human stopwatch.

Then came our turn.

I threw a leg over the M40, my Commando’s angry older brother, and Johan swung onto the MV 500—all muscle and scream.

Helmet on. Visor down. A nod to the girls with the roller starter. The rear wheel bit, engine caught, and the bike barked to life like it had been waiting thirty years for this.

Full Throttle Glory

We hit the track like hounds off a leash.

The straight was long enough to let the 500s stretch their legs—the MV screeched like an F1 car, while the Manx thundered like a Lancaster bomber at low altitude.

Into the corners, the bikes danced. Light, responsive, and just twitchy enough to make your heart skip if you took liberties. The tyres held. The brakes bit. And every gear change was like loading a rifle.

Vinka overtook me on the inside at Turn 3 and gave me a cheeky salute. Marlin blew past Johan on the final straight, tucked in tight, her black leathers blending into the frame.

We weren’t just riding history.

We were living it.

Post-Session Chaos and Glory

Back in the paddock, we were high on adrenaline and exhaust fumes. Helmets off, grinning like idiots, drenched in sweat, and buzzing.

A couple of lads wandered over.

“Those your bikes?”

“They are.”

“…They’re not replicas?”

“Nope.”

One of them pointed to Marlin. “She was flying.”

Vinka: “She always does.”

We lined the bikes up for a photo—four beasts, four riders, four stories etched into tarmac.

That day, the ghosts of the fifties roared back to life.

And somewhere out on that track, between apexes and throttle blips, we found something special—speed, style, and the sheer joy of doing things the hard way… beautifully.

The bikes were back where they belonged—four glorious machines lined up in the shed, still radiating heat and pride. The Manx M30 and M40 on their paddock stands, the MV 3 50 and 500 glinting under the strip lights. Tools lay untouched. This was not a time for work—it was a time for tea, biscuits, and arguing about which one we loved most.

We were knackered, happy, and completely wired.

Vinka flopped into the old armchair with a sigh and sipped her tea. “Well,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow, “I think that might’ve been the most fun I’ve ever had without a parachute.”

Marlin laughed. “Speak for yourself. I nearly married that MV 3 50 halfway through lap four.”

Johan leaned against the bench, arms crossed. “So—shall we settle it? Best bike of the day?”

We all looked at each other. Grins forming. Let the Great Shed Debate begin.

Stephen:

“Right, I’ll start. The M40’s a brute. Feels like it’s powered by thunder and bad intentions. But it’s got that old-school charm—like it might punch you in the face if you disrespect it.”

“I liked the MV 500. It was elegant. Raw, but… honest. It told you exactly what it was doing. No surprises. Like dancing with a strict partner who still lets you lead if you’re good enough.”

Marlin:

“The M30 though—It screamed. Fastest down the straight, easy. Bit twitchy in the corners, but once I trusted it, it was magic.”

Johan (nodding):

“And the 3 50 MV’s got finesse. It’s like flying a fighter jet with one hand and making espresso with the other. Balanced. Smooth. Bloody quick, too.”

There was a beat of silence. Mugs clinked.

Stephen:

“So… shall we declare a winner?”

All in unison:

“Nope.”

We burst out laughing. Four racers, four bikes, and not a single ounce of ego left to settle it.

Vinka grinned, “They’re all different. All brilliant. It’s like asking which of your kids is best.”

Marlin raised an eyebrow. “Easy. The one that doesn’t leave oil puddles in the kitchen.”

Johan:

“Well, they’ve all earned their place. But next time, we swap again. I want another go on that M30.”

“And I’m calling dibs on the MV 500. That thing had me grinning like a lunatic.”

The laughter faded into comfortable silence. The shed was warm. Familiar. Four sets of black leathers hung side by side. Four dreams, forged in sweat, steel, and stubbornness.

We didn’t need a winner.

We’d built these bikes with our own hands.

And they’d given us back something better than speed:

Memories, pride… and a few extra bugs on our teeth.

The maître d’ welcomed us with a warm nod, no words needed. He led us to our table—in the private room, the one dressed in crisp white linen and soft candlelight. The same table where we’d celebrated the 11-plus results only weeks ago. But tonight, the mood was different. Calmer. Heavier. Not sombre—but meaningful.

We were all dressed to the nines.

Nils and Vera, in their smart school uniforms with an extra polish to their shoes.

Otto and Olivia, equally sharp—Olivia even wore the little silver clip I gave her for special occasions.

And then us—four soldiers, looking for all the world like calm, composed parents… but behind the smiles, our hearts beat faster than usual.

Tomorrow, we would leave. And they knew it.

The waiter poured the wine—Château Claude, of course. A tradition now.

The children each received a small glass—not just a sip this time, but a proper toast, like we trusted them to be part of the circle.

Stephen raised his glass first, his voice steady but soft.

“To strength. To kindness. To all of us looking after each other while we’re apart. And to home—because that’s where we’ll come back to.”

Glasses clinked, gentle and clear.

As the first course arrived, the children tucked in politely, but their eyes kept drifting toward us. They were trying to be brave. So we let them lead.

Nils set his fork down.

“Is it dangerous? Where you’re going?”

Stephen smiled gently. “Yes, mate. It can be. But we’re trained. We’re prepared. And we’re not going alone.”

Otto piped up. “Will you be gone long?”

Johan answered, “A few months, hopefully no more. But you’ll be here, with Grandma and Ingrid. You’ll go to school, play rugby, keep up with your homework.”

Olivia tilted her head. “Will we be able to write to you?”

“Of course,” I said, reaching for her hand. “And we’ll write back. Every week. Promise.”

Vera looked at me, eyes glistening.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Mamma.”

I leaned in close. “Me too, älskling. But missing someone means you love them and that’s a wonderful thing.”

The conversation dipped and rose again, like waves.

A few quiet moments.

A few laughs—mostly at Stephen’s attempt to order in French and his accidental request for “a large moustache of beef.”

The children relaxed as the night went on, their plates cleared, and dessert arrived like a reward for all the bravery in the room.

Stephen whispered to me, as we watched the four of them lean in to share a chocolate torte:

“They’re stronger than I ever was at that age.”

I nodded, eyes fixed on Nils and Vera. “They’re our everything.”

As we stood to leave, the children gathered their coats without complaint. Each one hugged us, not like children scared of losing something, but like little warriors who knew they were part of something bigger.

They weren’t just proud of us—we were proud of them.

That night, we tucked them into bed, kissed them softly, and whispered the kind of promises you only make when love’s too big for words.

And when the house went quiet, Stephen and I just held each other.

No uniforms. No gear laid out. Just two parents, caught in the stillness before the storm.

The sun hadn’t quite warmed the day yet, but the sky was clear—the kind of bright September morning that felt oddly out of place when your bergan's had sand-coloured kit in it.

Down at the unit, the minibus was already waiting—engine ticking, the driver leaning against the bonnet, mug of tea in hand like he’d seen it all before.

The four of us stood together, packs squared, boots polished more out of habit than regulation, flanked by two other lads from the Squadron who’d also answered the call. Six of us in total, lined up like a row of reluctant gladiators.

But the real focus was just a few steps away—our families.

Harry and Ingrid had brought the kids down. Nils and Vera, clutching little brown paper bags with notes tucked inside. Otto and Olivia, standing tall beside Johan and Marlin, trying their very best not to look worried.

Vinka and I knelt down first.

She straightened Nils’s collar and gave him a kiss that lingered just a beat longer than usual.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered. “Keep an eye on your sister.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will, Mamma.”

Vera didn’t say anything—she just hugged both of us at once, like she didn’t trust herself to let go more than once.

Johan crouched beside Otto.

“You’ll be on the rugby team by Christmas,” he said, grinning. “But maybe don’t tackle the Head Boy on your first day, yeah?”

Marlin hugged Olivia tight.

“Make sure your brother writes, or I’ll come back and flatten him.”

“Promise,” Olivia giggled, tears glinting but not falling.

Ingrid and Harry stood quietly, eyes soft but proud.

Harry gave me a handshake that turned into a hug. “Bring ‘er back safe, lad.”

Ingrid looked straight at Vinka. “I’ll keep them busy. They won’t have time to miss you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to Ingrid’s for just a second.

There were no big tears, no breakdowns, no dramatics—just warm, quiet hugs, and words that held more than they said. We’d done this before—just never with so much riding on it.