Racing Families & Rugby Valkyries | From Brands Hatch to the Women’s Rugby Revolution | The Parallel Four

Chapter Thirty-Four of The Parallel Four revs up the action and the laughter. The crew swap desert storms for race-day mayhem, transforming into Team Parallel Mayhem — four ex-military racers, a van called Helga, and a caravan full of dreams. With Manx Nortons, MVs, and Triumphs, they hit Brands Hatch and Cadwell Park with their kids as a self-styled Pit Commando Squad — matching overalls, clipboards, and jelly-baby rations included. Expect chaos, crashes narrowly avoided, and podiums painted in WD-40 and pride.

Off the track, the energy shifts to the rugby pitch, as Vinka and Marlin lead the charge in the club’s first women’s team — a powerhouse blend of speed, skill, and Scandinavian steel. Tries, tackles, conversions, and cowbells: the women’s game is born, cheered on by three generations and one very noisy family.

From the pits to the pitch, this chapter celebrates family, friendship, and fearlessness — proof that adventure doesn’t end with demob; it just changes venue.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty Four

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 Four.

To get serious about it, we needed our own van. Our current setup worked fine for track days, barely, but if we were going to be full-time weekend warriors on the classic circuit, we needed proper logistics. Racing meant kit. And kit meant space. Spares, helmets, jerrycans, tool chests, WD-40, duct tape, brew kit, first aid tin, and, of course, the snacks, trackside flapjacks are non-negotiable. Plus somewhere to stash all our collective emotional baggage about cornering technique and midlife crises.

Someone at the club tipped us off about a bloke flogging a former team support van, used, yes, but lovingly abused. We took one look and knew: she was a beauty. Crew cab up front, so all four of us could sit side-by-side like a slightly older, slightly smellier Top Gear line-up. The back was all business, racks for leathers, tool cabinet, tyre rack, spare wheel hangers, and floor space for two bikes inside, with a proper tow hitch for the trailer and the other two. Even had a small fridge someone had bolted in, presumably for post-race celebratory beverages. Or cold beans.

It was love at first ignition. She started on the second turn of the key and purred like a big, boxy tabby. The seller started waffling on about maybe needing it back if his nephew got into karting, but we weren’t taking any chances. Cash was handed over before he could finish the sentence. Johan gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. Vinka named her “Helga” before we’d even made it off the driveway. The racing dream had just shifted up a gear.

Of course, a van alone wouldn’t cut it. Not with eight of us in tow and the girls insisting that “a proper cup of tea and a place to hang your leathers” were non-negotiable. So we did what any sensible, sleep-deprived, motorbike-obsessed family would do—we bought a caravan.

Not just any caravan, mind you. This was a 1970s Sprite Alpine with original Formica worktops, floral curtains, and the faint scent of damp dreams and boiled eggs. It had charm, character, and a dodgy corner window that whistled on motorways. Johan reckoned it added to the aerodynamics. I reckoned it was haunted.

We gave it a deep clean, patched the leaks, fitted a new gas hob, and replaced the broken fly screens with repurposed cam nets—because nothing says “racing glamour” like tactical mozzie defence. I brought in scatter cushions. Marlin installed a kettle that could boil water faster than a Land Rover could leak oil. The kids, of course, promptly claimed the top bunk and filled every cupboard with biscuits.

By the time we rolled into Brands Hatch for our first full race weekend, we looked like the travelling circus of vintage speed—van, trailer, and caravan all polished and parked like we’d done this forever. Other teams had branded awnings and matching pit gear. We had two 12x12 tents we signed for out of the stores a folding table, a battered kettle, and enough family banter to drown out the tannoy. And honestly? We wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

After a couple of weekends with the club, gallons of elbow grease, and only a modest amount of swearing during the medical paperwork, why do they need to know about a sprained ankle from 1973?, we finally had our ACU licences in hand. Officially cleared to race in the novice class, we were as giddy as kids with new Scalextric sets.

Then came The Great Debate: who would ride what?

What followed was less of a conversation and more of a diplomatic standoff, complete with diagrams, performance stats, and the occasional raised eyebrow. At one point, Johan brought out a slide rule. After an evening of negotiations that made the Maastricht Treaty look like a pub quiz, we landed on a decision:

— Vinka would pilot the Manx MV500—graceful, fierce, and bloody fast, much like her.

— I took the MV350—because apparently I like my vintage speed served with a side of arm-stretching torque.

— Marlin nabbed the M30—sleek, nimble, and with a roar that made heads turn.

— Johan, naturally, ended up astride the mighty M40. Not just because of the bike’s power, but because, in his words, “Anything less and I’d be late for the corners.”

Just like that, we found ourselves on the starting grid at our first proper classic race meet. Nervous? Oh yes. Excited? Like Labradors with sausages. Trying desperately not to stall in front of a crowd that actually knew what they were looking at? You bet.

It was a cracking day—no crashes, thank Odin, plenty of overtakes, and a few heroic saves that’ll live forever in family legend. We crossed the finish line with our faces aching from the grins under our helmets.

We were absolutely hooked… and already counting down the days until the next race weekend.

With the racing bug now well and truly in our blood, we realised the next piece of the puzzle was obvious: we needed a pit crew.

Lucky for us, we had four keen-as-mustard, whip-smart, and slightly cheeky candidates already living under our roofs—Nils, Vera, Otto, and Olivia.

So, one bright Saturday, we made it official: Pit Crew Training Day.

We purchased four matching overalls—two red, two blue—each one lovingly stitched with their names across the chest. They lined up like they were joining a junior fire brigade. Nils saluted. Olivia rolled her eyes. We were off to a flying start.

First up was the grand tour of the garage. Tools were named, misnamed, and then corrected. Otto, naturally, kept grabbing the biggest spanner he could find and calling it “The Persuader.” Vera, on the other hand, was already quizzing us on torque settings. Little legend.

We split them into pairs: Vera and Otto on tyre changes and fuelling drills, while Nils and Olivia handled helmet prep, clipboard duties, and stopwatches. I showed them how to polish a visor to parade-ground standards, while Johan made them run laps with jerrycans, “Just like rugby fitness, only with a petrol smell.”

By mid-morning, we had them practising timed wheel swaps and mock pit stops. Nils took to it like a tactical officer on manoeuvres, barking “Go! Go! Go!” while Olivia shouted split times with all the urgency of a Le Mans commentator. Otto managed to get grease on every possible surface, somehow. Vera, Cool as a cucumber, triple-checking fuel lines and inspecting chains like she was prepping a MotoGP contender.

By lunch, they were filthy, exhausted, and completely hooked.

We gave them all honorary team names and took a photo, four beaming faces in oversized overalls, proudly clutching oily rags like medals. Our future pit crew was ready. Brands Hatch Round Two? We’d be rolling up with the full squad.

The Great Pilgrimage to Brands Hatch – Family Edition

There was something quite majestic, if slightly ridiculous, about the sight of our convoy pulling out of Hitchin early that Friday morning. Up front, the mighty ex-race team van, humming along proudly with two pristine classics nestled in the back like crown jewels, and the bike trailer hitched on for good measure. Behind that, the girls in the family car, towing the caravan, which now resembled a cross between a mobile command post and a camping version of an SAS forward operating base.

Then there were the kids. Four grinning gremlins in matching overalls, alternating between waving at startled drivers and squabbling over who got to carry the clipboard. They’d each packed their own “essential pit kit” bags, head torches, duct tape, snacks, and in Otto’s case, a water pistol, just in case the tyres overheated, apparently.

The journey down was... eventful. The van’s radio was permanently stuck on Radio 2, which meant Johan serenading us with his own version of every song, while I tried to remember if I’d actually packed the sprocket spanners or just dreamt about it. In the car behind, Vinka had implemented a “no sweets until Dartford” policy, which led to quiet mutiny in the car.

When we rolled through the gates of Brands, the marshals gave us a look that said, “Here comes trouble.” We were directed to the family paddock, possibly out of kindness, possibly out of fear and began our now finely choreographed setup. The van reversed with military precision. The trailer was unhitched. The bikes were wheeled out like rare museum pieces. The caravan had the two 12x12 tents made into a 24x12 with 2 bikes in each side. Team Parallel Four Racing HQ was officially open.

The Pit Crew Goes Live

Next morning, race day dawned bright and far too early. The kids were up before us, already in overalls and assigning each other titles. Vera was Chief Technical Officer. Nils claimed Tactical Strategy Lead. Olivia self-appointed as Head of Timings and Tea. Otto, ever the wild card, declared himself Director of Hydration and Morale, armed with his trusty water pistol and a bag of jelly babies.

During warm-up, the kids were a blur of activity, chalkboards with lap times, tyre pressure checks, somewhat accurate, and helmet polishing to near mirror-shine. I nearly cried when Vera produced a tork wrench and corrected Johan’s guesswork. “She is truly my child,” I whispered, wiping away a proud tear.

When the green flag dropped for our first race, the garage came alive. Vera and Otto manned the pit board like it was Le Mans. Olivia timed laps down to the tenth of a second and shouted them across the pit lane with the authority of a sergeant major. Nils had a headset on, not connected to anything, but it made him look official, giving imaginary comms like, “Tyre two is running hot, suggest tactical flap adjustment.” No one knew what he meant. He didn’t either.

The Pits were chaos in the best way. The kids swarmed us like a Formula One crew, handing over visors, offering water bottles, fanning faces with paddock towels. Otto sprayed a water pistol at my boots shouting, “Cooling the chassis!” I nearly stacked it on a damp patch, but couldn’t stop laughing long enough to be annoyed.

Other teams looked on in confusion, amusement, and mild fear.

That evening, with races done and dusted and no crashes, thank you very much, we huddled round the caravan on camping chairs, mugs of tea and one cheeky beer, telling tales of overtakes and corner bravery. The kids swapped stories like they’d just come off a tour of duty.

Johan toasted the “best pit crew in history.” Marlin handed out honorary medals, shiny washers on string. Vera immediately asked if hers counted toward her Duke of Edinburgh Award.

We may not have won any trophies that weekend, but we’d created something far more valuable: a rolling family circus with engines, oil, laughter, and love. And if next time we happened to sneak onto the podium? Well… that would just be a bonus.

Sunday morning at Brands Hatch dawned with the delicate subtlety of a brass band doing warm-ups. The kids were already up, overalls on, hair wild, and clipboards clutched like sacred texts. Vinka swore she saw one of them pacing like a tiny Niki Lauda, muttering about tyre pressures. Meanwhile, the rest of us staggered out of the caravan looking like we’d survived a rock festival, not a night at a racetrack. Tea was brewed. Toast was burned. Johan had lost a boot.

We eventually made our way to the garage and were promptly reminded we were flanked on both sides by proper race teams. They had pit-to-rider comms, and people using words like “apex” and “yaw” unironically. We had a kettle, a lucky spoon, and a pit crew of overenthusiastic kids who ran around like caffeinated squirrels. But our bikes? Oh, they were gleaming. The kids had polished them the night before like they were getting them ready for a wedding.

Race day had begun.

As the riders’ briefing got underway, the organiser repeated everything he’d said the day before, but slower this time, as if speaking to very polite children. We all nodded along while pretending we hadn’t forgotten what each flag meant overnight. I, deadly serious, whispered to Stephen, “If we crash into each other today, I think we’re just barred from the tea tent.” Marlin added, “So… same rules as family Monopoly.”

Then came the call:

“Novice class to the paddock!”

It was showtime, again.

The race? Glorious.

I stormed ahead like a woman on a mission, the MV 350 purring like a dream, overtaking with surgical precision. Marlin’s Manx M30 , having had a stern talking-to that morning, roared out like it meant business. Johan, perhaps still recovering from the boot incident, took a slightly wider line on the first corner but recovered well, narrowly missing a pigeon that had clearly lost its will to live. I managed a decent start this time, only getting boxed in once, behind a rider whose bike sounded like a goat being tickled.

Back in the garage, red-faced and vibrating with adrenaline, we were mobbed by our mini pit crew. They handed out water bottles, cheered lap times, even if they were wildly optimistic and one of them presented me with a “Best Acceleration Noise” certificate drawn in crayon. I got “Best Over-taker” while Marlin was awarded “Coolest Helmet.” Johan received “Most Dramatic Pigeon Avoidance.” All fair.

Just as we were packing up the bikes for the final time, one of the neighbouring semi-pro blokes wandered over. He looked around at the chaos, the laughter, the jam sandwiches, the kids trying to polish a crash helmet with baby wipes, and said, “You lot don’t half make this look like fun.”

We grinned.

“It is,” I replied.

It really, really is.

By our third race weekend, things were getting serious—

Or at least, as serious as it gets when your race team is four ex-military lunatics, a caravan, a van full of tools held together by sarcasm, and a gaggle of kids who’d recently declared themselves “Pit Commandos.”

We’d dialled in the bikes, Johan bounced on the seat while Marlin stared thoughtfully and muttered “Yeah, that’ll do”, upgraded to a Team Parallel Mayhem gazebo, secured with kettlebells, optimism, and what Vinka called “engineer’s luck” and we were now the proud owners of matching black paddock jackets with gold trim. Vinka’s idea. On the back, in proud embroidery:

“Team Parallel Mayhem – Established. Not Sure When.”

This weekend’s battleground? Cadwell Park.

Known affectionately as the “rollercoaster,” it looked like someone built a racetrack during a particularly aggressive trampoline session. Twists, turns, hairpins, and drops that made your stomach write angry letters to your brain.

The kids had gone full throttle too.

They’d spent the week constructing a “Pit Crew Handbook” complete with colour-coded checklists, hydration schedules, and—most importantly—Dad Error Codes. It included entries like:

DE-01: “Dad left gloves in caravan again – Issue spare set with ‘LEFT’ and ‘RIGHT’ written inside.”

DE-07: “Johan trying to fit leathers on backwards – remind gently, again.”

DE-13 Critical: “Steve attempting DIY carb tuning—distract with sausage roll.”

DE-22: “Mum’s winning – Dad might sulk. Deploy hugs and tea.”

They even had clipboards. And high-vis vests. And a laminated rota called “Operation Victory Sandwiches.”

Honestly, it was terrifying.

Race day dawned dry and glorious.

Engines were humming, gear was prepped, leathers were squeezed into with much grunting and minor dislocations, and the team rolled into the paddock looking like a vintage rock band who’d traded guitars for throttle cables.

Vinka launched her MV350 like a missile with PMT.

She took the inside line on Turn 1, causing one poor chap on a Norton to scream into his helmet like he’d seen a ghost with handlebars. Marlin was methodical—fast, calm, and relentless on the M30. Johan had “a moment” at the Gooseneck that involved squealing tyres, flailing limbs, and what he later described as “a religious experience.” I found myself in a four-way battle for third, my MV500 howling like it was being chased by unpaid bills.

Chequered flag.

Vinka wins.

Clean. Fast. Glorious.

I squeaked into third, and Johan and Marlin were hot on my heels. When we climbed the podium, the kids handed us printed “Trophies of Awesomeness” they’d made out of cereal boxes and gold paint, and Johan emptied half a bottle of discount fizz down my back. It smelled like foot cream and burned like betrayal.

Back in the paddock, the mood was electric.

We cranked up Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” and did a slow victory lap in the van, kids dancing on the roof, don’t ask, helmets worn like crowns, while I waved a chequered dishcloth out the side window. Next door, a very serious semi-pro team watched us like they were witnessing a cross between “Top Gear” and a school play gone rogue.

One of their pit crew wandered over, took in the chaos, kettle boiling on a camping stove, someone fixing a throttle cable with a spoon, and a child polishing Johan’s boots, and said,

“Are you lot always like this?”

To which Marlin replied, “No… sometimes we’re worse.”

That weekend, we didn’t just race

We performed.

We laughed. We sang. We raced with joy, rode with pride, and proved that even four veterans with more enthusiasm than cartilage could still live the dream…

One glorious, chaotic, WD 40 scented lap at a time.

By Sunday afternoon, with the sun setting behind a haze of burnt clutch and bacon sarnies, the kids had officially stolen the show.

While we were still coming down from the adrenaline and trying to locate Johan’s missing sock, last seen waving triumphantly from the van aerial, the Pit Commandos were on a whole new mission: branding.

Armed with crayons, felt tips, and a disturbingly well-organised art box, they set up a folding table outside the gazebo and announced the launch of “Official Team Parallel Mayhem Merchandise.”

First up? Team logos.

Each kid submitted a design:

Nils went with a flaming spanner crossed with a bacon sandwich.

Otto drew four bikes riding over a hill of exploding tent pegs.

Vera designed a sleek silhouette of me doing a wheelie, surrounded by lightning bolts.

Olivia’s featured a grinning Unimog in sunglasses.

Naturally, we couldn’t pick a winner. So they voted amongst themselves, argued, made a secret pact involving extra pudding later, and declared all four designs official. Stickers, badges, and temporary tattoos were quickly fashioned with a borrowed laminator and suspicious levels of initiative.

Then came the autographs.

One lad from the next paddock, clearly impressed by Vinka’s win and Johan’s sideways moment, came over and shyly asked for a signature. Within the hour, the Parallel Four Junior Pit Crew had a full queue of curious kids and confused adults, handing out posters scribbled with “Vinka the Viking” and “Steve the Speedy Dad” in glitter pen. At one point, Otto signed a jam sandwich and Vera autographed someone’s spark plug box.

We just stood back, sipping tea, watching it all unfold, half mortified, half bursting with pride.

“Y’know,” Johan said, nudging me, “if this keeps up, we’ll need a proper merch tent.”

I nodded. “And a legal team. In case they try to trademark your sock.”

And that, ladies and gents, was Cadwell Park:

Not just a race weekend, but the birth of a legacy.

One full of grit, giggles, motor oil, mini-marketers…

The unmistakable roar of Team Parallel Mayhem.

The summer of 1992 brought a different kind of chaos to the rugby club, one with ponytails, painted nails, and absolutely no intention of taking prisoners. The club had only gone and announced the formation of its first-ever women’s team. Naturally, Vinka and Marlin were first in line, like a pair of hungry Valkyries who’d been politely waiting their turn to storm the gates.

After years of watching Johan and me throw ourselves about the pitch, often while offering sideline commentary that ranged from withering sarcasm to actual coaching advice, they were finally suiting up. Let’s just say, the opposition weren’t ready.

Training nights? Tuesdays and Thursdays. Same as ours. They even claimed our positions: nine and ten. Vinka said it was because she liked to “control the chaos.” Marlin said it was because she liked creating it. We offered some of our finest pearls of rugby wisdom:

“Don’t pass to the prop unless you like pain.”

“If in doubt, hoof it.”

“And always, always fake an injury near the bar.”

They listened. They smiled. Then did the exact opposite, with dazzling results.

Our very first friendly was against the Old Albanians Saints from St Albans and that’s when the magic truly started. The club had never seen anything like it. Word got out, the sidelines filled up quicker than a pub when someone shouts “first round’s on me.”

The old guard the flat-cap-and-Thermos brigade, showed up early to “see what all the fuss was about,” muttering things like “should be interesting” while secretly bursting with curiosity. Some of the wives played too, grinning at their husbands’ surprise when the tackles started flying. The regulars staked out the best spots by the halfway line, pints in hand, ready for the show.

Then there was our mob — full turnout, of course.

Ingrid and Harry rocked up with folding chairs, binoculars, and a spread of Swedish and English snacks that could’ve fed the whole second XV team. Papa Erik and mama Anna brought a tartan rug, a thermos of hot chocolate, and a box of cinnamon buns. Lars and Silvi, always the loudest, brought a cowbell they’d “found in the garage.” Grandpa Olaf and Grandma Greta cheered from the club house windows wrapped in blankets, shouting encouragement in a mix of Swedish, German, Tim, Petra and Sigrid popped up for the weekend.

The kids, all four of ’em 14 years old, lanky, hormonal, and trying desperately not to look like they cared too much. Otto and Nils leaned against the fence pretending they were only there because the PlayStation was broken. Vera had her Walkman on but kept taking one earphone out to follow the action. Olivia had nicked one of Johan's old rugby shirts and rolled the sleeves up like she didn’t care but was the first to shout “YES!” when her mum made a break down the wing. Sigrid joined them with slight less attitude.

Peer pressure made them stay cool. But pride made them watch. What a game it was.

Marlin bulldozed her way through three defenders in the opening five minutes and crashed over the line like a Nordic freight train. Vinka stepped up to take the conversion calm as anything and slotted it over with that signature smirk that said, “Easy.”

She went on to bag two more tries for herself gliding through the backline like she was on a dance floor, not a muddy pitch and nailed every conversion, including one from the touchline that had even the opposition clapping. One of the girls squeezed in a try near the end, but Vinka promptly slotted that one too. Honestly, she was a point-scoring machine. If she’d kicked any better, we’d have had to build her a statue.

The game ended in a nail-biting draw, but you’d have thought the girls had won the Triple Crown. The supporters erupted. Photos were taken. Teenagers pretended not to be impressed but Nils was caught grinning and Otto tried and failed to hide the fact he’d been filming it all.

Back in the clubhouse, the celebration was on. Lasagne, chips, a mystery curry that may have once had chicken in it, and enough garlic bread to see off Dracula’s extended family. The girls were beaming flushed with adrenaline, sweat, and pure joy.

From that day on, rugby wasn’t just ours. It was theirs as well. As more women’s teams popped up around the county, a proper league was born, and Vinka and Marlin were right there at the heart of it cutting through defences, leading the charge, and loving every minute.

Johan and I supported them from the sidelines whenever we could, though fixture clashes sometimes made it tricky. When luck was on our side, it was a double-header, the women first, then us. We liked to think there were warming up the pitch. They liked to say they were softening up the opposition.

Truth be told — they weren’t wrong.