From Kosovo to Brands Hatch: Soldiers, Speeds, and Stories of Grit & Glory

Step inside The Parallel Four — a true-to-life military saga blending humour, heart, and history. In this episode, we follow Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin from NATO’s command rooms in Kosovo to the roaring tracks of Brands Hatch — swapping PsyOps leaflets for racing leathers and the tension of war for the thrill of victory.

Expect powerful storytelling filled with real British Army life, Cold War Germany nostalgia, and true camaraderie forged in conflict. From the 1970s through the 2000s, witness how veterans balance service, sport, and sanity — tackling deployments, friendship, rugby, skiing, and the chaos of family life with wit and warmth.

Join this band of brothers (and sisters) as they navigate NATO briefings, Balkan rebuilding, and classic motorcycle racing glory. Packed with authentic military detail, emotional truth, and laugh-out-loud realism, this episode captures what it means to serve, love, and live at full throttle.

If you enjoy real military stories, veteran life, rugby humour, skiing adventures, and epic 1970s-2000s nostalgia, you’ll feel right at home here.

Transcript

“The Boss took me up to NATO HQ at Film City one morning for a Top Brass meeting. It felt like stepping into another world entirely. Our usual workplace was all paper stacks, cable tangles, and coffee mugs that had seen too many tours. Film City, by contrast, looked like something out of a brochure: neat compounds, flags in perfect rows, and soldiers who somehow kept their uniforms as crisp at midnight as they were at dawn.

We passed through layers of security before being ushered into a conference room that smelled of polish and fresh coffee. Around the table sat generals from half of Europe, every one of them bristling with stars, medals, and a very serious air. The Boss slid into his seat with his usual calm authority, leaving me to hover at his side with the other staff officers and note-takers.

The discussion was… long. Maps projected on the wall, acronyms thrown about like confetti, each nation politely edging their priorities to the front. To me it was fascinating, in its way — strategy written large, yet decided by men and women who still paused to argue over whose translators got the best results.

Every so often the Boss would glance at me, just the smallest nod, and I would lean in with a quiet comment or a reminder. Our work in the villages, our broadcasts, our leaflets — all those tiny details fed into the larger picture they were drawing. It struck me then that what felt like small, local tasks to us were threads in a vast tapestry.

When the meeting broke for coffee, Stephen’s words echoed in my mind: ‘It’s just leaflets and loudspeakers, love.’ Sitting there, watching generals sip espresso under the NATO flag, I realised it was never just leaflets. Influence mattered. Words mattered. Even here, at the very top, they were listening to what we had seen and heard on the ground.”

“When Vinka came back from Film City, she gave me the whole rundown — generals in starched uniforms, maps lit up like a Christmas tree, translators arguing over commas. I listened, nodded, and then said, ‘So basically, love, you spent the day drinkin’ posh coffee under a big flag while the brass played Risk with real soldiers?’

She gave me that look — half glare, half smile — and I added, ‘Next time, bring me along. I’ll save ’em hours. “Leaflets good, loudspeakers better, tiramisu unbeatable.” Job done.’

Vinka rolled her eyes, but I could see the corners of her mouth give way. That’s our rhythm. She sees the tapestry, I point out the loose threads. Between us, somehow, it works.”

“Stephen makes light of it, of course. That is his way. But sometimes, humour is what keeps the weight from pressing too hard on our shoulders. I see the vast plans and the long meetings; he sees the human thread that runs through it all. Perhaps that is why we work — his laughter steadies me, just as my steadiness anchors him. Between us, somehow, the chaos of Kosovo became a little easier to bear.”

“By the end of our tour, change was everywhere. A new corrimec camp had gone up — military-speak for stacked Portakabins with delusions of grandeur — squeezed in between our base at the old university and NATO HQ at Film City, ready for the next brigade to move in.

It wasn’t just the buildings, either. The whole place had shifted. When we first rolled into Kosovo, the roads were empty save for a battered Yugo here and there, maybe a tractor if you were lucky. By the time we packed up to leave, there were traffic jams. Not just any jams, either — BMWs and Mercedes crawling nose to tail, paintwork gleaming like they’d just rolled out of the showroom.

Car washes had popped up on every corner, suds flying like confetti. Alongside them, a forest of roadside stalls flogging dodgy sunglasses and pirated CDs by the crate. Felt like the country had skipped straight from conflict zone to Balkan boot sale overnight.

And yes — everyone frowned at the CDs, pretended they were far too respectable for such things. But funny how every glovebox you opened had Shania Twain’s Greatest Hits tucked in there somewhere. No judgement. We had one too.”

“For me, the traffic jams were more than just an irritation. They were proof that life was moving forward again. Shiny cars, car washes, even terrible roadside pop music — all of it meant people were choosing something other than fear.

The sound of horns and engines was a long way from the silence of mass graves and shattered streets. I held on to that thought as we left. Even in the chaos and the dust, Kosovo was trying to live again. And perhaps that was the best sign we could hope for.”

“As our time in Kosovo drew to a close, 7 Armoured Brigade — the famous Desert Rats — arrived to take over from 19 Brigade. You could almost hear a film soundtrack playing as they rolled in, all tanks and confidence, like heroes entering stage left.

It was during one of our last planning sessions that a truth became clear. For all our work — the leaflets, the broadcasts, the meetings with mayors, the endless cups of strong coffee — we were still outsiders. PsyOps was always a little strange, the cousins at a wedding no one quite remembers inviting. People tolerated us, even respected us in small ways, but we were never fully part of the family.

We had not been with the Brigade from the beginning, and no matter how many long days and nights we gave, how many near misses or difficult conversations we lived through, we remained ‘those new ones from somewhere else.’ It hurt, yes, but it was the truth.

Yet when I looked around our office — Stephen cracking jokes, Johan steady as stone, Marlin’s quiet strength, Simmo’s good humour, Flight’s sharp one-liners, even the Boss slipping us the rare smile — I realised we had built our own family. Maybe we weren’t the Brigade’s chosen children. But we were something tighter, stronger, forged by the strange chaos of Kosovo. And that was enough.

It also became clear this was more than just a passing irritation; it was a real problem, one that could weigh down morale and chip away at cohesion if it happened again. So we raised it properly as a lesson for the Group: bring your PsyOps people in early, make them part of the team from day one, or you risk frayed tempers and leaflets no one reads.”

“Our relief in place with the incoming team went smoothly that June. The radio station crew were fully independent by then, broadcasting everything from Europop hits to public service announcements without us hovering over their shoulders. It felt good — like watching someone you have trained finally ride on their own.

Technically, we should have flown straight from Brize Norton to Chilwell to be demobbed like everyone else. But Major Bruce, bless him, pulled a few strings. He thought it right that we stop by the Group first. So we did — a short debrief, plenty of ‘welcome backs,’ and even a few surprised faces saying, ‘Oh, you went?’

After that it was Chilwell, kit handed in, signatures collected, and the long process of demobilisation. Only then came what we had been craving for months — a return to real life, and at last, some well-earned leave.”

“We had five glorious weeks of leave ahead of us — five weeks to shake off Kosovo dust and remind ourselves what fun felt like. What better way than to dive headfirst into the lunacy of amateur motorcycle racing?

Before we deployed, we had already gone all in. We picked up a proper race van — just big enough to cram in four bikes, a mountain of kit, and two terrified passengers. We even passed our ACU race licences, which basically proved we were officially mad enough to fling ourselves round a circuit at breakneck speed in full leathers.

Our pride and joys — the MVs and Manx Nortons — gleamed like museum pieces, polished to within an inch of their vintage lives. We loaded them up like holy relics: three lashed tight to the trailer, one tucked inside the van like a sleeping dragon. Around them we wedged spares, tools, leathers, helmets, and enough snacks to keep a Scout jamboree fuelled for a fortnight.

This was not just a weekend out. It was our victory lap back into civilisation — part petrol fumes, part adrenaline, and just a dash of midlife crisis bravado.

We pitched up at Paddock Hill with all the subtlety of a travelling circus. Van and trailer backed up tight to the caravan, then out came the old Army 12x12s. Instead of standing them alone, we joined the pair side on into a proper 24x12 bay, canvas flapping until we had a field workshop fit for battle.

Inside, the bikes stood side by side across the open front like a line of cavalry on parade: the two 350s gleaming to the left, the 500s brooding to the right. Facing outward, they looked every inch the thoroughbreds, polished tanks catching the last of the sun. Behind them, the canvas walls were lined with spares, tools, and a makeshift brew table — the kind of organised chaos only soldiers-turned-greasers could love.”

“Watching Stephen, Johan, and the others at Paddock Hill was like seeing the regiment reborn — only this time in leathers and smelling of Castrol oil instead of boot polish. They strutted about the paddock with their toolboxes like officers on parade, polishing tanks, checking tyre pressures, and arguing about sprockets as if national security depended on it.

The children, of course, became our pit crew. Vera with her clipboard, barking out times and notes like she was running mission control. Nils crouched beside the bikes with a torque wrench that was nearly bigger than he was, double-checking every bolt as though his life depended on it. Otto and Olivia dashed between van and awning carrying fuel cans, gloves, and whatever else their fathers shouted for — grinning all the while, faces smudged with grease and pride.

Marlin and I stood back with our mugs of tea, pretending to be spectators but secretly loving every minute. To see the children so involved, taking the whole charade as seriously as their parents, made my heart ache in the best way. It was family and regiment and playtime all rolled together — chaotic, noisy, but utterly ours.”

“By the time we’d finished fettling, the paddock was buzzing. Air guns rattled, sockets clattered, and the smell of petrol mingled with frying onions from the Hailwood Café. Neighbours wandered over for a nose: a couple of Gold Star lads giving our Nortons a long, appreciative stare.

‘Brave, bringing those here,’ one said.

‘You got enough spares to rebuild ’em twice?’ the other added.

Johan grinned. ‘Three times, if Stephen stops dropping bolts on the tarmac.’

I raised my tin. ‘At least mine runs.’

That broke the ice. They laughed and promised bacon sandwiches in the morning. By full dark, the tents glowed under work lamps, reflections of polished tanks gleaming on the tarmac. We sat outside the caravan, tins in hand, listening to the chatter roll across the paddock. Tomorrow was scrutineering and practice, but for now it was four mates on leave, our own little race team set up under canvas, and the weekend wide open ahead.

All four bikes sailed through scrutineering and sound checks without so much as a raised eyebrow — a small miracle given that two of them sounded like angry chainsaws on espresso and the other two like lawnmowers that had discovered speed metal. The officials gave us the nod, clipped the tags on, and that was it — we were in business.

Then came the leathers. Getting into them was an undignified team sport: hopping, swearing, yanking zips, and generally looking like four contortionists trapped halfway through a bad magic trick. By the end of it, we were sweating buckets but grinning like kids in fancy dress.”

“Marlin and I were first to saddle up, each swinging a leg over the 350s with the calm confidence of riders who had nothing to prove — and every intention of proving it anyway. Johan and Stephen wheeled the 500s out next — bigger, brasher, and more likely to remind us that age and bravery do not always get along.

The plan was simple, at least on paper: ten laps each, pit, swap bikes, repeat in the afternoon. Fair turns, equal saddle time, and plenty of opportunities to fall in love with whichever machine decided not to spit us into the gravel. Of course, we knew that by day’s end at least one of us would be swearing eternal vengeance at whichever bike rattled us hardest — but that was half the fun.

Joining the track from the pit lane at Brands Hatch felt less like merging politely and more like being hurled into rush-hour traffic where everyone is already doing double the speed limit. There is no easing in. Straight away, there it was: Paddock Hill Bend. A plunging right-hander that feels like riding off the edge of the world on roller skates. You don’t creep into Paddock. You throw yourself at it, throttle open, and hope the bike sticks. By the time you hit the bottom, your chest smacks the tank and you wonder briefly why anyone calls this fun.

Up Hailwood Hill, lungs tight, heart hammering, you are already setting up for Druids hairpin — slow in, fast out, patience the key. Get it wrong and you wobble like a learner circling a supermarket car park. Get it right, and the bike slingshots you down into Graham Hill Bend. Here it is all commitment — knee slider skimming the tarmac at the bottom, sparks of adrenaline flying.

Onto Cooper Straight, throttle open, flick neatly through Surtees, then let the flow carry you through McLaren and Clearways. Smooth, fast, a test of nerve as much as skill. Then the long sweep through Clark Curve — hold your line, tuck in, and pin it.

Now you are storming down the Brabham Straight, head down, gears climbing, the bike howling beneath you. Just as you start to feel invincible, Paddock Hill looms again — demanding everything, ready to humble you all over.

That is one lap. And we had nine more chances to prove we were not too old — or too daft — to be out there.”

“After lap ten we peeled off into the pit lane like a squadron of bees coming home — loud, twitchy, and far too pleased with ourselves. We rolled up outside our 24x12 set-up, backed the bikes in with all the theatrical flair of fighter pilots parking Spitfires, and killed the engines.

Helmets off, kettle on — priorities. Nothing says ‘serious racers’ quite like four middle-aged lunatics in sweaty leathers clutching mugs of tea. The debrief was less science and more comedy: who nearly binned it at Surtees, who forgot to breathe through Graham Hill, and who was still shaking from Paddock like a man who had seen God at the bottom of the hill.

Barely ten minutes later, leathers were zipped back up, bikes swapped, and the whole circus was back on the tarmac. Another ten laps of high-octane heaven, each stint lasting ten to twelve minutes — depending entirely on traffic, bravery, and whether you remembered to inhale between corners.

Over lunch we wandered up to the race office and grabbed the timing sheets, half-expecting a muddle of numbers that meant very little. Instead, it was glaringly obvious: I had set the fastest times of the lot on the MV 500. Stephen was snapping at my heels on the Manx 500, while Johan and Marlin had both wrung some very respectable laps out of the 350s.

The children pounced on the sheets the moment we laid them down. Vera waved them like victory flags, crowing, ‘Mama’s the fastest!’ Nils immediately started drawing up a ‘team order,’ insisting we needed a captain, while Otto and Olivia declared themselves joint crew chiefs and began bickering over who should hold the stopwatch. For them it was as serious as the rugby touchline; for us, it was pure joy to see their pride.

We looked at each other over our sandwiches, grins spreading as the plan more or less wrote itself. No need to complicate things — stick with what worked. The afternoon session confirmed it: the 500s for Stephen and me, the 350s for Johan and Marlin. By the time we packed the bikes away, it felt as though we had finally cracked our little formula, ready to roll into Saturday’s races with at least a vague sense of strategy… and perhaps a touch of smugness.”

“Back at our little tented empire, it was all hands on deck for the tyre change. Wheels came off, bikes went up on stands, and the four of us slipped into that comfortable military rhythm — nobody needed to say much, everyone simply knew what to do. Johan wrestled with the rear of his 350 as if it were a live grenade, Stephen took charge of the torque wrench as though it were a regimental weapon, Marlin quietly double-checked everyone’s work, and I… well, I kept the tea flowing and made sure Johan did not forget which way round the wheel went.

The children, of course, had promoted themselves to full pit crew. Vera had her clipboard out, timing every wheel change as though it were Le Mans. Nils hovered with a pressure gauge, announcing tyre readings like a commentator on the BBC. Otto and Olivia dashed between awning and caravan carrying tools and rags, muttering about efficiency as if they were running a Formula One team. Their earnestness made the whole scene even funnier — four veterans playing at racers, and four children making sure we played properly.

‘Fastest laps, eh?’ Stephen said with a grin, leaning on the spanner. ‘I only let you win because you’d sulk otherwise.’

‘Mm,’ I shot back, ‘keep telling yourself that while you are chasing my tail round Clearways tomorrow.’

Johan muttered something about his visor fogging up at Graham Hill, only to be drowned out by Marlin’s laugh. ‘Face it, love — you and I were born for the 3 50's. Leave the big beasts to these two show-offs.’

As the afternoon wore on, a few of the other competitors wandered over, drawn by the sight of four vintage machines lined up like jewels in a crown. One bloke in battered leathers gave the Manx an appreciative whistle. ‘She’s flying, whoever’s on her. Saw you come round Paddock like you owned it. Respect.’ Another, clutching a mug of tea, nodded toward Marlin and Johan. ‘Nice pace on the 350s. Those little bikes bite if you don’t treat them right — you’re clearly doing something right.’

It was the kind of paddock banter we loved — a mix of cheek, admiration, and genuine goodwill. Everyone knew tomorrow the flag would drop and we would be rivals, but for now it was just grease under the nails, stopwatch timings from our junior pit crew, and the comforting knowledge that we were all as daft as each other.”

“Race morning dawned clear and sharp, the sort of crisp Kent air that promised a good day’s racing. Down in our little paddock set-up, the bikes gleamed in their bays, tyres already swapped the night before. Now it was just a matter of final checks — chain tension, cables, oil, fuel taps, and the all-important tyre pressures. Johan crouched with the gauge, tongue poking out in concentration, while Stephen hovered like an expectant father.

‘Half a pound too high,’ Johan muttered, letting a hiss of air escape.

‘Or half a pound perfect,’ Stephen countered.

Half a pound could mean half a second,’ Johan shot back.

Marlin, ever the calm one, gave her 3 50 a gentle pat on the tank. ‘Ignore them. You and I know what we’re doing.’

With the spanners finally put down and the brew mugs drained, it was time. The tannoy crackled over the paddock: “CRMC warm-up — 3 50cc group to assembly, please.”

Johan and Marlin zipped up, helmets in hand, and wheeled the two 3 50s out across the tarmac. Engines coughed, then settled into that unmistakable crackle of classic singles. The smell of Castrol R hung thick in the air as they rolled off toward pit lane, Stephen and I giving mock-serious pit-crew waves.

Twenty minutes later, the call came for the 500s. Stephen and I mounted up, engines barking into life with a deeper, throatier snarl that turned heads all down the paddock. Side by side, we nudged into the queue, the bikes vibrating with pent-up energy.

It was warm-ups first — just half a dozen laps to loosen the nerves, feel the track, and check everything was running sweet. Even so, every twist of the throttle carried that delicious edge of adrenaline.

Then the tannoy barked again, sharp and final: “CRMC — 3 50cc race one to assembly, please.” The day had truly begun.”

“Johan and Marlin wheeled their bikes forward, the two 3 50s snorting and rattling like impatient stallions. Thanks to their times from Friday’s open sessions, both had earned excellent grid slots — second row, practically sniffing the tailpipes of the front runners. Not bad for four riders who, only a week earlier, were still shaking Kosovo dust from their boots.

As they pushed out onto the tarmac, the mood shifted. The banter quietened, the joking faded. Helmets went on, visors snapped shut. Johan leaned forward, hands on the clip-ons, eyes fixed ahead like a man about to face a firing squad — except he looked more excited than afraid. Marlin, calm as ever, gave him a little wink through her visor before settling into her crouch, utterly at ease.

Engines roared into life all down the grid, the combined sound a living thunder that rattled through your chest. The smell of hot oil, fuel, and Castrol R drifted thick in the air, sweet and sharp. Marshals in orange waved them into position, rows forming neatly — front row, second row, third row — a tapestry of classic leathers and polished fairings shimmering in the sunlight.

Johan flicked his visor down, gave the throttle a couple of sharp blips. The 3 50 barked back, eager. Marlin rolled hers into position beside him, steady, collected, as though she had ice running through her veins.

One board up. Thirty seconds.

The noise built. Everyone revved harder, clutches biting. Johan glanced once at Marlin — she nodded. This was it.

Five seconds. Board down.

Engines screamed. The lights glowed red.

“The grid was formed, engines snarling like a swarm of angry hornets straining at the leash. Johan and Marlin had earned strong starting slots thanks to their pace in practice — mid-front rows, with clean sight down to Paddock Hill. Eight laps: short, sharp, and unforgiving. No time for mistakes.

The flag dropped and, in an instant, the Manx and the MV screamed off the line. Johan launched cleanly, front wheel twitching as he held his nerve into Paddock, while Marlin, ever smooth, threaded through the chaos like a needle through cloth.

Lap one was all elbows and noise. Paddock swallowed a backmarker, Druids became a scrum, and at Graham Hill knees were down on sliders, sparks kissing the tarmac. Marlin clipped past a Norton on Cooper Straight; Johan dived late on the brakes at Surtees. Both settled into a rhythm — controlled aggression, eyes locked on the leaders.

By lap three, Johan had carved up to fourth, the 3 50 singing at the red line as he forced his way through Clearways. Marlin was not far behind, chasing him down with quiet determination, passing another rider out of Druids with the kind of precision that made the marshals nudge each other in appreciation.

Half distance, and the pair were flying. Johan latched onto the third-place man, shadowing his lines, waiting for a mistake. It came at Paddock on lap five — the rider drifted wide, and Johan pounced, sliding through with millimetres to spare. Marlin, inspired, found her own chance a lap later, slipping under another Manx at Graham Hill with a move so clean it looked rehearsed.

Lap seven — penultimate lap — and Johan was hounding the leaders now, his tyres squealing protest as he tried everything to close the gap. Marlin was still surging, now firmly in the top five, her focus absolute. The crowd at Druids leaned over the fencing, cheering the dicing, caught up in the theatre of it all.

The final lap — boards out, adrenaline peaking. Johan gave it everything through Clearways, the 3 50 rattling beneath him as he tucked low, the chequered flag waving just beyond Clark Curve. He crossed in a storming third, fist pumping before he even hit the braking zone. Seconds later, Marlin flew over the line in fifth, helmet tilting as though she were grinning ear to ear.

They coasted back to the paddock, hearts pounding, sweat stinging, but buzzing with the realisation: they had not merely survived their first race — they had belonged out there.”

“Johan peeled off into Parc Fermé, still buzzing, the marshals waving him into line with the top three. He swung a leg over and stood beside the Manx, helmet off, hair plastered with sweat but eyes alight. He gave the bike a fond pat as if it were a faithful hound that had just earned its keep.

Marlin rolled in behind him, not quite in the enclosure but close enough, visor up, cheeks flushed. She leaned across as Johan grinned through the fence. ‘Third place, love. Not bad for an old soldier,’ he teased, still breathless.

Back at the paddock our so-called pit crew erupted. Vera charged forward, timing sheets flapping like victory flags. Nils was already shouting split times, as if Johan could hear him over the racket. Otto and Olivia darted in to help wheel Marlin’s bike back, both of them beaming with pride, grease-streaked hands gripping the bars like they were part of the team — which, of course, they were.

Stephen, never one to miss a moment, folded his arms and smirked. ‘Bloody show-offs, the pair of you. Some of us still have to make the 500s look good, you know.’

Marlin pulled off her gloves and gave him a mock curtsey. ‘Well, do try not to embarrass yourself, darling.’

Johan laughed from behind the barrier, still waiting for his official release. ‘You’ll hear me from Druids if he does!’

The children swarmed their mother, chattering all at once, while Stephen and I zipped up, helmets in hand, ready for our turn. As the tannoy crackled to life again — ‘CRMC 500cc Race One to assembly, please’ — I felt the familiar flutter in my stomach. Pride for them, nerves for us, and that giddy sense that the day was only just beginning.”

“The 500cc grid was stacked with big names and big egos — the sort of riders who had been racing these classics since the rest of us were still polishing boots. I sat second on the grid, calm but coiled, the MV ticking over beneath me like a predator waiting to spring. Stephen was a couple of slots back on the Manx, visor down, eyes locked on the lights. Eight laps. No room for hesitation.

The flag dropped and the track erupted. My start was perfect: clean clutch, hard drive, straight into second as the pack thundered into Paddock Hill. Behind me, Stephen fought elbows in the midfield, muscling through Clearways and clinging to the leaders’ tailpipes as they powered down the Brabham Straight.

By lap two I was already pressuring the leader, showing a wheel into Druids, feinting at Surtees. Stephen had forced his way to fifth, braking impossibly late into Graham Hill, the Manx howling in protest but holding line.

Half distance. Lap four. I made my move — a clean, decisive pass through Clearways, pinning the throttle and using every ounce of the MV grunt down the straight. The crowd roared as I crossed the line in the lead, head low, driving on. Stephen, charging hard, picked off another rider into Paddock, then another on Cooper Straight, slotting into third with two laps to go.

The leaders fought tooth and nail on the penultimate lap — me holding my line, my rival trying everything to break my rhythm. Stephen, a few bike lengths back, rode like a man possessed, desperate to catch us before the flag.

Final lap. The track was alive with noise and tension. Every apex mattered: slow in, fast out at Druids, knee down at Graham Hill, full commitment through Surtees. Stephen shadowed, refusing to let go. Clearways, then Clark Curve. I tucked in, the chequered flag waving me home. Victory. Stephen stormed over seconds later in third, fist punching the air as we coasted into the cool-down lap, side by side, helmets nodding in shared triumph.

In that moment it was not Kosovo, not the Army, not even the years behind us. It was just the two of us — husband and wife, racers, friends and flying free.”

“Back in the paddock, the atmosphere was electric. The so-called ‘big boys’ — seasoned riders with the swagger to match — wandered over, eyeing us with a mixture of respect and disbelief. One of them, still red-faced from the effort, muttered, ‘Where the hell did you lot come from?’

I peeled off my gloves and shrugged with a smile. ‘Oh, we just do this for a bit of fun.’

The silence that followed was priceless. You could see the colour rise in their cheeks, a cocktail of bruised pride and grudging admiration. Stephen, ever the peacemaker, chuckled and added, ‘Not bad for amateurs, eh?’

The others grumbled something non-committal and stalked off, leaving the four of us laughing over mugs of tea like schoolchildren who had just got away with something outrageous.

That evening, down in our little encampment by the Hailwood Café, the air still hummed with the afterglow of racing fuel and victory. The tents were open wide, bikes lined up like prized stallions after a day’s gallop, and the kettle was working overtime.

Marlin plonked herself onto a folding chair, still buzzing from her 3 50 ride. ‘You should have seen their faces,’ she said, grinning wickedly. ‘Proper thunderclouds, like someone had nicked their pint.’

Johan chuckled, tightening a strap on his leathers before peeling them off properly. ‘Aye, they did not like being shown up by a pair of weekend warriors. Especially not by a woman on a MV’

‘Correction,’ Stephen chipped in, mug of tea in hand, ‘a woman who won on a MV. And her partner who nicked third on an Manx.’ He raised his cup toward me with a cheeky bow.

I waved it off with a smile. ‘We were not teaching lessons. Just… reminding them it is not all about experience and big talk. Sometimes it is simply about enjoying the ride.’”

The children, of course, turned the whole evening into a prize-giving ceremony. Vera solemnly plonked a paper plate on my head as a laurel crown and declared, ‘Mama — Queen of Brands Hatch!’ Nils insisted on reading out the ‘official timings’ he had scribbled in biro, claiming Stephen was quicker through sector two by a tenth. Stephen puffed his chest at that until Vera reminded him it was my name at the top of the sheet.

Otto and Olivia provided their own running commentary, re-enacting the race with spoons for microphones and awarding biscuits as trophies. By the time they had finished, Johan had been presented with a chocolate digestive for ‘best overtake at Druids’, Marlin with a custard cream for ‘smoothest line through Surtees’, Stephen with a ginger nut for ‘most dramatic face at Graham Hill’, and me with the last bourbon for ‘winning outright, of course.’

The lot of us dissolved into laughter, mugs clinking, plates of sandwiches vanishing, and the children basking in their roles as pit-crew-turned-commentators. For once, the world beyond the paddock did not intrude. It was just family, friends, and the kind of merry nonsense that makes triumph taste even sweeter.”