Race Day at Brands Hatch | Team Parallel Mayhem’s Unstoppable One–Two Win | Military Life Meets Motorbike Madness

Race day at Brands Hatch — nothing compares to it. The roar of two-stroke engines, the smell of bacon rolls from the Hailwood Café, and Paddock Hill waiting to test every nerve. In this episode of The Parallel Four, join Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin — real-life veterans, riders, and lifelong friends — as they take their legendary RG500s to victory.

From the adrenaline-fueled chaos of the Indy circuit to the laughter and banter back in the paddock, this story captures everything we love about classic racing, military teamwork, and unbreakable friendship. It’s a celebration of skill, courage, and the kind of grit you only learn from years in uniform and on the road.

Expect:
🏍 Explosive on-track action at Brands Hatch
🎖 Military camaraderie and humour forged in service
☕ Bacon rolls, banter, and behind-the-scenes mayhem
🌍 Real-life adventure from bases to race circuits

If you love true military stories, motorbike racing, and a life lived full throttle, hit play and ride with us. Subscribe for more episodes of The Parallel Four — where real veterans, real friendship, and real chaos come roaring to life.

Transcript

Race day at Brands. Nothing quite like it—the smell of bacon rolls drifting from the Hailwood Café, the echo of engines bouncing off the trees, and Paddock Hill looming like a cliff face waiting to swallow you whole. Rivals gave us tight nods as we wheeled the RGs to the rollers—no banter now, just wary glances.

Engines screamed to life, smoke pouring like a battlefield. The grid marshal waved us forward, lining us up for the Indy circuit: Paddock, Druids, Graham Hill Bend, Surtees, Clearways—then hang on for dear life back onto the straight. I glanced sideways at Stephen, visor down. He gave me that grin that said: let’s cause some trouble.

Flag up.

Flag down—detonation.

The RGs launched like missiles, front wheels twitching skyward as we tore into Paddock Hill. The drop was brutal, suspension howling, the bikes bucking as we hit the compression. Rivals fell away behind—we could hear them straining, but the RGs were already screaming clear.

Up to Druids, hard on the brakes, elbows out. The RG snarled but held its line as I tipped in, throttle pinned on exit. Down through Graham Hill Bend, tyres scrabbling, then hammering towards Surtees. Beside me—always there—Stephen’s RG shrieked, chasing corner for corner.

Clearways was chaos. Bikes bunched up, riders twitching, lines colliding. But the RGs? They carved straight through—savage, precise, unstoppable. Lap by lap the field thinned; fewer engines at our backs, fewer shadows darting at the edge of vision.

Final lap. Paddock Hill, Druids, Graham Hill—the track was ours now. Every corner flowed, every throttle crack was perfect. Out of Clearways, Stephen and I burst onto the straight side by side, front wheels dancing, banshees screaming toward the flag.

Chequered flag. One–two. Team Parallel Mayhem had just blown Brands apart.

Back in the paddock came silence first—then laughter, banter, disbelief. “One–two? On those beasts? Bloody madness.” Rival faces showed it all: horror, envy, grudging respect. The apple cart wasn’t just upset—it was splinters at the bottom of Paddock Hill.

After the chequered flag it was straight to parc fermé, the marshals waving us into line. The RGs crackled and hissed as they cooled, smoke drifting like incense, while Vinka and I pulled off our lids, hair plastered to our foreheads, grins wider than Druids itself. A marshal handed over the slips—confirmed: one–two. Team Parallel Mayhem on top.

Up on the Brands Hatch podium, it felt surreal. The same wooden steps we’d stood on years ago with the classics, only this time we had the beasts beneath us and the rivals glaring up with folded arms. The trophies gleamed in the sunlight, weighty in our hands. A cheer went up—half genuine, half disbelief.

Then came the champagne. Corks flying, froth everywhere. I sprayed half the bottle at Vinka, who shrieked and fired right back, both of us soaked and laughing while Johan and Marlin clapped from below, shaking their heads like parents watching kids misbehave.

Down in the paddock afterwards the muttering started. “Madness, absolute madness.” “Those RGs shouldn’t even finish, let alone win.” But there was envy in their voices too. Rivals peeked at the bikes under the awning, whispering about gearing, fuel mix, tyres—as if the secret was in the spares boxes, not in the sheer bloody-mindedness it took to ride them.

By Sunday evening, the caravan was hitched, the awning packed, and the bikes loaded tight. Six machines lashed down in the van and trailer, trophies tucked safely in the cupboard, and four very tired but very happy faces slumped into the seats.

As we rolled out past the Hailwood Café, the paddock fading in the mirrors, we couldn’t stop smiling. The classics had done us proud, the RGs had proved their worth, and Team Parallel Mayhem had left Brands with stories that would be retold over endless mugs of tea.

Weekend wrapped. One–two in the books. The apple cart? Upset, overturned, and still rolling down Paddock Hill.

Back at work, the post-leave blues didn’t last long. The tempo shot up straight away—pre-deployment training, refresher courses, and the never-ending churn of Ops and planning meetings. The quiet of Brands Hatch felt a world away.

We’d both slid back into our grooves: Stephen taking over the Training Cell, me retaking the Int Cell. Our first mission was obvious—drag the M poc and Operator Courses out of the past decade and into the present. New scenarios, sharper tools, and enough realism to make the students sweat.

It wasn’t just for show, either. The lads needed a shake-up, something to keep them on their toes. So we threw the book out, rewrote the exercises, and layered in the kind of problems we’d actually faced in theatre. The results were messy, noisy, and brilliant.

And slowly, the Group came alive again. The briefing rooms buzzed with energy, the ops floor hummed like a nest of angry bees, and the only real complaint was that the espresso machine never stopped working overtime. Whether it was the new training or the caffeine, morale was up—and for once, the chaos felt productive.

In between war planning and PowerPoint purgatory, the Sergeants’ Mess decided it was time for a glow-up—specifically, a massive decking area out back. Naturally, someone looked at us—seasoned operators, international advisors, highly trained specialists—and said, “Grab a spade, lads.” So there we were, the four of us, digging footings and shifting dirt like we were back on basic training.

I ran the site like a foreman with a stopwatch—someone had to, or they’d still be arguing over which end of the spade to hold. Marlin turned up in mirrored sunglasses and declared herself “Project Glam”, offering the occasional scoop of dirt before retreating for a latte. Johan and Stephen spent more time debating whose shovel technique was superior than actually moving soil. Still, by the end it looked brilliant—solid, square, and not at all like it had been thrown up by conscripts on a Friday afternoon.

But the real mission came next—we got ourselves roped onto the Christmas Ball and Draw Committee. With fifteen grand to blow on the biggest knees-up of the year, plus another ten for prizes, it was a dangerous amount of power. We played it smart: mountains of decent smaller prizes to keep the peace, then a handful of show-stoppers—weekend spa break, mountain bike, and a rumour-starting mystery box.

The entertainment was just as ambitious. We booked one of the best local bands, a DJ who mixed like his life depended on it, and set about transforming the Mess into a festive wonderland. Fairy lights, draped fabric, even a proper dancefloor. This wasn’t going to be your average regimental shindig. Oh no—this was Team Parallel Mayhem, Christmas edition.

One of the perks of the job was gallivanting around the world to see how other PsyOps outfits did business. First stop: Fort Bragg, North Carolina—home of the formidable 4th Psychological Operations Group. Walking through their compound was like stepping into the military’s answer to a gadget showroom. If it existed, they had it—and if they didn’t, odds were it was being developed behind a very large, very secure door. The Americans wanted for nothing… except, maybe, a proper cup of tea.

Their system was a sight to behold. If you were a planner, you planned. If you were a designer, you designed. If you worked in radio, you sat in a booth and twiddled knobs. Each role neatly siloed, every job done by a different specialist. It looked slick—impressive even—but to our eyes, it felt a little like sending a battalion to change a lightbulb.

We, by contrast, were the Swiss Army knives of PsyOps—lean, nimble, and happy to bodge solutions with whatever was at hand. Planning, design, tactical delivery, target audience analysis—you name it, we covered it. Usually while drinking lukewarm coffee from a jet boil and yelling over the thump of a generator.

The brief itself only lasted forty minutes—slick, sharp, and just about on time. Slides, case studies, a couple of cheeky digs at ourselves. Job done. But then came the Q&A.

Four hours. Four solid hours of questions, counter-questions, and “just one more if you don’t mind.” And that’s where the comedy gold came out. We treated it like open mic night—Stephen with his Cockney humour, Johan with his bone-dry delivery, Marlin playing it straight-faced but savage, and me sprinkling in the Scandinavian bluntness.

One captain asked how we maintained “information dominance in a contested environment.” I told him the secret was three jet boils, a box of instant coffee, and the ability to blag like your life depended on it. He scribbled it down like gospel.

Another wanted to know how we handled “non-cooperative local leaders.” Johan didn’t even blink. “Biscuits,” he said. “Nobody argues with a man holding the last custard cream.” Dead silence from the Americans, while every Brit in the room nearly choked trying not to laugh.

By the third hour, they looked exhausted but still kept asking. Marlin finished one particularly dense question about broadcast frequencies with: “We just turned it off and on again.” They actually applauded.

When it finally wrapped, the colonel in charge called it “the most informative Q&A session in recent memory.” Informative, maybe. Hilarious, definitely. For us, it was proof that sometimes sarcasm and honesty were the sharpest tools in the PsyOps kit.

Still, it wasn’t a wasted trip. Among the sea of specialists and shiny kit, one gem stood out: their “Radio in a Box” system. A self-contained, portable commercial radio station packed into a suitcase. Clever, simple, and exactly the kind of idea we’d carry home. Operation Desert FM to go, as Stephen called it.

Next stop on the grand tour was Sweden. Not a NATO member on paper, but you’d never know it from the way they dive into missions. Their PsyOps lot were based in Karlstad, about 160 miles northeast of Gothenburg—a nostalgic trip for Vinka and Marlin, who’d spent part of their service here. For Johan and me, it was new ground. For them, it was coming home.

We already knew a few of the team from MPOC courses, so it wasn’t stiff handshakes and protocol—it was like catching up with old friends, only this time with uniforms, briefing slides, and endless fika breaks. The visit was gold. We swapped lessons, laughed a lot, and even learned how to survive Swedish winter warfare with something resembling dignity—as long as the coffee pot stayed full.

The girls wasted no time playing tour guides. First evening, they whisked us down memory lane—and into town—to a rustic little restaurant they used to haunt back in the day. The place hadn’t changed: hearty food, good wine, staff who greeted them like family. Judging by the smiles and backslaps, you’d think Vinka and Marlin either owned the joint or had put someone’s kids through uni with their tips.

Back at camp, we were lodged in the Sergeants’ Mess. Cosy, spotless, and furnished in that bulletproof Scandinavian-German style—chairs that could survive a direct hit, tables heavy enough to anchor a boat, and a dining hall that looked ready for schnitzel night at any moment. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked. And after a day of briefings, laughter, and nostalgia, it felt just right.

The Swedes gave us the same forty-minute slot the Yanks had—and we braced ourselves for another marathon Q&A. Only difference? This time the brief was delivered in Swedish. Well, mostly. I chipped in where I could, but it was Vinka and Marlin leading the charge, switching between military jargon and jokes about life in uniform with a fluency that had the room roaring.

For once, the sarcasm didn’t sail overhead—it landed. Every gag, every sly comment about PowerPoint purgatory, every story about the misery of digging trenches in frozen ground got the laughs it deserved. The lads and lasses in Karlstad knew exactly what we meant. They’d lived it too. By the time the slides clicked off, the place felt more like a comedy club than a lecture hall.

And then came the questions. Not the stilted, cautious kind we’d fielded in the States—these were sharp, cheeky, and unfiltered. One young sergeant asked how we kept morale up in Bosnia. Marlin shot back, “Chocolate and gossip.” Whole room erupted. Another asked how to handle stubborn local leaders. Vinka shrugged: “Kaffe först, kompromiss sen.” Coffee first, compromise later. Nods all round.

Four hours flew by in a blur of questions, stories, and laughter. They didn’t just want answers—they wanted the whole truth, warts and all, and they loved the honesty. By the time we finally left, the Swedes had nicknamed us “stand-up psykologisk krigföring”—stand-up PsyOps. We took it as a compliment.

Next stop was Karlsruhe, home of the German PsyOps unit. We already knew a handful of them from M Poc and NATO courses, and even spotted a couple of familiar faces from Kabul. Reunions in this game were always the same: a handshake, a laugh, and then a biscuit that tasted like it had survived the Cold War.

They gave us the grand tour—immaculate offices, kit lined up with military precision, not a cable out of place. Then came the demos, each slicker than the last. The one that stuck with us, though, was the balloon leaflet drop: huge helium balloons lofting containers full of leaflets, programmed to burst at altitude and rain propaganda like confetti. When Stephen asked what happened afterwards, the guide said, absolutely deadpan: “Litter picking.” He nearly inhaled his biscuit. Proof the Germans do have a sense of humour—it just hides until you least expect it.

Then it was our turn to present. Same deal: forty minutes on the schedule. Same result: four hours once the questions got going. Only this time, the Germans approached it with their trademark precision. Questions came in numbered sequence, every one cross-referenced to the slides. We answered each with as much honesty, sarcasm, and story-telling as we dared.

The beauty was that, unlike the Americans, they actually got the humour. When Marlin quipped that the secret to running a PsyOps radio station was, “Don’t let Stephen near the microphone,” they laughed—proper belly laughs, not polite nods. Johan’s line about biscuits as a negotiation tool nearly brought the house down. And when I closed one answer with, “Well, coffee first, compromise later,” they clapped.

By the end, they were still scribbling notes furiously, though whether it was doctrine or punchlines I couldn’t tell. The colonel wrapped it up by declaring it “the most… lively” presentation they’d ever hosted. We’ll take that as German for world class.

From Karlsruhe we zipped across the Alps and down to the Adriatic, landing just outside Ancona to visit our Italian PsyOps friends. These were the lads we’d worked alongside in Iraq—brilliant operators then, even better hosts now. Their unit was still growing, half building site, half HQ, but they had two key ingredients the rest of us envied: budget and an espresso machine worth more than my car.

The schedule was supposed to be simple: two days of swapping best practice, sharing stories, and trading lessons learned. What it turned into was half-seminar, half-family reunion. The Italians were proud as peacocks, delivering some of our old course material back to us—just with more hand gestures and a lot more passion. It was oddly flattering, even if Johan muttered something about déjà vu with subtitles.

Then it was our turn to present. Forty minutes on the timetable, of course. And—of course—it went four hours once the questions kicked off. Only this time it was less Q&A and more group therapy session. The Italians didn’t just ask questions, they debated them, acted them out, gestured wildly, and occasionally dragged us into role-plays we hadn’t agreed to.

Marlin nearly lost it when one officer asked how to win over a hostile mayor, then proceeded to deliver a five-minute soliloquy on municipal corruption in Naples. Johan deadpanned, “Biscuits still work,” and the whole room collapsed. Stephen cracked them up when he explained target audience analysis with three cups of espresso and a bread roll as props. By the end, they were laughing as much as learning.

When it finally wrapped, there were hugs all round, promises of return visits, and an impromptu toast with wine that definitely wasn’t on the official schedule. We left them our updated notes, a lot of in-jokes, and—judging by the size of the hangovers the next morning—a piece of our livers too.

Our final stop was Lille, up in northern France, where we reconnected with JB—now sporting a Major’s crown in the French PIO. Their setup was more boutique than battle station: twenty staff, sharp suits under sharper uniforms, and a flair for style even when talking propaganda. Small team, big enthusiasm.

On paper it was two days of structured exchanges. In reality, it was mostly us handing over hard-earned lessons while the French scribbled notes and looked fabulous doing it. JB was the perfect host—warm, witty, and clearly proud of what they’d built.

When it came to our presentation, we thought we’d be in and out in forty minutes. But you know the drill by now—four hours later, we were still fielding questions. The difference here was that the French didn’t just listen; they interrogated. Every answer sparked another debate, another round of pointed questions, and occasionally a philosophical detour about whether PsyOps was more art than science.

Which suited us fine. Johan and Marlin went full deadpan, Stephen played up the Cockney charm, and I leaned into the Swedish bluntness. When Marlin explained message targeting with the phrase, “Don’t promise wine if you’ve only got water,” they nodded like she’d just quoted Voltaire. By the end, the Q&A felt more like a salon than a seminar.

Evening was the real highlight. JB swept us into a Michelin-starred restaurant where every course looked like a painting and tasted like sin. We rounded it off with a Napoleon brandy so smooth it could’ve been bottled charm. Glasses raised, we toasted friendship, laughed over old campaigns, and agreed on one thing: if France was ever invaded again, it’d only be for the cuisine.