Driving in Sweden has to be the most passive experience known to motorised man. I’ve driven all over Europe, experienced road rage in London, lost my stomach on hairpin bends in the Italian Alps and been tailgated on the German autobahn. However, when I stab in and steer in Sweden, my only worries are hitting an over confident deer, being distracted by the view or trying to make sense of the news in Finnish.    

 

The roads here are orderly, well marked and largely traffic free. I remember the first time I saw a Swedish traffic jam; no more than 10 cars waiting calmly and quietly for what was a less than a frustrating 4 minutes. Travelling down the motorway, everyone obeys the speed limit – everyone that is apart from one or two hot heads who travel at 125kph in their ‘safety first’ Volvos.

 

A lack of excitement on real roads has led to Sweden being at the forefront of European Speedway, with fans all over the country desperate to smell burnt rubber and watch leather clad men risk their necks on super charged motorbikes with no brakes, rear suspension or gears.

 

The teams in Sweden’s leagues reflect the basic testosterone/petrol/beer fuelled values of the supporters. The names include: Eldarna (The Flames), Kavaljererna (The Cavaliers), Korparna (The Ravens), Hajarna (The Sharks) and bizarrely, the not very intimidating, Dunungarna (The Nestlings).

 

We were supporting Piraterna – The Pirates of Motala – and, boy, did we ever live up to our pirate reputation. I felt like a buccaneer of old, as Göran picked up Kalle at exactly 16.35 and drove to Borensberg for precisely 17.05 to meet Sören and Anders where we all climbed into a people carrier at 17.10 to arrive at the race track  at 17.45 prompt for the first race at 18.00 on the dot. I admit now, under oath, that I almost messed up the whole chain, by arriving at Göran’s place THREE minutes late. I was met by him hanging out of the window, desperately punching my mobile number into his phone to see where I was. The first lesson for the scourge of the high seas: Punctuality is paramount!

 

If pirate time keeping is important, so are refreshments; Kalle was in charge of the snacks – a cling-wrapped cheese sandwich and a coffee each. Not a ‘YO’, not a ‘HO’, not a ‘bottle of rum’.

 

 

Like wrestling, jumble sales and Lidl, motor sports attract a certain motley assemblage who emerge from nowhere, proudly flaunting their team’s colours with no sense of shame; you can wander the streets of a town for weeks and never come across the crowd that turns up at these things (unless you live in Mjölby). Swedish people are among the most stylish in the world. The vast majority of women and even a large proportion of men in Sweden can be trusted to dress themselves, yet come to Speedway and by comparison real Trailer Park Trash look like Yves Saint Laurent.

 

 

 

“Go Johnny, Go, Go, Go”.

Swig. Smoke. Spit.

“In the eyeeeee……..of the Tiger”.

Swig. Smoke. Spit.

 

 

On either side were his two companions, both of whom personified non-gender specificity, with every attempted signifier of masculinity only serving to confuse. To the right, a man whose body had gone, both literally and metaphorically, pear-shaped; to the left a skinny friend with a mullet and a baby smooth face. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, though, and that’s the important thing.

 

It may have been the dry heat or the musical build up, but the crowd were getting itchy. We wanted action, and finally, we got it. A muck spreader, filled with water doused down the dust, and then, on the back of a flat bed truck, the riders were driven round the arena, waving to the crowd like royalty.

 

The rules of Speedway are quite complex for what is essentially ‘who can do four laps of a circuit the fastest’. As with a number of Swedish sports (Bandy, Ice Hockey, Kubb and Brännboll), it’s best just to nod and smile as the rules are explained.

 

Suddenly, a roar from the left, and like a lion entering the Colosseum, the riders for the first race sped through a gate in the fencing. They revved their engines to full throttle with a wheelie flourish, preparing their bikes for the race ahead. At the start line the bikes growled and grumbled like tethered beasts anxious to be released, then a moment of relative quiet as they took their position. On the referee’s signal, they exploded into life and in a shower of dirt hit speeds of 80mph.

 

At the first corner, the bikes, which have no brakes, skid round side on, barely lessening their speed, mud and dirt from the track flying up over the fence and into the crowd. Even by the fence, on a straight, we were not spared the mud shower and for the first couple of laps, my face was stung by small balls of dirt. I looked at my fellow Pirates to the left and right, and realised why everyone had bought a programme; not to get the match stats, but to protect their faces.

 

The noise and smell is truly exhilarating; the bikes, which run on methanol, leave the odour of engine combustion hanging in the air and the proximity to man and machine belting along at such speeds on such a small track cannot fail to raise the pulse.

 

The evening progressed and I got more and more into it: Piraterna outclassed their opponents, Masarna (meaning ‘The Blokes from Dalarna’), spearheaded by the Australian ‘Flyin’’ Ryan Sullivan. Every round that they won, a guy who looked like he was an out of work roadie set off a single rocket which popped disappointingly in the bright summer sky. By the final round I was also shouting for the team with mouth wide open – although I took care to shut it as the bikes passed to avoid a mouthful of debris.

 

That night, back home, I got my push-bike out of the shed. With the sound of the engines still ringing in my ears, I rode through the clean, silent forest as the long summer evening started its brief affair with darkness, and like a true nature’s child, I was a pirate, born to be wild once more.