May 2026
The upside of selling Clifford, my fire-breathing red Triumph Sprint ST 1050, was that I now had a large, echoing, motorcycle shaped void in my garage. It was so empty I swear Gina (my BMW R1200GS, queen of boxer powered brilliance) started getting echo lonely at night. I could practically hear her whisper, “Is… is he coming back?”
Obviously, I couldn’t let Gina suffer such heartbreak. I had a duty, a noble, two wheeled mission, to find her a garage mate. So off I went, scrolling through Facebook Marketplace like it was Tinder for motorcycles, swiping past overpriced monsters, rust buckets, and the occasional scooter (shudder). I tried eBay, Bike Trader, local dealers—you name it. But the stars just weren’t aligning. Right bike, wrong price. Right price, wrong postcode. Right postcode, but a Kawasaki (we don’t talk about that).
I told myself to chill. After all, I wasn’t bike less. I still had Gina, The Bavarian Battle Barge. But then fate did it’s thing.
One quiet evening, I opened Facebook, and there it was. The very first post. Like destiny, algorithmically summoned. A bloke from the Triumph 400 UK Owners Club (yes, I follow way too many bike groups) had just listed his Triumph Speed 400 for sale and it was red, my favorite colour. The same bike I nearly bought before Clifford came along and seduced me with his triple growl and dashboard that looked like a fighter jet’s.
Not only was it the exact bike I’d been ogling months earlier, but it was in Hinckley, home of Triumph HQ! Literally en route to work. I wouldn’t even have to take a detour or pack sandwiches. Oh, and the price? Bang on the money.
A quick message to the seller, a pop over after work, and boom! next thing I know, I’m riding home on a brand new to me Triumph Speed 400. Gina’s garage loneliness is cured, Clifford’s ghost is (mostly) at peace, and my right wrist has found a new reason to twitch.
A few days later
So, Gina the BMW was getting lonely, Clifford the Triumph Sprint ST had ridden off into the sunset, and there was a suspiciously motorcycle shaped dent in my happiness. That’s when he came along.
Enter the new garage mate: a cheeky little rascal by the name of Speedy, the Triumph Speed 400.
He’s red (of course, I’ve got a type), light enough to pick up with one hand (not that I’ve tried… yet), and he looks like someone put a streetfighter on a protein shake and a budget diet. But don’t let the size fool you, this little hooligan is punchy, nimble, and grins like he’s just had three espressos and a wheelie lesson.
First impressions? He’s everything Clifford wasn’t. Easy to handle, flicks through traffic like he’s late for a date, and doesn’t need a 12-point turn to park. He also doesn’t make me feel like I’m riding a jet turbine strapped to a wardrobe. Which, let’s be honest, is a vibe I don’t always need before breakfast.
And the best part? He lives for the twisties. The Speed 400 begs to be thrown into corners, chirps happily in third gear, and has that classic Triumph charm without the “I just rode here from 2011” baggage.
Sure, he’s not perfect, he’s still running in, and the mirrors are more decorative than functional, but he’s got personality, and that’s worth its weight in petrol (especially these days).
Gina’s happy, I’m happy, and now the garage doesn’t echo like a Coldplay ballad. Everyone wins.
Welcome to the fleet, Speedy.
June 2026
Blasting Bacon & B-Roads: A Day Out with Speedy the Triumph
Ah, what better way to spend a day than tearing up the tarmac with Speedy, my ever-enthusiastic Triumph Speed 400—on a grand tour of bacon, bends, and baffled sheep?
We kicked things off with a mandatory fuel stop. No, not for the bike, for me. The Cutting Garden Cafe in Appleby Magna served up a coffee strong enough to reboot a dead sat-nav and a bacon batch so perfect it may have briefly aligned my chakras. With our bellies full (mine with fried pig, Speedy with petrol), we hit the back roads like a pair of caffeinated hooligans.
Through Barton-under-Needwood we went, waving at confused locals as we whooshed past garden centres and tractors, and then on to the glorious B5234, an underappreciated ribbon of joy that dances all the way to Abbots Bromley. If roads had theme music, this one would be playing AC/DC.
We pulled into Uttoxeter for a tactical refuel. Naturally, I was the one guzzling high-octane snacks, while Speedy continued her lifelong impression of a camel, she doesn’t drink petrol so much as she occasionally acknowledges its presence. Once satisfied, we pinned the throttle down the A518, slicing through Weston toward Rugeley and Lichfield. Every time we leaned into a roundabout, Speedy let out a purr that sounded suspiciously like a tiny mechanical tiger who’d just been told she’s a “very good girl.”
We peeled onto the A515 at Lichfield, blurting through Kings Bromley and onto the A513. Passing the National Memorial Arboretum required a delicate balance of “hush-hush” throttle and a dignified exhaust salute. After that, the B5493 was basically a red carpet leading us home. As Speedy sat in the garage clicking her tongue at me, I headed inside to crush a second breakfast. Was it necessary? No. Had I earned it by sitting down for two hours? Absolutely.
Total miles? Who cares. Total fun? Maxed out.
