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 its 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.
