The love of cars can bring us together. The Hub subscriber, Jonathan Bedford, sent us this story of how his love for his Triumph turned into a triumphant love!
She was French when we first met and though she was to become my wife, she didn’t see me at all. I was the only person in sight sitting just a few feet away, but I was invisible to her. All she saw were my immediate surroundings and that probably had quite a lot to do with her eventually marrying me. For those immediate surroundings were the soft-topped maroon Triumph Vitesse that I pulled up in. In particular my wire wheels and walnut dash.
“Nice motor mate.” A vision in denim shorts and oil-smeared white t-shirt, she appeared from the depths of a lock-up behind a terraced row in south east London. Even when she spoke, her eyes were only for my car.
She was there because of her trunnions. She’d tried to replace them on her soft-topped maroon Triumph Herald and failed. She hadn’t any money and had done a dubious deal with the garage that involved paperwork, supplying beverages and cleaning a flat.
I could see her Herald amidst a huddle of Triumphs. The colour was an exact match. Her single headlights seemed to flutter at my doubles. There was no way I could resist even if I’d wanted to.
My Vitesse had been out of action for far, far too long and I was soon informed that the chassis was no longer fit for service. Like the love of my life, I was mechanically challenged and strapped for cash. The end beckoned.
Miss French made a derisory offer for the wire wheels and walnut dash. The garage made an even more derisory offer for the rest. I accepted the latter when ready cash was flashed before my eyes. I accepted the former on the promise of a date.
She never paid me the money she owed and I was visibly reminded of her dodgy dealing every time I sat in her passenger seat. She’d got a nicer motor. And I’d got a mate.