There are people who say you should never love a machine.

They are wrong.

The love of my life was a Triumph 2000 Mk 2.

She was white, with a black roof, and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of something built to last. Not flashy. Not loud. Just assured. Civilised. British and very 1970s.

My favourite sort of day was simply driving her.

I would think nothing of setting off from Leicester at first light and pointing her nose towards Land’s End, or the Lake District, just because the road was there and the day felt right. No plan beyond the drive itself. No urgency. Just the long ribbon of tarmac unfolding ahead, the engine humming contentedly, the world slipping by at exactly the right pace.

Those journeys were never about the destination. They were about the feeling.

 The sense that, for a few hours at least, life was uncomplicated. The steering wheel in my hands, the road ahead, and the quiet certainty that everything important was already with me.

Selling her was one of the harder things I’ve done.

You tell yourself it’s sensible. Practical. Just a car, after all. But years later, the sadness still catches me unawares. I remember the feel of the seats, the view over the bonnet, the way she settled into a long run as if she’d been waiting for it all week.

One day, I will own another Triumph 2000 Mk 2.

 I know that as surely as I know the sound of her engine. And when I do, she will be lovingly restored. Not over-polished, not turned into something she never was, but brought back to herself. Back to dignity.

There was a time when Triumphs were more than just a car in our family.

My dad had one. Two of my brothers had them. Even my favourite aunt drove a Triumph. We were, without ever formally deciding it, a Triumph family. It was simply understood. Those cars sat on our drives, turned up at family gatherings, and carried us through ordinary days that have since become precious memories.

Perhaps that’s why the affection runs so deep. The Triumph wasn’t just my car. It was part of the landscape of my life. Part of who we were.

Cars like that don’t just move you through space. They move you through time.

And somewhere out there, in a future I haven’t quite reached yet, I know there’s another white Triumph 2000 Mk 2 waiting for me. The roof will be black. The road will be open. And for a while, everything will be exactly as it should be.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026