Wouldn’t you like to expose your newer readers to some of your earlier posts that they might never have seen? Or remind your long term followers of posts that they might not remember? Each Friday I will publish a post I wrote on this exact date in a previous year.
How about you? Why don’t you reach back into your own archives and highlight a post that you wrote on this very date in a previous year? You can repost your Friday Flashback post on your blog and pingback to this post. Or you can just write a comment below with a link to the post you selected.
If you’ve been blogging for less than a year, go ahead and choose a post that you previously published on this day (the 11th) of any month within the past year and link to that post in a comment.
This was originally posted on June 11, 2017 and it was the first WordPress daily prompts I participated in since I started this blog a few weeks earlier.
Prior to today, I hadn’t participated in a WordPress prompt. But when I saw today’s Daily Prompt: Triumph, I was reminded of a love affair I used to have in my youth with British roadsters. And so I thought I’d give the Daily Prompt a go.
I owned, at one time or another, a Sunbeam Alpine, Austin Healey 3000, MG Midget, and Jaguar XK150. And, of course, a Triumph Spitfire, like the one pictured above.
British roadsters in the 60s were notoriously unreliable. Yet I kept buying them over and over despite their poor quality and workmanship. Because when they ran, they were were so much fun to drive. There was just something sexy and exotic about driving around in a British roadster with the top down and the wind blowing through my hair, at least when they were in running condition — and when I still had hair.
That said, of all the British roadsters I owned during my decade-long British roadster phase, the biggest POS was the Triumph Spitfire. It looked great, but as a mode of reliable transportation, it was anything but a triumph.
Whenever the humidity got above 50%, which was more often than not, my Spitfire wouldn’t start. I would have to bring out my jumper cables and persuade one of my neighbors to give me a jump. No amount of time spent at car repair shops specializing in British cars would successfully cure the Triumph’s antipathy toward dampness.
I ultimately had to sell my beautiful but temperamental Spitfire when my frequent tardiness at work resulted in an ultimatum from my boss to either get a more reliable car or find another job.
Alas, keeping my job triumphed over keeping my Triumph.