When I was about nine or ten I had a friend named Richard who lived a couple doors down from me on Farnham Road. We used to circle around the cul-de-sac on our BMXs talking about Star Wars and practicing weak bunny hops. Richard’s dad would often be out in his garage tooling away at their old estate car, or possibly the hover mower. But every now and again he’d wheel his massive black motorbike onto the driveway. I’d watch him circle the old machine a couple of times, brow furrowed and chin in hand. It looked long past its prime - a relic of older days that had been painted and repainted again in clumsy matte black. Nevertheless, it had a gravity that couldn’t be ignored. “Did you ever race on that thing?” I would ask, knowing full well the answer. He’d nod his head slowly and walk around it a couple more times, stopping to trace his fingers lovingly over the slowly disintegrating fuel tank. “Oh yes,” he’d say.

This is an updated version of the original 2017 font.

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