Growing up in the English countryside, I knew that freedom only really came from a car or a motorcycle. I remember my friend, Geoffrey was given a beaten-up 50cc Yamaha FS1 in a beautiful mixture of red paint and rusty holes, but to us, as we sped around the fields, it was freedom. The wind in our faces as we dodged the cows and flicked up what they left behind. It was messy but there was nothing like it. That was the only motorcycle I ever rode but the feeling never left. Those formative  ...