You get a bike for Christmas or your birthday. Next thing you know off with the chain guard & reflectors, maybe a different seat, cool (dangerous looking) pedals, number plates off. Trade the kid up the street for some neato handle bars or other parts. Then you ride that bitch with your bruised elbows and scraped up knees till the tires are bald and the wheels are warped from jumpin curbs, ditches, cinder blocks with a 2x6 on it and picnic tables. All your corduroys have the right cuffs ripped to shreds from getting hung in the chain & the cops have drug you home at least twice for not looking both ways before riding through a stop sign or shredding the local park.
Fast forward some years and to your significant others chagrin you spend countless hours in a dark ass garage chopping some perfectly good motorbike to bits with dreams of triple digit speed two wide across the country side looking for a place to camp and get away from it all for a minute.
The birth of a Suicide Wheels pilot….