So I got this idea in my head, right? Street fighter motorbike. Sounds cool, doesn’t it? But where do you start? Well, for me, it started with this old clunker. A real piece of work, honestly. Picked it up for next to nothing, which was probably what it was worth. Maybe less.
Most sensible people would’ve run a mile. Or, I dunno, tried to make it shiny and new like it came from the factory. But that’s boring. I wanted something else. Something with a bit of attitude. Something that was all mine, warts and all.
First job was stripping it. Man, that was fun. Pulling off all that plastic crap. Fairings, side panels, the whole lot. Gone. That ridiculous comfy seat? Straight in the bin. And the headlight – big as a dinner plate. Chucked it. It felt good, like I was getting down to the real bike underneath all the fluff.
Stood there looking at it for a while after that. Just a frame, engine, wheels. Wires hanging everywhere like spaghetti. My wife walked into the garage, took one look, and just shook her head. Pretty sure she thought I’d finally lost it. Maybe I had, just a little bit.
Then the real work started. And when I say work, I mean pain and scraped knuckles. The subframe, it was too long, too… polite for what I had in mind. Had to chop it. Taking an angle grinder to your bike’s frame, that’s a moment, let me tell you. Heart in my mouth, proper sweaty palms. Measured it about a hundred times before I even plugged the grinder in. Luckily, the cut was… okay. Good enough, anyway.
Finding parts. That was a whole saga in itself. Needed a new headlight, something small and mean looking. Indicators too – wanted tiny little LED things. Not those giant orange lollipops they stick on at the factory. And a tail light. And a way to stick the number plate on without it looking like an afterthought.
- Scoured eBay like a madman, day and night.
- Visited a few dodgy bike breakers, smelling of old oil and rust.
- Bought some cheap stuff from who-knows-where that barely fit.
- Then spent too much on other bits because the cheap stuff was, well, cheap.
It’s a black hole for time and money, this custom bike stuff. You start thinking you’ll save a buck, then you’re in deep.
And the wiring. Oh, the wiring. Don’t even get me started on that mess. Looked like a damn bird’s nest had exploded in there. Hours. Days, even. Just me, a multimeter that I barely knew how to use, and a growing pile of cut-off connectors. Every time I thought I’d cracked it, something else wouldn’t light up. Pure, unadulterated rage, sometimes. Felt like throwing my tools across the garage more than once. But you gotta push through, eh? Nobody else was gonna do it for me.
Wanted it to look right, too. Not just a jumble of bits. The tank had a few dings from its previous life. Filled ‘em, sanded ‘em. Hours of sanding. My arms ached. Then paint. Decided on matte black. Classic. Sprayed it myself in the garage. Fumes were probably not great for my health. Definitely not a pro job, but it looked tough. That’s what mattered to me.
The seat was tricky. The old one was out, no way it was going back on. Needed something slim, minimalist. Ended up making a base from some sheet metal and getting a thin bit of foam covered. Not exactly a Goldwing, comfort-wise. Your backside knows about it after half an hour. But who cares? It’s not for touring the country, it’s for blasting around town looking like you mean business.
Exhaust. Had to change that, obviously. The stock pipe was quiet as a mouse fart, and twice as ugly. Found this short, stubby thing. Loud. Properly loud. My neighbors, they love me, I’m sure. Woken a few up in the morning, probably. But it sounds like a real bike now, got a proper bark to it.
Then, the big moment. Everything bolted on. Fluids in. Key in. Took a deep breath. Hit the starter. Coughed. Spat. My heart sank. Nearly gave up right there. Hit it again. And then… VAROOOM! It actually bloody ran! The noise! The feeling! Mate, you can’t buy that. Pure relief and a bit of pride, I reckon.
First ride was a bit shaky, not gonna lie. Everything felt different. Lighter. More… direct. A bit raw, definitely. The carbs needed a fettle to match the new pipe, it was running a bit rough. Suspension felt a bit weird with less weight on it. But it was alive. And it was mine. Every nut and bolt, I knew it.
It’s still not perfect. Never will be. It’s got character, that’s what they call it when it’s a bit rough around the edges. Scratches here and there from dropped tools. A weird rattle I still can’t quite find. But when I’m out on it, none of that matters. It’s just me and this machine I pieced together with my own two hands. That’s the whole point of a street fighter, isn’t it? Stripped back, no bull, just the essentials. And a whole lot of attitude. Built, not bought. That’s the best part, knowing you made it yourself.
