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When Marion Joffrion was ready to show off the custom chopper he’d just built, he threw a party with just two things on the menu: beer and meat.

Appropriate, considering the primitive emotions triggered deep within the human male psyche by the throaty rumble of a 100-cubic-inch V-twin engine, especially when it’s strapped to a nine-and-a-half-foot-long, 950-pound road monster immaculately detailed and dripping with outlaw cool.

Joffrion, 53, the developer/contractor behind Red Stick Lofts and former Harley-Davidson man, decided to leap into the custom bike world after watching countless episodes of American Chopper on the Discovery Channel. The program features the tattooed gearheads of Orange County Choppers constantly trying to outdo themselves in the creation of ever wickeder two-wheeled fantasy machines. Joffrion had an epiphany.

“To me they look like a bunch of goofballs,” he says. “I figured if they could do it, I could do it.”

Especially with a chopper kit, a fairly recent innovation. It’s a lot of work, though still not quite the same as “chopping” a ‘51 panhead, which Joffrion might have done had he been a member of the Hells Angel in 1969. Custom bike-building has gone places those guys never dreamed of, incidentally.

Joffrion took his time studying kit options on the Internet—two years, in fact—before deciding on a model called The Sled from Big Bear Choppers in California. He ordered it through Deep South Choppers, a Baton Rouge bike builder and one of two Big Bear distributors in the state.

Joffrion waited three months for the kit to arrive—not unusual, says Dennis Mannino of Deep South, given the popularity of Big Bear bikes. He paid $22,000 for the kit and another $4,500 or so for paint work. Buying such a bike pre-built would cost you upwards of $30,000.

When the kit came in, Joffrion had an engine and transmission, wheels and tires, fenders, gas tank, a bunch of labeled plastic bags with nuts, bolts, washers and whatever, and a five-hour DVD explaining how to put it all together. His 22-year-old son Matthew, who helped with the assembly process, says it was like Christmas morning when all the parts arrived. Before assembly, the heavy frame, tank and fenders had to be smoothed, primed and painted. Joffrion entrusted the task to Deep South and graphics wizard Joe Vincent.

The final product is a deep raspberry red with slashes of black “smoke” and an American Indian spear motif. You’ll drown in the finish—it looks that deep—if you’re not already blinded by polished aluminum and chrome. A particularly nice touch is a “spear point” made from half-inch steel and welded to the frame under the tank to fill an unsightly gap in the frame. Even close up it looks for all the world like it was chipped from flint. It’s really just smooth metal, though you have to touch it to make sure—such is Vincent’s talent. Joffrion, who’s mechanically inclined but had never built a bike before, watched the DVD over and over again until it started to make sense. He made a point of not rushing the process.

“I just took my time,” he says. “And I called Deep South Choppers about a zillion times.”

“He asked a ton of questions,” confirms Mannino.

What Joffrion wound up after two solid weeks of grease-monkeying was a machine, christened with beer and meat, that looks like it would take a giant to ride. At 5 feet 6 and 140 pounds, he’s no Paul Bunyan, but the bike’s saddle is low slung compared to a conventional motorcycle and thus works well for non-giants.

“The only problem I had is, because it’s so long, I had to get used to making slow, 90-degree turns,” Joffrion says. “The bike is so long, when you give it gas, it wants to go in the other lane.”

Joffrion doesn’t mind being noticed, which is a good thing, or making a lot of noise. In fact, it’s really fun.

“You can hear this rascal coming,” he says. “Then when you get down on it, it gives you chills. So sweet, the sound.”

Of course, there will always be some people who don’t get it. Those people—you know who you are—are hopeless squares who will never enjoy the therapeutic value of riding. Besides the noisy outlaw thrill of it all, riding brings a certain contentedness, like motorized yoga. Joffrion says it’s as much a stress reliever as being on the beach.

He prefers the short jaunt to the long haul and never touches alcohol when he’s riding—not a drop—because “you have to be 100% all the time on these things,” he says. Because it’s still dangerous, which is probably part of what makes riding a chopper so fun. No air bags, no collision avoidance systems—not even a windscreen. Joffrion is perfectly content with 60 mph on the highway, though he could go faster if wanted—quite a bit faster.

“Oh God, that thing’ll fly,” Joffrion says. “I can get to 60 in second gear, and it’s got six gears on it. I just like to make a lot of racket and then just shut it down and cruise.”

Joffrion has the bug (probably in his teeth) and says he’s ready to build another one as soon as can scrape together the pennies. He wouldn’t mind having a small fleet.

“It’s more of a work of art than a hotrod,” he says. “I can’t wait till I can afford to build another one. Some sort of blue color. Maybe lightning bolts or something.”

Matthew says the chopper seems to have had a positive influence on his dad.

“I’d say he’s a little more relaxed now that he has a little something to take the edge off,” he says.

He’s up for helping build another chopper, though Matthew—who doesn’t ride—doesn’t seem in a hurry to jump on a motorcycle. Especially his father’s bike, even if permission were granted.

“I haven’t even asked,” Matthew says. “I’m terrified of it. I don’t want it to be the first bike that I ride.”