Cretin Love Trap

On the rare occasion the Cretin can't get a date he can always rely on the ol' trusty stoppie to cutoff maneuver to trap his prey.

Admiral Ackbar would approve.

Keep it Cretin

The Cretin has downsized his ride, but is still keeping it hooligan

Weird-O's | Hand Book

Look, we never said we wrote the book on the monster helmet thing but we're doing our best to keep the dream alive.

You really do not want to see the other nine steps of this twelve step program

Old School Cretin

Heel to groin with complete extension - that's why the belt is black, son. 

You'd better come with your 'A' game when you're in the Cretin's dojo 

The Speed Cretin's Bonneville

As the dark rain engulfed Portland, all but the most hardcore of the Icon staff switched over to their four wheeled commuters. Of course the Speed Cretin is no different. His Bonneville is just the ticket for dicing it up on the 405 bridge during the morning melee. 

The Speed Cretin's Early Days

Straight from Thad, our graphic master's Trapper Keeper - note the nipple rosettes and the decayed teeth - the work of a true artisan

The Nick & Ernie Show

A few days ago we let the world know that Nick Apex  and Ernie Vigil were now officially part of the Icon team. What you may not know if that both Nick and Ernie have been working for Icon for quite some time. We've documented some of their labors to give you a full picture of the glamour involved in being part of the Icon team. Enjoy.

The Icon staff bikes sustain a fair amount of damage from our belligerent riding style. Here Nick installs some new Hotbodies plastics while Ernie provides his 'pinchers of doom'.

Nick puts his CDL to good use moving pallets around the Icon superstore while Ernie gazes longingly at Nick's fly kicks.

Nick determined to accurately crosscut a 2x4 whilst Ernie throws down some blue steel.

After a hard morning of work Nick and Ernie take a well deserved break. They prefer cheap donuts and a vaporized mixture of Coke and maple syrup. In volume it's far cheaper than energy drinks. Besides their wicked riding skills, Nick & Ernie can eat super fast. 

Nick enjoys another cheap creme filled. Ah...sweet dough of life. Behind him is the Icon computer server. It's an older model but it gets the job done.

 If we could only package Ernie's smile and put a price on it...

Ernie taking one of the Icon warehouse toys out for a hot lap during some down time. The Cretin is as the Cretin does.

FSB Testing

Continuing hydrodynamic testing last week during the IJSBA World Jetski Finals in Lake Havasu, The Cretin’s minion reports “The horns survived and flourished in the heat/sun/coconut oiled breast filled environment with great success”  We’re not exactly sure what “great success” is, but he may want to get some antibiotics for that…

Concept and Execution

There is a method to our madness.

Bikes of Icon - The Speed Cretin

When it comes to custom bike building there is always a price to be paid. Most bike builds cost loads of money. Almost all extort countless hours of time. And some, such as the Speed Cretin, can nearly cost you a marriage. Or two. To understand the sordid history of the Cretin one must travel back in time to 1984.

The Cretin originally came into the Icon family in '84- indeed when Icon was only a glint in Part's eye. Found for sale on the side of a lonely Oregon highway it was an ill-considered impulse buy - but a deal that was to good to walk away from. By way of the neighbor's borrowed pickup truck, the TT was proudly shuttled home to display to the loving wife. Alas she was not nearly as impressed with the purchase. Apparently the clipping of coupons and skimping on named brand peanut butter was not meant to free up capital for roadside Yamaha thumper acquisitions. But in time, the true genius of the purchase would be revealed and harmony would once again returned to the household. For this was a bike that would change things, this was the bike that would simultaneously open doors while shutting down the competition. For years the Cretin would rule the dark shadowy world of Tillamook Burns. But with all things that spend too many weekends in the deep woods - time would exact a heavy toll. Pegs broke, kickstarters stripped, and wheels bent. Sumps would crack and cheap 30 weight would soil the soil. And then one day, without warning there would be a new girl. All plastic and shiny. The other men called her an XR400 but the TT new what she really was - whore! And so it came to pass that the TT would take the dreaded ride to the shed out back. There she would sit amidst the broken mowers and boxes of dusty Transformers . Waiting. Plotting.

The Speed Cretin's second attempt at home wrecking came in the Fall of 2008. Her makeover was going to be a quick two-week affair. Just some small tweaks to give her a new life as a cheap old-school street legal motard - a far better life than she was living since her unceremonious retirement. Not a major build - new tires, new seat, new VIN numbers, and maybe a fresh coat of Krylon. But as with many good intentions, the Speed Cretin gleefully paved a road to hell. First the stock front end, with its pathetic front drum, had to go. Spools and mini-drums are applicable items for dirt ovals and fire roads, but the first stop light you accidently blow through can quickly change your perspective on the need for 'cool' at the front hub. Of course changing the front end almost always requires a redo of the rear, vanity demands it. So numerous swingarms were acquired and test fit into the stock TT frame. The YZ490 arm, with its aluminum construction and monoshock mount proved to be the perfect match - once it was flipped upside down. A rear shock was cannibalized from Icon's stash of derelict donor bikes and welded into the frame. And it went on like this for months, get miscellaneous part, fit miscellanous part, chop miscellaneous part, weld miscellaneous part, ad nauseam. So long did this process take that aforementioned wife, whilst holding screaming newborn child, began to question the necessity, nay the very sanity of this build. "Why?" she would ask repeatedly upon viewing the Cretin build. "It won't be very fast you know", the blasphemous words rolled off her tongue. "Is that the real seat - it doesn't look very comfortable" quickly followed by "Are you sure it's safe - you aren't a very good welder". The verbal blows rained down threatening to extinguish what little flame was left in the soul of this Icon build. The Cretin, sensing its very existence was in jeopardy, fired on the first kick. As if to say "I am the Cretin of your dreams, and I will gladly shuttle you into a new dawn of motorcycling". So we girded our loins, strapped on our hot shoe, and prepared for the inaugural run. The test ride went amazingly well. Save for the catastrophic failure of the rear wheel, which was reverse mounted to eliminate the need for a cush drive. And of course there was the nervous slapping of the handlebars caused by our overzealous shopping cart of a rake angle. It would appear that everything we touched on this build turned out a bit wonky. Luckily we outsourced the painting, so the tins came back beautiful which makes up for the aforementioned transgressions. And then it ended. The Speed Cretin was done. Divorce averted - accolades received - history made.

Speed Cretin VS. The Wall of Death

You've read the history, heard the legend, now watch the Cretin conquer the Wall of Death.

The Saga Continues

The sound of creaking wood and squealing nails pryed by an overzealous crowbar echoed off the cramped walls of a shipping crate. Re-born onto the world, coated with a crust of grease, sawdust, and rat sh*t.  30 years in that hole would be enough to kill anyone, and Henry had lost control long ago. The alter persona of The Cretin had firmly grasped lucidity. As the box was opened, The Cretin could hear the voice of his would be rider…”awwoh schweet, I bet we’ll get ‘r runnin in noo time, eh?” You see the bike was never shipped anywhere.  F*cking JR’s estate had been in arbitration amongst his children until his daughter finally hung herself in the barn last month…near The Cretin’s stall. Unsuspecting Canadians purchased the entire estate at auction and were busy ‘sprucing it up a bit eh’ when they found the box containing The Cretin. New grips were fitted, tubes patched, and the headlight got a new bulb, parts seemed to be drawn by magnet to the now prized TT.  Metal wasn’t the only thing drawn to the bike.  Albert, the degenerate 27-year-old son of the family had taken a liking to The Cretin. Since his release from prison for meth smuggling, horse molestation, and syrup counterfeiting, he’d been a bit lost in life, struggling to find a persona, a direction. This is what The Cretin had been waiting for.  With a sawed off muffler and a dry rotted front tire, Albert rode off on The Cretin, away from the farm, down the highway and into the night. 

After the gas ran out, Albert walked for a few miles to the next station, but when he returned, his bike was gone. The Cretin had found another rider. For the next 5 years The Cretin would do the same, relentlessly, vainly attempting to silence the demons that had developed over the last 30 years in that shipping box. One after another, local teenagers, mid life crisis prone 40 year olds, even drunken bar sluts were glamored by The Cretin, he craved the rev limiter, he needed the affirming scrape of pegs and bars grinding concrete. It was never enough, he wouldn’t stop until he hit bottom. And bottom he hit. CraigsList. Sold to the Slabtown garage team for the princely sum of $400 and a used motorhead. Even in the relative comfort of the Slabtown garage, The Cretin’s influence lurked, and soon he would reach his true physical iteration.  A retro, neo-mod-chopfighter-supermotard with a sissy bar.  The Cretin finally felt comfortable in his own skin and began to flaunt his influence. “A helmet” he hissed, “a special helmet, with horns” he whispered, “horns and sonar, and a big f*cking tongue” his exhaust rattled out.  It was undeniable, The Cretin had taken over, there was no stopping, only satisfaction. After his helmet was created, a new plan arose, a coup de gras, a death blow to end the suffering of this wounded creature before modeling would take over for his riding duties. A bit of irrational fun to be sure that there were no moments of fleeting regret in his elderly years. The Wall of Death would be the only appropriate destination. With almost the same lurid past as the Cretin himself, the WOD, would be the bastion of fate for the final ride of the Cretin. Special fittings were attached to capture the moment on film, but no mechanical preparations were made, he wanted to go in raw-dog. Flying around the wall at 500 mph, his rider, a new one that day, was polluted by the Cretin’s will. 

Speed Cretin

A horizontal act of faith, riding the ‘Wall of Death’ is not for the faint of heart. Ridden by motorcycling’s forgotten heros, the Wall asks for nothing, yet takes everything. Enter the Speed Cretin - a creature of the wheel and a rider on the storm. Pinned to the vertical wood slats by intense gravitational forces and the crowds adoring roar - the Speed Cretin performs his jester’s role in life’s grand illusion. Whether your personal ‘Wall of Death’ is an off-camber left-hander or the I-5 corridor, throw on a fully finned Alliance SSR Speed Cretin and matching Sub Dermal gloves and understand the passions of the Cretin. Live Cretin, Ride Cretin, Be Cretin.

Birth of the Cretin

Before the crack of dawn on a frosty January morning, Farmer Jon Roberts shot his rooster and went back to bed. The fencelines could wait. 40 years he’d been checking his fences; walking, horseback, tractor, he even rode a bull once, but no more. Tomorrow, FJR would be picking up his new fenceline rig, a brand new 1976 TT500. He’d already decided to name it Henry. On an overcast Tuesday afternoon Henry greeted his new owner with a surprise doc fee, an open petcock, and a large puddle of leaded 87 octane on the ground. Henry it seemed, was gonna be a handful. A recently slaughtered cow had left a vacant stall in the dairy barn, this would serve as Henry's new home.

At first it was fun, early morning jaunts around FJR’s large parcel and afternoons rounding up wayward calves. But after a couple hundred miles of farm trails, cow sh*t, and clutch abuse, Henry’d had enough. "Life," Henry thought morosely, "shouldn't just be about work." Where were the drunken fire road TT's, the weekend trips up north, and -dammit- where were all the women? With each passing day Henry grew more resentful. "This will never do" Henry muttered to himself, "I was built for reckless abandon, not dirt farming grunt work." Thankfully, FJR’s whiskey lust was no secret. With a quick slip of the clutch – to lowside drift - to award winning highside - to electrified barbwire mankiller - it was all over. FJR was dead and Henry had his freedom. But Henry was a shortsighted son-of-a-bitch with big torque and a bigger temper, the implications of his actions were never considered.