My friend Rich Marin’s May 30th newsletter/Blog post, which you can read here, is about his grade school sales efforts which were focused on winning free trips to summer camp as a kid. It made me think of my own early introduction to sales. When having lunch with my friend and fellow Arizona Commerce Authority EIR Tom Blondi today, we concluded many business person success stories likely featured learning to sell as a key element, even when those careers involved non-sales disciplines. Getting people to do what you want them to do with them thinking it is their idea and preference is important in a great number of endeavors.
Growing up in Fairmont, Minnesota in a family with similar financial hardships to Rich’s, I spent hours thinking of ways to acquire money. I wanted a stereo, a nice shirt, and a motor scooter. With so little money in our family, if I wanted any of these things, it was up to me. My first efforts, mowing lawns during the summer and shoveling snow in the winters, proved difficult. My younger brother Leif was better at it than I was, and so we often got these jobs together and shared the profits. But I was not a good worker. An inability to stay focused on the job could have been the result of a couple of factors — health and ADD. An underlying heart problem would get spotted on a high school physical when I was 15, but this was grade school and there was no explanation for my lack of stick-to-it-ness and stamina other than laziness. As a cub scout, I began getting “Boys Life” magazine. It was there I spotted an ad to become a representative for True Grit magazine. This magazine was sold by over 30,000 children collecting dimes from more than 700,000 American small town homes in the 1950s. An ad in Richie Rich comic books suggested that Richie’s father got his start in business selling True Grit newspapers. Seeing the ad and reading of Richie Rich’s adventures, it was a short leap to imagining myself with incredible wealth, living in an expensive mansion, and having everything money could buy.
Soon I was going door-to-door, signing up subscribers, collecting money, and delivering newspapers every week. It was long work for little pay, but dramatically preferable to shoveling snow. Next, I learned of a company that would pay me to sell greeting cards with a family’s name pre-printed on the cards in gold ink. Compensation was prizes redeemable when certain sales levels were met – a new stereo, a neat belt, model cars, and airplanes, and other products designed to stimulate the imagination of young boys. I was a star! In retrospect, I’m sure our neighbors shrank in horror when they saw me coming up the driveway – “Oh no, what is he going to try and sell us now?” Over time I learned to say things to get people to buy – “I only need one more order to get the big prize,” or “Imagine what your friends and relatives will think when they see your family’s name, handsomely engraved in golden ink at the bottom of this year’s greeting card.” For the most part, I was unaware of the lessons I was learning, except for this one that I learned something about myself: I had to first convince myself the product was great and a good deal before I could sell it. I was never able to generate any enthusiasm for selling something I didn’t personally believe in or feel was a “good deal.”
In high school and college, I found inspiration from motivational creeds by Dale Carnegie, Napoleon Hill, and Zig Zigler, which I’ve written about here. My first commissioned sales position with a good bit of genuine sales training came when I joined Minneapolis-based Schaak Electronics. Dick Schaak had taken over Schaak Electronics when his father died in the early 1970s and built it into a multi-store chain selling audio products. The reprint from the Minneapolis Star Tribune with Dick’s picture and the headline “Double-millionaire at age 34,” inspired me then and I still have it. Towru Nagano, one of Dick’s steadiest lieutenants, was in charge of sales training. While creating little that was original, Nagano pulled together an impressive sales training program, borrowing from the leading sales experts of the day. Unlike some of my contemporaries at Schaak who did not take training seriously, I soaked it all up and was soon winning sales contests right and left. I was named “Rookie of the Year,” and won cash awards and once, even a new motorcycle. Nearing the end of the 1970s, I’d climbed from assistant manager to store manager and eventually to managing several stores. I stuck with Schaak through its 1976 bankruptcy, learning a host of business lessons in the process. I was drafted to help Schaak move beyond audio sales and into selling computers from Apple, Atari, Cromemco, the IBM PC, Ohio Scientific, and others, creating a new group of stores called Digital Den.
While books espousing new sales techniques have never stopped popping onto the market each year (The Psychology of Selling, Strategic Selling, Perfect Selling, Secrets of Closing theSale and Spin Selling), the sales process hasn’t changed much. Most critical is the initial conversation which was called “qualifying” when I learned it. This is the step when you find out from a prospective buyer what it is they want. Good salespeople tend to extend this part of the process, and as it turns out, it is the most important. Done correctly, a prospective buyer will explain what they want to buy, what color and features, what he/she is willing or able to pay, when they want to buy it, and from whom they wish to buy. But it requires the salesperson to shut up and listen, sometimes difficult for extrovert salespeople eager to demonstrate their breadth of knowledge. But, if you’ve done the qualifying step correctly and for long enough, the “sales” part of the process, is easy. It’s just saying “Here is what you want,” and explaining how it meets the needs that were outlined in the prior conversation. If done correctly, the sale is simple, easy, quick, and satisfactory for all involved. Salespeople get bad reputations when they attempt to sell people things they don’t want and don’t need.
Like Rich Marin, over the years I have found this fundamental understanding of the sales process has served me well in many ways. Every job interview was a sales job as was every board meeting. Sales experience taught me more than anything else that listening is critical to every successful interaction. Whether greeting cards, stereos or myself, I succeeded when I listened to what my buyer said.
My earliest memory of Garrison Keillor is a Minnesota Public Radio morning radio show that he created and hosted. It was a mash-up of music, stories, poems, and news, unlike anything else. It kept me company as I showered, brushed my teeth, and then drove the long ride to work in the morning. I always felt Keillor was making things up as he went along, talking to me as if we were friends, albeit a one-sided friendship. This feeling has never gone away. When his morning show ended, it reappeared sometime later as a live Saturday night radio show called “A Prairie Home Companion,” which became more formulaic, professional and better-sounding over the years. A favorite feature of mine was Keillor’s longish monologue referred to as the “News from Lake Wobegon.”
My very good friend, Kevin Brown, retiring after 40 years as a minister with the United Church of Christ, once told me that when asked by seminarians how to deliver a good sermon, he told them to “listen to Garrison Keillor’s News from Lake Wobegon, and do that.” I remained a faithful listener and after I got married, managed to get Maggie to listen, too. We even attended a couple of live shows. When we moved to Los Angeles and later to New York, I found the show on national public radio affiliates. It was like staying in touch with my Minnesota roots. Keillor’s new book is a memoir, “That Time of Year: A Minnesota Life,” and tells the story of his life in remarkable detail and insight and I enjoyed it a great deal.
Keillor is an eloquent craftsman of the English language, with a highly distinctive voice. In the way music fans instantly identify after only a few bars of music a guitar being played by Carlos Santana, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page, or Eddie Van Halen, Keillor’s prose can only be his. I’ve no idea how or why this works, only that it does. The first few lines from the poem beginning his book are so clearly him. I tested this on my wife, reading the poem out loud to her and then asking, “Any idea who wrote that,” and with hardly any hesitation, she replied, “Garrison Keillor?”
This won’t be an objective review. Listening to his shows, having bought and read several of his books, I almost feel I know Mr. Keillor, that we are friends. I suspect tens of thousands of his listeners feel the same way. We grew up sharing many of the same experiences. I knew he was brought up in a strict, fundamentalist sect of conservative Lutherans called the Plymouth Brethren. I was raised in a similar Minnesota church group called the “Lutheran Brethren” who preached the concept of remaining separate from “the world,” and where the road to heaven forbade drinking, dancing, smoking, going to movies or hanging out with those who did. Sundays began with Sunday school, followed by a church service that seemed to go for hours and sometimes an evening service and potluck supper. Tuesday nights were Bible study, Wednesday choir practice, Fridays were youth night and Saturdays often had events dedicated to missions. No time for bowling, movies, dancing or, God forbid, hanging around the pool hall. Keillor and I both tried playing sandlot baseball. For me, it was never more than 6-8 kids making up both teams and never organized by parents into little leagues with uniforms and coaches. He wasn’t very good and neither was I. Keillor suffered at the hands of the Darwin brother bullies; for me it was the feared Johnson kids, who tortured my brother and me as we walked to and from school, unable to avoid passing their house.
In the book, I learned we shared other experiences. Like me, Keillor had a congenital heart ailment that kept him out of organized sports and resulted in major open-heart surgery (OHS) later in life. Doctors found both of our anomalies during routine football physicals. Like me, Keillor listened to radio shows as a kid. You should read his book to find his favorites, but for me it was the Long Ranger, Gunsmoke, and The Shadow as well as quiz shows with WCCO announcers like Jergen Nash, Charlie Boone, Randy Merriman, and Joyce Lamont, in a family whose first television set came many years after everyone else owned one. I grew up in a small town in Minnesota, Fairmont, which seemed to have a lot in common with Keillor’s fictional Lake Wobegon. I was surprised to learn Keillor’s town wasn’t all that small, Anoka, Minnesota, on the outskirts of Minneapolis. He’d experienced the “big city,” on his own when young. No surprise was we share political views, a suspicion of the hypocrisy and selfishness of republicans, and more comfortable with the foibles and naive hope of democrats. His show introduced me to musicians such as Leo Kottke, Butch Thompson, and Greg Brown of whom I became a lifetime fan. Albums and CDs from them line my shelves and fill the air with music in my home to this day. When musical heroes like Mark Knopfler or the Notting Hillbillies appeared on his show, it was like he was discovering people I already knew.
Schaak Electronics transferred me to the Ridgedale Shopping Center in Minnetonka, where I competed every month with the highest producing Schaak store of all in the Southdale Shopping Center of Edina, Minnesota. Of course, Schaak had a store in the Rosedale shopping center, too. When one of Keillor’s “sponsors,” Bertha’s Kitty Boutiques, had fictional locations in shopping centers named “Clydesdale, Chippendale, Mondale, Airedale and Teasdale,” I felt it was a nod to me as well as to my favorite Aunt Bertha, my mother’s older sister, who founded and ran her own department store in Billings, Montana.
Keillor and I also shared not being particularly good students. He was indifferent to school when my early response was outright rebellion, although I eventually migrated to indifference, the same as him. We both found a love of books early on and spent our school years reading. My dismal school experience and discovery of books are chronicled here. Keillor came across an early call to be a writer, covering local sports teams. Although a couple of teachers took an interest in me and encouraged me when no one else did, I had no clue or idea of any skills I might possess that would allow me to make a living. I loved and admired writers, but what they did seemed far beyond anything I could aspire to. I could no more imagine writing as a career than being a professional baseball or football player. When I began writing articles for trade publications to further my business career it was only possible because I’d married a professional writer, who took my early attempts and fashioned them into something editors would publish. Years later I wrote for a variety of motorcycle magazines. By then I’d learned the rudimentary steps of figuring out the audience for a piece and getting words into print that would satisfy an editor. Keillor and I share admiration for The New Yorker magazine. As the number of my published stories increased, I began reading the New Yorker every week and thinking, “Wow, this is where real writers work.” Soon after becoming a subscriber, I noticed Keillor’s stories in the magazine and was thrilled. It was as if someone in my family had cracked the big time. I was proud of him.
Like me, Keillor graduated college with no marketable skills and thus had to create his own job. The book describes how the Prairie Home Companion came to be, a remarkable feat of a man creating a media conglomerate made up entirely of his own ideas. It is an amazing story. Like Keillor, I left college with no skills and not a clue how to get enough money to pay for an apartment. My college studies had gravitated to classes on religion and philosophy because those classes gave points for participation and oral debate. I was terrible at tests but never shy or afraid to speak up. Theater, too, was fun and I thrived on being in plays. I loved radio and worked at our college station and later the local FM station as an engineer, but my voice was never good enough to get a show. I drove a school bus to pay for my college studies and kept that up afterward. Eventually, I found my niche in sales, getting trained in the art of helping someone spend money on the items my company wished them to buy. Unlike Keillor, no one had told me I had green teeth and I smiled willingly and often. Finally I’d found a game that allowed me to compete and even win, exciting my competitive juices for the first time. I won every sales contest Schaak Electronics conducted, made Rookie of the Year, assistant manager and finally got my own store, learning the basics of how to run a business while motivating others in a common objective. When a big company came along wishing to get into the computer retail business and hired me, they put me on a management track that required formal training. I’d missed in college but now was paid to attend. It was in this new setting that I met my wife and had our first child and found something I could do well, although it wasn’t fun. While rewarding financially, it left me stressed, frustrated, and empty, feelings I suspect Keillor never felt in his career.
In writing his memoir Keillor discovered a clear structure to his life. Where it had felt random at the time, merely reacting to seemingly insignificant and random situations, there was indeed a strong set of pivotal events, adjunct failures in certain areas which closed those paths off, and other accidental events that became crucial. Avoiding sudden death through stupidity, Keillor looks back on key moments as being essential in making us who we are.
Keillor is 78 years old and in this book looks back on the seeming random events making him who he has become. If he didn’t have the optical disorder that causes him to lose focus when looking up in the air, he might have caught the baseball launched high into the air toward his position at first base, gained popularity, and spent his life as a clothing salesman. Instead, he dropped the ball, leading further to his social ostracism which helped make all the difference. If his heart valve issues had not occurred, perhaps he’d now be sore with a body damaged by early sports injuries.
Similar to Keillor, my uncles were carpenters and craftsmen, no doubt looking down on my inability to use tools without the risk of damage to myself or others. My cousins, perhaps observing the heavy toll a life of physical labor had taken on their fathers, also eschewed those careers, choosing banking, medicine, and desk jobs, and to this day I get along better with them than I ever did my uncles.
Keillor and I have both quit smoking and drinking and did it on our own. I stopped smoking a year or so before meeting my wife in the late ’70s and quit drinking in 2016 before my second major open heart surgery. No counseling or therapy, just quit.
I loved reading A Minnesota Life. It told me so much about the life of a man, a celebrity, out of reach but yet, someone with whom I felt close. The point Keillor so eloquently makes in this wonderful memoir is that each of our lives has these seemingly insignificant occurrences, but without them, we’d have become very different people. Those we touch and who touch us, make all the difference. So perhaps, there is a memoir in all of us, and we should get to writing it.
Perhaps what I admire most about Keillor isn’t his writing of which he is justifiably proud. Perfecting words on the page is one thing. Being eloquent and succinct while speaking is something else entirely. Keillor is a master with the spoken word. Conveying stories in a way that makes you think he’s saying something spontaneous, just to you, as if sitting next to him on a train or plane or over a glass of lemonade in the shade of a porch on a hot day, the first time it’s ever been said. This is exceptionally difficult to master and requires a great deal of practice and few understand the difficulty involved. No one else who performs this task does so at the level of Keillor.
When I was working as an engineer at KNXR Radio in Rochester, Minnesota, one of our announcers devoted a portion of his show to interviewing people from the city on projects they were promoting. He would ask them into one of our studios, I’d motion from behind the glass we were rolling, and the interview would begin. Ten to fifteen minutes later, the interview ended and my engineering work started. The first step was deleting the boring and superficial. Then came eliminating all the ums, ahs, hesitations, nervous coughs, and unintelligible sentences from the guest’s speech. Non-professionals sound horribly bad on tape when compared to professional announcers. This left 2-3 minutes of the original interview. The host would then listen to the tape and eliminate another 30-50 percent, and we’d end up with a 60 – 90-second tight, informative interview. I recall being at an event where the president of the local Lion’s club had been interviewed on our station earlier in the week. His friends were telling him how good he sounded. He said something like, “Yeah, I didn’t do too badly.” I recall wishing he could have heard the original tape before we’d fixed him. Keillor mentions in his book his aversion to rehearsal and practice of editing and fine-tuning to the last minute. But the shows were all live, creating a magic that can occur in no other way. Some of Keillor’s most treasured memories are the shows that went on in the face of massive technical or weather-related catastrophes.
I don’t know anyone else with the ability to do this. Joel Gray made a business of doing one-man shows sounding like spontaneous dialog. But in fact, the spontaneous appearing stories were lines in a play, performed almost identically each night. I’ve heard Keillor’s Lutheran-pastors-on-a-pontoon bit several times and each time, I’m halfway through it before I realize “Oh, I’ve “heard this story before.” Even master comedians like Jerry Seinfeld are criticized for doing the same show with the same jokes, year in and year out. Keillor always sounds fresh and new, because it is.
As I read Keillor’s book I could hear him saying the words in my head. No one else can write like that. If you grew up in the Midwest, read this book. If you’ve ever listened to the radio show “A Prairie Home Companion” and liked it, you’ll love this book. If you’ve ever thought, “I should write the story of my life,” you won’t find a better blue print or example on how to do so. Here is where to buy it.
It was in high school when a series of classic motivational literature found its way to me. It was after I’d begun to see there was a path for me to succeed in school. The books told me I wasn’t trapped by my circumstances. They said no one but me could decide how I wanted to think about something, and by controlling my thoughts and attitudes, I could impact my life for the better. The key books I recall reading at least once and several multiple times, were:
Napoleon Hill, “Think and Grow Rich”
Dale Carnegie, “How to Win Friends and Influence People”
Viktor Frankl, “Man’s Search for Meaning”
Norman Vincent Peal, “The Power of Positive Thinking”
“The Magic of Thinking Big” by David Schwartz
I loved these books and believe they did indeed change my life. When Maggie and I met she’d had a brief experience working at a place she referred to as the “Rah-Rah Company.” Apparently, their hyper reliance on “positive news only” over realism, and questionable ethical decisions by their president turned her off and I too began to think these books might be too simplistic. As a result, I switched to books offering more practical advice on management, personal, and business techniques promising ideas that could be immediately implemented. In addition to reading every new top-selling business book on NYT’s bestseller lists, I occasionally dipped into the self-help genre and enjoyed things like the “Seven Effective Habits” book by Steven Covey, Tim Ferriss’s “The 4-Hour Workweek,” and Spencer Johnson’s “Who Moved My Cheese?”
Tony Robbins was a guy who was somewhere in the middle. I read a number of his books and bought some of his training programs and found them helpful, especially the courses which I would tend to repeat over and over in my car on my way to work. But I worried that Robbins may be attracting “groupie-types” or cultish followers who preferred to sit in seminars versus getting things done. It was with ambivalence and suspicion I watched the documentary “Tony Robbins: I Am Not Your Guru.” The documentary, however, changed my opinion of him. Yes, he’s still tall with a huge chin and deep growly voice, but I am now far more positively inclined to what he is doing. The documentary doesn’t sugar coat what he does. But watching this I came to believe if you want to see the positive in this you will, if you chose to see the negative, that is there too. It will depend a great deal on your personal perspective.
Kudos to Robbins’ longevity and the long string of powerful endorsements from credible and well-respected people. I liked Robbins’ approach in the documentary and his willingness to give the film crew nearly unfettered access to him and his staff as they plan and execute one of their events. The Robbins organization appeared to never once try to tell the filmmakers what they should say or not say and made no attempts to stifle criticisms or act defensively. I’m now of the opinion that on balance, he has figured out a way to help people find their path in life and to do it quickly, effectively, and honestly. He’s not perfect, but I have no doubts about his sincerity.
This is a story of my testing the new-for-2021, Yamaha Ténéré 700, an on/off-road motorcycle. But first, here’s a bit of my history with this category of bikes. If you’re lucky, I’ll work a couple of Harley-Davidsons into the story, too. These days I love reviewing a new bike like this without an editor forcing me to focus, limiting me to 2,000 words (or less), keeping me on track, and worst of all, making me get it done before the deadline. By the end of this story, you will have a far greater appreciation and respect for the role of editors than ever before.
When we moved to New York from Los Angeles in the early 1990s, I brought my Suzuki DR350S Dual-sport bike with me from California, a mistake you might think. You’d be wrong.
The Suzuki had turned into one of the best purpose-built machines I’d ever owned. Other than it being the most cold-blooded, hardest-to-start pig in history (of course, kick start only), I loved it. A single-cylinder “thumper,” it had all the nostalgic wonder you can imagine – loads of low-end torque, especially after adding a sprocket with more teeth to the rear. It could pull stumps from the ground. It was rugged, impossible to kill even when pointed nearly straight up a mountain carrying two people. Its overly soft suspension made it wallow when going too fast in corners but otherwise made it hugely comfortable for all-day riding. I found it sublime then, but I was a younger rider. No doubt, if I rode one with today’s bones and muscles, I’d find it horrible.
In California, the bike stayed at Eric Wood’s cabin in Big Bear. From there we rode thousands of miles on logging roads, out into the desert, and all over the mountains. Eric had a Yamaha 350 and I rode my Suzuki. At some point, we also acquired an XL500 Honda dual-sport. It was too heavy and not as much fun, but it sure looked good. When we moved to New York, I had my doubts about where I’d be able to ride the Suzuki. However, someone else was paying our moving expenses so I brought it anyway. The first time I rode into New York City I had my answer. It was perfect! The potholes, cracked and loose asphalt, and generally rotten NYC road conditions made the Suzuki’s long-suspension travel and aggressive tires ideal. Soon I was tearing all over Manhattan, through Brooklyn, Queens, Harlem, and the Bronx, exploring everywhere. Although a bit harder to find, I eventually located a series of off-road trails in Westchester County where we lived. The new Ténéré would be an excellent fit there, too.
After about a year of this, I fell in with some guys where I worked who rode. They owned only street bikes. It didn’t take a genius to see the Suzuki looked decidedly out-of-place amongst their shiny Harley Davidsons. One weekend on a ride with my daughter we stopped at a motorcycle swap meet.
A Franklin Mint model of an HD Heritage Softail caught my eye. It was new, still in the box, remarkably detailed, and not horribly expensive, less than $100. I had a thought. How about floating the idea of buying a new motorcycle to my wife, get the lay of the land on the degree of trouble I’d be in if I seriously broached the subject, and do so with little risk? I brought my daughter, Ginger, in on the plan – well, at least part of it. We bought the model and I instructed her that when we got home she should rush into the house and loudly and excitedly exclaim, “Mom, Dad bought a new Harley Davidson motorcycle when we were out today. It’s brand new, very shiny, and oh, really, really pretty.” But she was NOT to tell her mother it was only a model, but let her think we’d bought a full-size motorcycle. Ginger, always the actor, loved the idea and threw herself into her role. When I got my gear stowed in the garage and came into the house, Maggie looked at me and said, “Well, did you really buy a Harley?” I looked as chagrined and remorseful as I could and said, “I’m sorry, Honey, I should have talked to you first, but they only had this one. It was gorgeous and was on sale,” all technically true.
Expecting the wrath of seven hundred hells, I was relieved when she said, “Well, I’m not surprised. I’ve heard you complaining about how your current bike isn’t entirely compatible with the guys you’re riding with now. Did you trade in the Suzuki or do we now own two motorcycles?” At this point, Ginger and I confessed our ruse and showed her the model of the HD motorcycle. My daughter giggled at the joke, Maggie was relieved and I filed away an important informational tidbit; were I to buy another motorcycle, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. And of course, within six months, there were two Harley-Davidsons in my garage, but let me save that story for a bit. I’d forgotten this model and story until on a ZOOM call in early March of 2021. As I listened to my old British-bike-loving pals go on and on discussing the proper way to kick-start a Norton, I happened to spot a model of an HD motorcycle over the shoulder of one of the Zoom participants, a UK friend, and fellow rider, Jeremy. After the call, I found my model, took photos of it and sent them to Jeremy for comparison. He immediately wrote back confirming they were identical, his being a gift from his father.
Before explaining how I ended up with two Harleys in our New York garage and introducing you to my good friend and colleague Larry Ashkenazi at Prodigy and my best friend in New York, Rob Kost, I better get to the Yamaha Ténéré residing in my current garage. The bike belongs to Alex Moore of Moto Discovery. He has been running a business renting road-legal off-road bikes in Colorado successfully for several years. He also leads tours in and around the western half of the USA and Mexico. Colorado weather forces him to put his rental fleet into hibernation and shutter his touring business for half the year, it occurred to him he could move his operation to Phoenix during those months. The past several weeks I’ve been helping him try this out to see if it will work in Phoenix. In this process, Alex asked if I’d test out his new Ténéré and all the cool kit he’d added to it, and especially take it out and see how it would do on the backroads around the Phoenix area. No need to ask me twice.
While a full 700cc bike with generous torque and loads of power, the bike is narrow, making it feel on the trails as if you’re riding something much smaller and lighter. I suspect it has to do with how narrow the seat and bike are and how quickly it turns into corners. Alex has outfitted it with Oxford heated grips, a god-send when you get into the higher altitudes around here. He’s installed the HDB Ultimate Handguards, a super aggressive protection system for your hands that also reinforces the handlebars while providing convenient spots for adding mounts for things like GPS or smartphones. The bike can be comfortably ridden standing or sitting, and the controls are perfectly located for both. Alex loves the Ténéré because it’s rugged as hell with no complex things like traction control that can go bad and leave you with a hard-to-solve issue way out in the bush. Its only real adjustment is turning the ABS on or off and that’s just one button. It’s more than decent on the street although it would not be my first choice for touring, to put it mildly. The Ténéré is certainly more on the “off-road” side of the scale where, for instance, a Suzuki V-Strom would be almost the opposite, decent on the street, tour capable and okay for minimal back-road use as long as it’s not too tough or too long. I’ll be sorry to see the Ténéré go, but my backroad journey and test ride motivated me to remount my TKC80 knobby tires onto my GS and see how much dirt I could get it to accumulate. That’s a story, too, but it will hold until later.
For me as an individual rider, the Ténéré and my GS are almost a total wash – I can’t come up with a favorite. Their respective advantages and disadvantages closely balance each other out. The Ténéré wins on lower weight, easier maneuverability, and simplicity for navigating tough terrain, but for me, it is a tad too tall, and the seat isn’t comfortable for more than an hour or two and its luggage capacity is limited. The GS, while far heavier, allows me to get both feet on the ground when I want to, has massive power from any of the bottom gears, and an excellent seat. It takes more skill to navigate difficult terrain with the GS, but if you take the time to acquire the skills and keep in practice, it can be done. Let’s get back to the Harleys.
One late summer day, my friend Larry Ashkenazi approached me at work. I knew he rode and he’d taken me into the parking lot a couple of times to see his two gorgeous Harley Davidsons. One was a new, nearly-stock Ultra Glide Classic with a full tour package, radio, and all the tricks. The other was an FXDB Dyna Wide Glide extensively customized. It had a kit to increase horsepower, lowered suspension, aftermarket pipes, beautifully stitched after-market seat, and a killer paint job. It was gorgeous, fast, and fun. It got looks. Larry was embarrassed. He’d borrowed money from the wrong sorts of people and now, had to pay up fast or be in deep do-do. He offered me a deal — lend him $20,000 for one year, interest-free, and he’d give me both of his bikes to hold as collateral, including the titles. His only request was he be allowed, on occasion, to come and borrow one of his bikes for the weekend, always bringing it back when he was finished riding. He would maintain insurance on the bikes and he expected I would make liberal use of them when they were in my possession.
Hmmm… now, this was some offer. After spending a few minutes with my friend Rob Kost, an intellectual property attorney and advanced science and patent expert who’d previously plied his legal schooling at the Office of Technology Assessment in Washington, DC, we wrote some kind of legal-looking agreement. BTW, like most non-legal people, I frequently think of all lawyers as, well, lawyers. To this day if I were to be charged with a crime or had a property issue, or was being sued by someone for shooting a drone down over my house, I’d call my friend Rob in and ask him what to do. He HATES this, but I don’t care. I like to talk to him. And he’s lots smarter than me. He didn’t practice law or bother with passing the bar in several states where he lived, but he still has one of the sharpest minds on the planet, legal or otherwise.
It turned out these two Harleys were my entry ticket to the HOG (Harley Owners’ Group) world. Larry and I rode his two bikes all over Westchester and Rockland Counties and Connecticut. The roads to and through the towns along the Hudson River from Poughkeepsie to Albany and east to Hartford, Waterbury, and Stamford and then back toward the Hudson River were custom made for Harley Davidson motorcycles. They are all well-maintained, 2-way blacktop roads, crossing low hills, and filled with gradual, predictable curves. Ideal speeds are between 40 and 60 mph, but not much more. For the first time, I understood why a person would own one of these large, heavy, over-weight, under-preforming, technologically inferior bikes. Riding the roads north of New York City in Westchester, Putnam and Dutchess County and New Jersey’s Rockland County, on a fall day with the leaves turning color in the cool, crisp air is as close to motorcycle heaven as you will ever be. The HOG group with which Larry rode welcomed me with open arms. The ticket wasn’t dues but having a love and appreciation for these unique motorcycles – and owning one, of course. While costumed on the weekend to look mean, rough, bad, and evil, the members’ workday lives typically were that of dentists, insurance agency owners, IT managers, and other professionals. After all, you had to be doing pretty well to shell out $25K or more for, essentially, a toy.
While the next observation may appear critical, it isn’t. While riding motorcycles was a part of why these groups got together, it wasn’t the primary reason and thus, actual time spent on the motorcycle was far less than I’d experienced riding with other groups. The Harley owners I rode with in New York loved to gather in large groups, often numbering 50 bikes or more. This required road captains, tour masters, Sargent at arms, tail gunners, enforcers, and more. The process of getting this many bikes into or out of a parking lot could take 20-30 minutes. Once dismounted, it took at least 45 minutes to stroll among the various bikes, admiring the newest additions friends and fellow members had made to their rides. And, of course, there was lunch, requiring the selected restaurant to arrange their tables and chairs into one large banquet offering, suitable to the group. Then seating, ordering, eating, and talking. Resolving restaurant billing issues (someone always forgot to ask for separate checks) added another 15-20 minutes. With all of this, it was no surprise the amount of time actually riding motorcycles was constrained. But it was okay. This was a community of people who shared a passion, loved each other, and enjoyed their time together. Time spent in a restaurant eating and talking, leisurely wandering parking lots admiring bikes communally may have been more gratifying to them than the time on their bikes, locked alone inside helmets with just their thoughts.
As the end of the year approached I fully expected to be the owner of two Harleys at a ridiculously low price. I was wrong. About a week before the due date, Larry came into my office with $20,000 in cash. He paid off the loan; I gave him back the titles to his bikes with expressions of deep gratitude for a wonderful year and hundreds of important lessons. I still miss those bikes.