My Motorcycle Journey— Part 9
Owning My Own Business
What the human brain can do in a nanosecond is unbelievable. In the time it took me to register what the agent had just said and open my mouth to respond, my mind had played a full-length feature film of my new life, filled with custom bikes, a big house, fancy cars, gorgeous women, and cash — lots of cash. I tried to be cool and nonchalant, but my throat was stuck. I had to remind myself to breathe as I nodded and said, “Yes, I have heard of them.”
As I opened the file to a world that was completely new and foreign to me, my Lizard Brain kept interrupting me — only now it was preaching caution and worry and disbelief — making it difficult to concentrate. I had experienced a lot in my twenty-six years, but this was different. I was nervous and my pulse was racing. I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t want to look stupid.
The pages in the file consisted of a lot of numbers and spreadsheets and lists and propaganda. I tried to take it all in but even with all my studying and preparing for this moment, my father’s voice was telling me I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t smart enough, that I would screw it up like I did everything else.
This was the inside of California Cycle Works — the inner workings — all their secrets and all their sales and all their profits. If I could make my father shut up for a minute, I could become a big name in the motorcycle industry. I could be the guy who bought California Cycle Works. Finally, the only thing I could think to ask was, “Why are they selling so cheap?”
The agent smiled as he began to explain that they were only selling the machine shop in the back half of the shop. The front half of the building was being sold to CycleRider, a franchise out of Los Angeles.
“But,” he went on to explain, “The machine shop is where they make custom parts and sell them to other bike shops around the country. They even build Sprint Car frames for Tognotti’s Autoworld here in Sacramento.” Then he asked, “Are you interested?”
He stared at me. I had been listening and dreaming at the same time. I had only been in the front of the store, the cool half where all the chrome parts were on display. I wasn’t fully comprehending that the part of the shop I thought was so cool wasn’t what I was buying. I was stuck in my dream of owning California Cycle Works. Finally, I said, “Yes, I’m very interested.”
But when I told the agent I didn’t have $350,000, he quit smiling, leaned back in his chair and said, “Well, how much do you have?”
I had always been good at budgeting and saving. I was the guy other GI’s came to when they needed money. I usually had two or three paychecks sitting un-cashed in my wallet. I had saved the re-enlistment bonus the Air Force paid me. Plus, rather than take my last thirty-day leave, I sold it back for cash. I had traded the pickup for a 1972 Gran Torino three years ago and didn’t have a car payment. I had been living on my GI bill and unemployment and was able to put a little away every month. But even after all that, I could only come up with about $10,000.
The agent, being better at this than I, asked, “Do you think you can borrow it?”
I thought for a moment and when I finally answered, it sounded like my father’s voice, “I don’t know, probably not $350,000.”
The agent’s face had already moved on to other clients as he said, “Well, why don’t you see what you can do and call me.”
It was more a dismissal than a suggestion.
I took the file copy, shrugged out to the Triumph, and drove home. I had only borrowed money twice in my life — once to buy the Mustang and again when my wife wanted to take a trip back to Thailand before Melissa was born. I convinced the Credit Union to give me a loan based on my Air Force salary after my father had turned me down saying, “How would that be a good investment for me?”
Ironically, my father, the farmer, had always told me, “Money doesn’t grow on trees!”
He was also very secretive about money matters. In a surprising turn of events and with little warning, my father had recently divorced my mom after patiently waiting until the day my youngest brother graduated high school. He remarried conveniently soon after.
I wasn’t overly optimistic about getting the money from him, but I figured I had nothing to lose and didn’t want to quit before I even got started, so I made the call.
He said, “No.”
I was disappointed but not surprised. As my childhood feelings came roaring back to life, my father added, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. What do you know about running a business?”
I said, “But dad, I’ve taken classes and I have eight years of military experience and — ”
My father interrupted and said, “That’s great but I still think it’s a bad idea. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I asked, “What’s dangerous about it?”
“Motorcycles,” he said. “And the people that ride them. Remember those Hells Angels we saw at the beach? The ones we read about in the paper? They were arrested for raping that girl? That’s who your customers will be! I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I knew that once my father got scared, there was no changing his mind, even though I did remember those bikers at the beach.
My father had quit his job at the insurance company when I was fifteen and started MicroDatamation, a microfilm service company in San Francisco. His partner had been a highly successful salesman named Frazier, who had a beautiful house in Mill Valley, a brand-new Camaro, two pickup trucks, and a small ranch on Mt. Tamalpais. He kept two horses there, a black Bay and a Quarter Horse.
Frazier taught me how to ride, how to repair and string barb-wire fence, stack hay bales, wash, brush, and feed the horses. I got to drive his truck and went with him on several trips to transport horses around the Bay Area.
My father could sense how much I enjoyed hanging out with Frazier and, in a jealous move, bought me my own horse. But just like the used cars, this was a used horse. His name was Shawnee and he must have been at least fifteen years old. He was on his way to the glue factory when my father saw the ad in the paper. Shawnee had been a Nevada cattle-cutting horse all his life and even though he still had spunk, he was tired. He also had a wild eye and I quickly learned not to approach him from that side.
I spent two years riding and ranch-handing and loved every minute of it. Except once when I invited Flip and the two of us took off to explore the mountain. We stopped to smoke a joint in a clearing between the eucalyptus trees. We were upwind from where the horses were tied and the Bay managed to inhale enough pot smoke to make it skittish.
When Flip climbed back into the saddle, he was instantly bucked off, and the Bay raced down the trail riderless. I freaked and didn’t know if I should help my friend or catch Frazier’s horse. But the big Bay got the munchies after only a few hundred yards and stopped to graze. Flip was lying on the ground laughing. I never told Frazier.
The weekend my father was talking about, he, Frazier, and I were riding the fire trail that wound its way down the mountain to Muir Beach, a secluded town on the ocean just north of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The town was named after the famed explorer, John Muir. There was also a park called Muir Woods that was a destination spot for tourists. The residents of the town were mostly artists or lawyers and the beach itself was a hippie haven known for drugs, nudity, and other illicit behavior. I found it fascinating.
When we got to the beach, we came upon dozens of Harley-Davidsons lined up in the parking lot. But the lot and the beach were full of Gypsy Jokers, not Hells Angels as my father had thought. The Gypsy Jokers were like the Avis of biker gangs — “We’re Number Two, So We Try Harder” — harder than the Hells Angels.
They were big, dirty, loud, ugly, and scary. Some of the women were just as bad, but not all of them. I saw several that were slim and sexy and gorgeous, just like the bikes — long, sleek, and shiny. I could feel the power in the air as I sat on my horse, staring, soaking it all in. A surprisingly calm, quiet voice next to me woke me up.
“If I start my bike, will it spook your horse?”
I blinked and turned to see the huge man who owned the voice. He was close to 300 pounds and it wasn’t muscle. His pants were unable to stay at his waistline as he sat on the skinny, black leather seat and all I could see was gluteal cleavage. A very hairy butt crack.
“Hey, kid! Do you mind if I start my bike?” said the voice, a little louder.
I realized I was actually being respected and not knowing what else to say, blurted out, “No, it should be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
The fat biker reached down and turned off the gas, grunted while getting off the bike and said, “You know what? I think I’ll wait. I like horses.”
He lumbered off to join the party.
It was at home the next day that my father found the article in the newspaper alleging a woman had been raped at Muir Beach. Even though it didn’t say they were responsible, it did mention the Jokers were camping at the beach at the time of the crime. He seemed to enjoy the news article and smiled broadly as he read it to me.
Now, unable to allay his fears, I hung up and called my mom. She, of course, offered pretty much all her savings plus what she had gotten from the old man in the divorce. But since it didn’t come close to what I needed, and with the divorce so fresh, I didn’t think it was a good idea to jeopardize her well-being. I thanked her and she wished me good luck and said, “Call if you change your mind.”
I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I wanted California Cycle works — of that, I was sure. I didn’t want to work for someone else. I wanted California Cycle Works. I wanted to be a biker boss. My own experiences with actual Hells Angels made me want it even more. I got chills every time I saw a pack of them riding down the highway. I watched other people move out of their way, giving them a wide berth. They didn’t even have to do anything, they just created fear wherever they went.
I felt that fear one day driving the Torino in the fast lane on the freeway following an old, beat up, black pickup truck going a stubborn 50 miles an hour. When I could finally pass on the right, I stepped on the gas, stuck my left middle finger out the window, and sped by. The two guys in the truck were my first clue. The Deaths Head sticker in the window was my last.
As I pulled into the fast lane in front of them, suddenly the old truck showed its true colors and sped up in pursuit. I started to sweat. I was going 70, then 75, then 80. The truck kept coming. 85. 90. I kept my eye on the rearview mirror looking for an arm with a gun to stick out of their window.
When I got to my exit, I took it without slowing down and the truck followed. At the first stoplight, I saw the light turn yellow. I also saw the cop across the street. I slowed down so the light could turn red then I ran it. The truck followed. The cop followed the truck.
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