chapter thirteen

I should be working on the society’s report, but instead spend hours studying the journal. Before bed, I continue to read Patrick O’Riley’s words.

“I’m working with a team of lads, hard and calloused men, on the Marin tower. Today a fierce storm far out at sea caused tremendous swells to roll into the bay, swells that caused the tower to pitch and sway.

“As the tower shifted, I grabbed a beam for support, then glanced at me men to see if I’d been betrayed by me terror as a coward. ’Twas odd, but I noticed the fear of death in their eyes as well. Later, in the pub, I asked Bull Myers about it, the most hardened of men. He grunted and said, ‘A man without fear is a fool.’ He is right. Men who deny fear, they take chances, do stupid things to prove valor.

“I no longer try to mask me fear. I see no shame to admit that the bridge scares the life from me. But what is even more frightful is the thought of not holding Anna and the young ones in me arms again. And so as it grows heavenward, and I climb the tower day by day, me fear grows into courage and keeps me safe.

“Courageous men are not fearless men, but those who climb despite fear. Everyone has a bridge to climb. At the end of the day, fear and I shake hands and part knowing we’ll meet again when we climb our bridge together.”

As I read Patrick’s words, I imagine the panic my own father must have felt working on the bridge. And yet, I don’t remember ever seeing his fear. Oh, he’d tell me that work was forbidding, even terrifying, but I didn’t notice it in his eyes—only in mine.

Since my father’s death I have avoided towers, preferring to stay huddled on the ground. I wonder about uncertainties, my own swells and storms. Will I ever be as courageous as Patrick O’Riley, or as brave as my own father?

While the lesson is significant, it is Patrick’s affection I find most stirring. Below his wisdom, in the margins of the page, Patrick often wrote thoughts of Anna. They are always apart from the engineering calculations, as if he didn’t want their significance to be lost or confused. I don’t pretend to understand their meaning, but two phrases cause reflection. They are haunting expressions, but words that carry strength.

“With this crown, I give my loyalty.”

“With these hands, I promise to serve.”

Ellen was reviewing financial charts on her computer when Dave tapped lightly on the door.

“Dave, come in. Listen, I just spoke with Abel at the governor’s office. They said your conclusions on voter trends were right on the money. They’ve calculated a projected six percent increase in turnout next election cycle with limited resource outlays. They’re talking about expanding the study.”

“That’s great.” Dave tried to sound excited.

“You’re not thrilled?” she asked.

“Of course I am. It’s fabulous. Listen, I’ve been seeing Dr. Jaspers.”

“Already?”

“Three times since we talked, counting this morning.”

“Well, that’s great. So, he’s competent?”

“Of course. Our meetings are going well. I’m scheduled twice a week now for the next eight weeks. I just thought you should know.”

Ellen nodded her approval. “Thanks, Dave—and have him bill the firm directly if insurance doesn’t cover it.”

Dave paused at the door. “You’ve never met the doctor, have you?”

“No. A friend gave me the card and said he was terrific. Why do you ask?”

“The he is actually a she.”

“He’s a woman?”

As his boss shrugged with surprise, Dave reiterated the message he had come to deliver. “She’s helping me. I’m doing much better. I just wanted you to know.”

When Dave arrived back at his desk, he stopped just long enough to gather up some papers and his jacket.

“Gloria, I’ll be out the rest of the day.”

• • •

Dave hoped that his suit and tie wouldn’t make him stand out like a tourist. As he approached the building, he regretted not having taken time to go home first and change. He knew, however, that if he was going to convince Ellen to let him handle the BikeHouse account, he’d need to learn everything he could about the company.

Long ago, he’d discovered that the most useful information about an organization always came from the people in the trenches, those working directly with the customer on the front line. The front line was exactly where he was headed.

He expected to find a rundown shop with a greasy mechanic or two milling about working on their hogs, something out of an Easy Rider movie. Instead, the showroom at the Lakeshore BikeHouse location was breathtaking.

It was more reminiscent of Las Vegas than of any biker movie scene. Rows of gleaming customized motorcycles stood in perfect symmetry, each basking in its own halogen spotlight. There were dozens of bikes, various makes and models, all immaculate and begging admiration. It wasn’t a motorcycle shop, it was an art gallery—Michelangelo would have been in awe.

But there was more. Behind the bikes was a store within a store, an area brimming with black leather jackets, shirts, pullovers, sweaters, gloves, socks, and every other imaginable fashion accessory—all branded with popular motorcycle logos. Not only dazzling, it was bustling.

Dave slid quietly around the machines, hoping to not attract attention. His plan was to blend into the background and study the place before asking his questions.

“Hi, can I help you?”

The voice startled him. He’d been so involved in taking in the scene that he hadn’t noticed the salesperson approaching from behind.

“Thanks, but right now I’m just looking.”

“They are okay to touch.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The bikes. They’re okay to touch. I mean, look at them. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

Dave scanned the room. The guy had a point—the polished machines were waving for attention.

“I need to be honest with you . . .” Dave leaned over to read the salesman’s tag.

“The name’s Redd. Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand and Dave shook it. Redd was a large, older man with a round face that matched fat fingers, but he shook hands with authority, or at least enthusiasm. He smiled behind a grey handlebar mustache turned up just enough on the ends to make him look like a circus ringmaster.

“Redd, I’m Dave Riley. It’s nice to meet you, but actually, I’m not here to buy a bike. I’m here to do some market research. I don’t want to waste your time.”

Dave expected a look of disappointment or puzzlement. As near as he could tell, Redd showed neither.

“No waste of my time. I normally work in the shop or at the parts counter. I come out to the sales floor when the regular sales guys are busy.” As if Dave’s comments were just now registering, Redd paused. “Market research . . . what does that mean?”

Though his company technically hadn’t landed the account, Dave decided that for the sake of easy explanation, he would pretend they had. “I work for Strategy Data; we’re a marketing research and opinion firm. We’ve been hired by BikeHouse corporate, and, well . . . I’m here to learn more about the product.”

“Corporate sent you?”

“Not exactly. I picked the closest location and came in on my own.”

Redd seemed intrigued. “What do they want to research?”

The question was a fair one that Dave couldn’t answer. He would be truthful. “I don’t know yet; we haven’t gone that far.”

“Well, if they want to know about the bikes or the people who buy ’em, they can call me. I’ll tell ’em what they need to know for a tenth of what they’re paying you. No offense.”

“None taken. So, you’ve ridden a road bike for a while?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Not at all—I’m paid by the hour.” When he flashed Dave a smile, a silver tooth glistened.

Dave began with a list of questions he’d been forming in his head on the way over. “Tell me about your customers. What type of person buys a customized motorcycle?”

Redd took the question seriously, carefully considering his explanation. “When you look at a person, you can’t tell so much who’s a longtime rider as who’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take you, for example. I’d venture to say you’ve seldom been on a bike, customized or otherwise.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Well, look at you—you’re scared to death.” Redd swung his leg over the machine next to where they were standing and grabbed the handlebars. He looked more comfortable on the bike than off. “Now take a look at the guy there in the suit.” Redd gestured to an older gentleman Dave had noticed earlier. “What would you guess about him?”

Dave shrugged. “He looks to me like a businessman killing time on his lunch hour.”

Redd half-nodded. “He’s a businessman all right, but don’t let the suit fool you. That’s Mason Weller; he’s ridden in a club for years. He comes in from time to time just to check out the new inventory. Not all riders sport tattoos and leather, you know.”

“Fair enough,” Dave conceded. “Why do you ride?”

“Now, that’s a different question altogether.” Redd swung off the bike and motioned for Dave to follow him. They walked past the browsing customers and through a door marked Employees Only. In the back of the open warehouse, next to a partially opened garage door, sat a maroon and silver machine, polished like it was parade day.

“That’s my baby.” Redd talked like a proud father. “It’s an ’83, FXSB Wide Glide, Shovelhead engine, Girling rear disc brake, twin discs up front.”

The words could have been Greek. Dave shrugged, half pretending to understand. However, it was Redd’s next instruction that startled him.

“Get on.”

“What?”

“You asked why I ride. I’m gonna show you.”

Dave stepped back. “How about you just tell me?”

The remark caused Redd to laugh aloud. It was a jolly laugh, and had his clothes been red with a white beard attached, Dave could have imagined Redd working the mall in December.

“Look, I’d just hate to get grease on my pants,” Dave added, attempting to save face.

Without uttering a word, Redd snatched a white rag from the adjacent counter. He spread it over his thick fingers and wiped it down one side of the shiny bike. Without looking at it, he held it up for Dave to see that there wasn’t so much as a smudge.

Redd tossed the rag back onto the counter and turned back to Dave.

“Look, I’m not asking you to ride it; I just want you to feel the power of the engine.” In a fluid motion Redd swept his leg over the bike, turned the key, and pressed the start button. The engine rumbled to life.

Dave raised his voice to make sure Redd could hear over the machine. “So you don’t have to kick-start it?”

“Electric start.” Redd stepped off, then motioned for Dave to swing onto the echoing bike. Dave climbed on, then settled down into the leather seat. It was more comfortable than he’d expected. He grabbed the handlebars and pulled the weight off the stand. As he did, Redd kicked the stand up into place against the frame.

“How does she feel?”

“Good.” He couldn’t deny it—the power that sat beneath him, at his command, was exhilarating, even intimidating. “So, is the clutch in the handle?” Dave posed the question more to make conversation than to suggest any intent to actually ride the machine.

Redd nodded. “You want to inch it forward, just to get the feel?”

“I’m all right, really.”

“Come on, inch it forward.”

It was either peer pressure or salesmanship at its finest. Dave hated to look foolish, so he nodded in the affirmative. Redd explained how to pull in the clutch and drop the bike into first gear.

“Just let it out slowly. Let it roll forward a few feet and then pull her back and apply the brake. It’s simple.”

When Dave eased off the clutch, he released the handle too quickly. The bike lurched forward, and Redd had to grab the machine to keep it from falling. Dave’s cheeks flushed. He looked to Redd expecting to see concern; instead, only excitement stared back—Redd had a new pupil.

“Did you feel that power? And this bike’s nothing compared to a customized Dyna Wide Glide. That one will really get your legs excited, if you know what I mean.”

Redd reached over, switched the key to off, and dropped down the kickstand. He was almost bouncing. Dave stepped off, happy to not embarrass himself further.

“So, you’re saying it’s the power of the bike that attracts people?” Dave asked, picking up the conversation where they’d left off in the showroom.

Redd’s tone hushed. “Oh, these machines certainly have power, Dave, no question about it. But to answer honestly—no.”

“Okay, then what?”

Redd glanced around the garage, as if he were about to reveal the wisdom of ages. “It’s the freedom, Dave,” he answered in a tone so reverently whispered he could have been in church.

“Freedom?”

“Sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll go riding together sometime and I’ll show you.”

“Can’t you just explain it?”

“It’s kinda hard to explain, really.”

“Give it a try.”

“Well, it would go something like this.” Redd leaned against his bike. “When you head out into this great country on your bike, and you watch the stripes of the pavement fly past, and you get to suck in the fresh air and marvel at the expanse of the sky and feel the warmth of the earth and realize there are forces bigger than you . . . well, it gives you a chance to clear your head, to find a place that’s peaceful—that’s meaningful. That’s what I mean by freedom. Isn’t that what everyone is looking for?”

Dave’s intuition had been right. If you want to know about a company or a product, go to the people on the front line.

“You’re not a mechanic,” Dave stated emphatically.

Redd seemed confused, not sure what to make of the remark. “I’m not?”

“No. Not at all.” Dave added, “You’re the best damn salesman I’ve ever met.”