Late 1998
I started in the industry prematurely. While shopping for prospective employers after I graduated from Motorcycle Mechanic Institute, I met Bernie Fieden, the Service Manager at Cycle World in Rosedale - just east of Downtown Baltimore. Bernie was an instantly likeable fellow. He seemed impressed that I was even thinking of attending school, and not just attempting to jump into the fire and possibly get scared off of the whole dealer experience once on the inside.
Bernie off-handedly made a remark that the shop was hiring and introduced me to the Parts Manager, and in fact the finest Parts Manager I would ever meet, Mark Schofield. Something that I immediately noticed was the lax atmosphere at Cycle World. Wilbur was squatting nearby on a two-drawer file cabinet, backwards cap on his head and smoking a cigarette, while Lloyd stood by a door at the end of the Parts Counter, also smoking. I learned later that Mark had recently quit smoking, so I envied him for his resolve while his employees smoked beside him every day.
At this point in my life everything I knew about motorcycles was from motorcycle magazines and television. So the fact that I was called and offered the job the next morning was kind of a surprise for me. I was excited, because I no longer had to leave for Florida and sign a contract for over 20 grand in student loans, which I was hugely apprehensive about. Years later, however, I would come to completely regret the decision, because while I had unlimited access to technical information from various technicians and manuals, I am to this day horrible with the mechanical technology of motorcycles.
I quickly found my place in the Parts Department and picked up the new Lightspeed and fiche finder at a reasonable pace. I discovered a rhythm of the shop within weeks: around 10:15am I'd hear the downshifting howl of Will’s CBR600F2; Mark and I would already be halfway done receiving the new parts for the day. By 11am the first of the complaints from the Service guys would already be bothering us if parts weren't in for the repair order they wanted to collect hours on. By noon, work stopped nearly unanimously to study lunch menus from the exact same restaurants that these guys have been ordering from since time immemorial. By 1pm, with bellies full the techs would already be out back pullin’ wheelies on customer’s bikes, to the chagrin of Norm Farris, the then Store Manager. One thing I never got in line with was the disrespect for old Norm. Father of deceased flat tracker Rodney Farris, Norm was a gentle, quiet and bearded gentleman and instantly likable. Because Norm was increasingly laidback, most would take advantage of his kind disposition and so more often than not Cycle World was a madhouse. The dealership was a hell of an introduction into the motorcycle retail industry, but never did a day pass without the idea that this dealership gig was all ephemeral, a fleeting prelude to Southern California sun or Peterborough showers in my quest to write for a bike magazine.
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One day, while exiting the restroom, I spotted something in the long row upon rows of motorcycles that stuck out like only one other bike ever really has for me. I did the proverbial double take, quite honestly, as the bike’s lines were just too mesmerizing not to come back to and study more diligently. The deep purplish blue metallic 1999 Yamaha YZF-R1 was beautiful in magazine photos but stunning to behold in person, in slightly different ways than the more exotic Italian Ducati 916, the true bike of my dreams.
The R1 had a presence, and a strong one, but was obviously more conventional than the Duke. Aluminum twin-spar frame anchored by a long, braced swingarm and bodywork that was much more sedate than that of the 916, save for the kinda-ugly muffler hanging on the side. The design was purposeful and elegant for a Japanese sportbike - much more svelte than the lumpy YZF1000R that preceded the R1. The bike’s stance belied the true nature of the street bike, with a low squat windscreen, and long reach to low clip-on handlebars. The fuel tank looked powerful and flat and wide, flowing nicely into the long and flat rear cowl with a dual round tail light that seemed to belong on a special build completing the look. The ergonomics for my physique was close to perfection. I fit the bike well. Then again, I was at an age where the race bike ergos didn't bother me much. And once on the road the bike handled much like it appeared it would - perfectly - at least with my squid-like abilities.
The summer of 1999 was an odd one. In some ways it may be my favorite; for others, it would be there last. I got my first street bike, the R1’s little brother, the R6. I settled for the smaller R bike out of fear. I just got my M-endorsement and thought the R1 would hurt me. This was the season of the crashed R1, after all. At least half a dozen regular customers of ours were wadded up. One guy I remember in particular crashed with his girlfriend riding pillion in Loch Raven, and I heard they were seriously hurt. The R1s were coming in on the backs of rollbacks seemingly weekly now, mangled, cowls torn off and mufflers grounded flat, missing handlebars or foot controls. Another wadded up R1. What a shame.
Eric Dillman was Parts Manager at Pete’s Cycle on Harford Road, and he was the first victim of the R1 that I was fully aware of. I cannot tell you what kind of a man Eric was. I had never met him. But upon hearing of his death I had felt that special bond that links motorcyclists to one another, while as a colleague in the same industry I staked my professional prosperity to. And though I never had the pleasure to meet Eric in person, his life and his death affected me in ways he could never have imagined.
As my first full summer working in a bike shop I would be more excited than not, even with the spectre of death trying to hitch his sidecar to our motorcycles without our permission, with crews of guys riding in everyday. I would see all kinds of cool bikes: CBR900RRs, GSX-R750s, ZX-7Rs… These kids looked like the coolest guys in the world, blipping their throttles as they pulled to a stop in front of the store. And I sat on my R6, feeling like one of them, genuinely euphoric on my first hit of moto-snobbery, I realized I was one of the cool kids now. I was grateful my first street bike wasn't a Ninja 250…
Evenings that summer were practically criminal. Beers were cracked open at the slightest hint of slowness (after 4pm, honest), and when the bosses were gone the bikes came out. Once again customer’s bikes were “inspected” for performance issues and wheelies proliferated the side lot between us and the nightclub next door. This side lot would produce a lot of casualties over the years, which only made sense. It was an awful crumbling and gravel-laid track of doom. And one of the more interesting things you will see at a motorcycle shop is the 12 o’clock boys (not what we called them) ride right up Route 40 from the city on CR80s or Banshees and pick up parts or gloves, and ride home on the rear wheel like it was the most normal thing in the world. A lot of these kids had more riding skills at 14 years old than I will ever have.
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Will Rolfes became my riding partner, and honestly I had never told him this to his face, but I was always a bit intimidated riding with him. He was a naturally fast road rider and he pulled better wheelies than me. Wilbur, as I called him, is an interesting character who really did not give a shit. Will and I got into some bad stuff together and it would wind up costing one of us our jobs later on. I’ll get to that later, but Will was a good friend of mine while we worked together for about six years, but we drifted apart once he went to Dirt First.
I was always excited about hitting the backroads after work. Those early days as I learned how to ride fast on the street, cresting power wheelies on Mountain Road with the R6 was such a sublime experience. Will and I became the Parts Dept. duo, becoming friends outside of work and hanging out to work on bikes in his trailer-garage after work and drinking Natural Lights - even after we were recruited to work for another dealership. I was always happiest with the littlest things, like sitting on the steps and staring at our bikes parked in the yard with the sun setting over the cornfield behind his house. It’s fleeting moments like this that make motorcycling culture such a wonderful lifestyle.
Pete’s Cycle Days
By early winter the Parts Dept. at Cycle World in Rosedale was acquired by Walt Leach of Pete’s Cycle Co. I don’t remember if it was as hilarious as it is today, but the fact that by January of 2000, Mark, Wilbur and I were all working for Pete’s Cycle in two different stores. The anger which must have completely embraced Jeff Jeffers - owner of the two Cycle World stores - must have made Home Depot some money. Old Jeffers was known to break stuff with his temper.
Pete’s Cycle Co. had accumulated decades of legacy by the time I had begun working at the Harford Road store. This original location, opened in 1938 in Walter (Pete) Leach’s parent’s basement, first sold Schwinn bicycles, before moving into the motorcycles. Indian, AJS, Matchless and BSA were the first manufacturers out of the Harford Road store, before a second location was necessary. By the 1980s the store began to take on its current iteration of Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki and Kawasaki.
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The parking lot overlooking the Loch Raven reservoir was a regular spot in the late-’90s throughout the 2000s to relax in between rides around the backroads, and was mostly dominated by motorcycles, but the odd import cars would also cruise through here, as well. This was the first hangout I was introduced to by guys who were regulars at our shop, like Scott Hall, Cheese, Kevin and others. By 2000 Wilbur and I were settling in at the new Pete’s Cycle location in Baltimore, and riding with other guys in Parts and Accessories from a couple of Pete’s stores after work on weekends. That summer in 2000 there was Alan Nelson, who is still today an associate of mine and Store Manager of the Pete’s Baltimore store and his second R1. His first R1 was the bike that Eric Dillman had been killed on the summer previous. Al was a road racer and sometimes road rider. I remember one evening in the Loch Raven lot Al riding up, popped off his helmet and didn’t BS with anyone. He simply pulled out some tools, adjusted the preload on his forks, and put his helmet back on his head. And without another word took off for the twisties. I realized at that moment that I was thoroughly out of my league with these guys on these roads.
Cayle Price, on his Honda RC51, once hilariously escorted from the Pete’s Cycle premises on his way out of the Accessories Dept. and onto his new venture in the pre-Dot Com-bust website Cycle Shark by a furious John Leach. I remember Cayle’s RC51-cum-SP-1 so vividly because he ordered all new bodywork from the UK in that memorable orange/black livery. Steve Mavris, an Accessories guy from the Bel Air store, also had an RC51 and would show up from time to time at the reservoir. Steve is one of those naturally funny individuals who had a way of making almost anything and everything he says make you laugh. I met up with these two on occasions to the Dundalk stripclub tour before I learned the hard lessons of drinking and riding, as well.
This was the night of my first crash on the R6. Night had fallen over the wooded area around Loch Raven and the guys in front of me soon pulled away. All of a sudden I was riding much slower, as I had been following the bike in front of me, instead of following the road. I started to push myself, even though I was having difficulty seeing at night, and the farther I felt Scott and his ZX-7R getting away from me, the harder I pushed it trying to play catch up. I learned another valuable lesson. I realized while I was shoving the bike off of me in someone’s front yard beside a tree: don’t try to keep up with riders who are a lot faster than you simply because your bike may be as fast as theirs. I was barely riding on the street for a year this particular night. Alan was the only one who came back to check on me when it occurred to him that someone was missing in the parking lot.
Alan and I would have this frog-jumping of backing each other up over the years, and he would earn my respect time and again.
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