BEST OF JODYS BOX: THE ART OF MAKING THE DEAL

By Jody Weisel

“Is this your first visit to our factory,” asked the impeccably dressed general manager of a big motorcycle manufacturer.

“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve always wanted to come here. Ever since I started riding I dreamed that someday I’d be standing right on this spot. It’s hard to imagine what a goofy kid I was back then.”

“How did you get started racing?” he asked as we walked into his expansive office.

“I like to tell people that I started racing because the beach town I lived in went through a long flat spell when there weren’t any waves and I needed something to do when I couldn’t surf. That’s partially true, but the truth is that I had a friend who let me ride his bike in the sand dunes one day and I was hooked. There is a sense of freedom found in careening around on a motocross bike that is hard to express. Do you race?”

“No. I ride a little, on company outings and at press function, but mostly on mountain bikes,” he said. “I’ve never been on a motocross track. What’s it like?”

“It’s the most incredible feeling. You literally have the power of life and death in the palm of your hand. You can scare yourself silly, dial in an euphoric sense of giddiness or just enjoy the rush of the wind.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” asked the man in the suit. For the moment he had stopped shuffling the papers on his desk and leaned in to hear my answer.

“Of course it is. What would the point be of doing it if it wasn’t,” I said. “In a world filled with video commandos, paintball generals and internet lifers, risk sports are the last bastion of the soldier of fortune. You don’t get to be an astronaut unless there’s a chance your rocketship will blow up, or a fighter ace unless the guy in the Mig shoots back or a motocross racer unless you dance on the edge. To have true meaning an endeavor has to have real consequences.”

“LOTS OF RIDERS PUFF THEMSELVES UP BECAUSE THEY ARE FASTER THAN THE NEXT GUY. THE THINK THEY ARE GETTING MORE OUT OF MOTOCROSS THAN A SLOW GUY. IT’S NOT TRUE. AS FAST AS ELI TOMAC GOES, HIS AWARENESS OF SPEED IS NO MORE EXHILARATING THAN THOSE OF THE SLOWEST 125 NOVICE.”

“I don’t think I could go fast enough to be a racer,” he said.

“That’s the beauty of the sport. It doesn’t matter how fast you go. The sensations are the same regardless of the talent level. Lots of riders puff themselves up because they are faster than the next guy. The think they are getting more out of motocross than a slow guy. It’s not true. As fast as Eli Tomac goes, his awareness of speed is no more exhilarating than those of the slowest 125 Novice. What sets the hairs on the back of Eli’s neck on end might be 20 mph faster than what kicks in the endorphins of a 125 spode—but the hairs stand up and salutes for both riders.”

“Maybe you could take me trail riding with you one day,” said the exec as he began to open the manila folder in front of him.

“I don’t trail ride. I don’t play ride. I don’t do enduros. I only race. Racing is life. Everything else is waiting for the next race. It’s hard to explain the allure of motocross to someone who’s never done it. You’d have to be part of the energy on the starting line. You can feel the anxiety, see the fear and hear the hearts pounding. It’s so intense—yet everyone is so calm. However, once the race starts you focus like you’ve never focused before. It becomes a boxing match. You take punishment if it will let you close in on your opponent. You dance around the ring when you are ahead. You attack when you are behind. And you are fighting the track, the competition, gravity, fatigue and self doubt. At the end of a 30-minute moto you are sore, maybe even bloodied, but you’re on your feet. You don’t get beat in motocross—you beat it. Even the losers can stand with their heads unbowed.”

“I impressed by your passion. Let’s get down to business,” he said as he slid a typed piece of paper across the table at me. “Our company is prepared to offer you the amount I’ve penciled on this paper to come on board as our head of R&D testing. Is this figure satisfactory?”

“No. I want more,” I said as I pushed the paper away with disdain. “I’m not in this for the love of the sport.”

 

 

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