Gypsy's Leisure: Independents vs. The Dealers

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Independents vs. The Dealers

I dropped the 650 off at my favorite local shop for maintainance. I used to enjoy performing the work myself and still do a few of the routine tasks such as changing oil. Mostly, I just can't squeeze the time out of the day to tear a bike down the way I once could. It's the price I pay for chosing a career that doesn't directly involve motorcycles.

I figured I might have an oil leak as well and wanted the guys at Cycle Works to give the bike a thorough inspection. It took them a little longer than usual but I've finally got the machine back. In the past, it hasn't been uncommon for them to return the bike to me within two days. This time took about a week. Apparently, one of the mechanics was down in the back and they got a little behind in work.

Any time the work takes a little longer than I'm accustomed to, I get a little antsy and start thinking of other shops where I might be able to take the bike. I prefer independent shops like Cycle Works because I get treated with respect while my machine's on the lift. My experience with dealerships, almost across the entire spectrum of manufacturer, has been that if I appear not to have a significant dollar amount to spend, then I'm not worth the trouble of approaching. I've been to dealers where I've been received by absolutely no one, even when staff are on the floor and doing little more than speaking with one another.

So I pick up the bike, engage in a bit of pleasant conversation, and ride off on a machine that's dialed in like it rolled off the showroom floor. I'm also not treated like an idiot for not knowing all the inner workings of the machine. No website for the guys at Cycle Works, just word of mouth and a spot of advertising. I was drinking coffee at a local micro-roastery when the owner struck up conversation over the machines we ride. He suggested the Works when I told him I needed someone to tune the bike. The place had been recommended to the coffee bar owner by a motorcyclist that stopped to try and help the owner with a flat. I've passed the word on to those who just want their bikes handled with as much care as they would give if they had the necessary skill. One motorcyclist helping another motorcyclist.

Cycle Works, 3302 Preston Highway, Louisville, KY (502) 366-7102

1 comment:

Anonymous said...: I used to be a fairly outspoken supporter of dealerships. I was always treated pretty well by service and parts, and I'm sure a part of that is due to the fact that I'm an old wrench and I speak their language. I know things take time, I know the oddball things they have to deal with and oh, how well do I know dealing with parts suppliers!

But in recent months, my support for dealers is falling off big time.

You can read here one of the bigger and nastier reasons why, but it comes down to this; for dealers it's a game of numbers. For most indies, it's a business (which is still a business for profit), but it's one run (most of the time) by someone with a real passion for the game.

And that goes a long, long way to churning out quality; quantity aside.; August 15, 2008 at 6:41 PM

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Overpass Blues

Every garage houses a collection of spare parts. Odds, ends, bits and pieces stashed away and gathering dust. While cleaning beneath the work bench we might liberate from the cobwebs a broken clutch cable, and the shredded wire reminds us of that time in the rain and dark beneath the overpass on Route 138. While puzzling over how to stitch together the frayed ends, we breathe deep the scent of wet asphalt and cooling tar. Perhaps while waiting for the glimmer of a brother's headlight to swim out of the night, we close our eyes and listen to the shush of rain on corn.

Sporty's Last Ride

I wake before dawn on July 3, 2005 and can't force myself back to sleep. While I wait for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I push my 95 1200 Sportster out of the garage and gear up in the chilly pre-dawn. I kiss my wife goodbye and inform her that I'm riding an early loop around the county before the holiday traffic rolls through. I seal my fresh java into a thermos with the plan to find a quiet, isolated spot on the road somewhere to enjoy it.

I turn east on Rt. 136 which twists its way through a portion of McLean County, KY toward the Ohio County line. The corn waves in the fields, its sweet smell pushed along by the cool breeze. Still early in the season, the stalks have not yet reached their heights that always give me the impression of riding through a corridor. Ahead of me, the orange light creeps over the treetops and the last stars wink out as their velvet backdrop burns away.

I roll onto a farm access road choked with weeds and shut it down. As the Sporty's engine tumbles to standstill, I hear the belching of frogs from beneath the nearby bridge. A tractor, trailing a plume of diesel smoke, lumbers along the far edge of an adjacent field. The scent of tilled earth ebbs as the machine maneuvers behind a stand of trees.

I crack open the thermos and wait for the sun to climb. Had I known what awaits me just a few days away in the middle of a sultry July afternoon, I'd stay by the side of the road just a few moments more. I would sip my coffee slowly and allow its earthy vapors to warm my face. I'd welcome the light spilling over the nearby ridge, cascading over polished chrome. I'd spread my leathers over the drying grass to soak up the first rays of fine summer sun. I'd stand tall, not shut my eyes against the dawn.