where everyone knows your name

I made my money the old fashioned way. I was very nice to a wealthy relative right before he died.”

“It is all one to me if a man comes from Sing Sing Prison or Harvard. We hire a man, not his history.”

“If you don’t know what to do with many of the papers piled on your desk, stick a dozen colleague’s initials on them and pass them along. When in doubt, route.”

“Never hire someone who knows less than you do about what he’s hired to do.”

“Failure is success if we learn from it.”

“Ability will never catch up with the demand for it.”  Malcolm S. Forbes-motorcyclist

My first trip to a motorcycle shop came quite by accident, although I prefer to think of it as divine intervention.  My friend Ricky and I had just gotten off the train in Plainfield, and were heading to Texas Wieners for lunch.  When across the street, we both noticed a Harley Davidson neon sign in the window of a storefront.  We quickly changed course, and I made my first entrance into the Disneyland of my dreams. It was 1968, pre-AMF to the loyal, and we entered an old time cycle shop.  I even think it may have been named Pop’s, as an older couple ran it.  Very narrow, but deep, along one side sat numerous bikes for sale, along the other an old, wooden counter running front to back.  We were greeted friendly, and our eyes were big as we came face to face with real motorcycles, a far cry from our minibikes.  Bikes we had been told about, but never had seen up close.  But that was all it took to be hooked, and my next trip was a year later, with Rick again, to Rick’s Cycle, who sold Triumph, and a new brand called Kawasaki.  Two strokes, my first visit into a non-four stroke world.   Ring a ding ding and blue smoke filled the air, as we went around the back of this small brick building, no showroom and a garage door open to service.  There he picked up his 125 dirt bike, huge in our world of 50-80 ccs.  And they knew his name, and we weren’t just two kids like in the Harley store.  My social status was changing for the better.  Then a couple of years later came VIP Honda, who had just moved from a rented garage to an old super market-10,000 square feet of motorcycles-they claimed to be the largest Honda dealer in the US of A!  How cool, and they treated us cool, and we could sit on bikes an ask questions. And at 16, this was big time.  Our licenses still a year away.  Girls never paid this much attention to us!  Later were visits to East Coast Cycle, a cycle shop that sold BMW’s and Yamahas in the back of the store, by the bicycle accessories.  The BMW’s were way beyond our price reach, but the new XS650, all in its red and white called out to us.  I don’t remember a BSA store, but the Norton dealer stood next to Westfield Ford in an old house, where the porch had been closed in and was the parts department.  No show room, but a shed in back, like the one we kept our lawn mower in for service.  No outside signs, we stumbled on it looking for K81 Dunlops, and rearranged our lunch hours, they closed between 12- and 1, and many an afternoon was spent buying tires there.  And we wonder what ever happened to the British bike industry?  I cannot remember any Suzuki stores, but a friend rode a TM250, he bought out past Bound Brook.  That was how it was, small shops, where they were closed on Sunday and Monday, as any proper shop should be, and after a few visits of “whadda you kids want?” we got to know the owners, and were given prices.  And told to bring back our dads if we were ready to buy.  But my first purchase took place at Ralph’s Cycle in South Orange, NJ, an unauthorized Honda store, who could not do warranty work, but sold bikes for less than anyone else.  And my 1972 CB350 cost $825 of my hard earned paper route money, maybe the best money ever earned and spent.  And back to VIP for parts, and never for service.  That you did yourself, two quarts of Valvoline from Jax Auto at 55 cents a quart, a $2 oil filter, and a half hour to change the oil, and another half hour to clean up what you spilled on the bike and your garage floor.

But the big time was to come when I heard of Slegers Forbes Cycle in Whippany.  Malcolm Forbes partnered with Hank Slegers who was well known within the cycle industry, his money and Hank’s name, and you had the first super store.  More like today’s stores, it was a super market for bikes. The salesman all wore green blazers, and were nice to you.  And sold bikes for cash with a 5% discount, it covered the Jersey sales tax at the time.  They would store them for free all winter, and gave you money for referrals.  The parts department had all its employees in team racing shirts, and was so big you took a number, for parts for your BMW, Triumph, Honda, and Yamaha.  Also some lesser brands that most never heard of.  It was a bikers dream, and even the service department was behind a plexiglass wall, where you could see the mechanics working.  Many an afternoon when we couldn’t ride was spent there, watching and taking mental notes.  And buying my R60/5 there put me on a first name basis.  It was the last motorcycle I ever bought in Jersey, and when it was totaled in Florida, Hank was calling me to see if he could help.  They were the days when everyone knew what you rode, and everyone knew your name.  And if you were really cool had a nickname to go with it.  Just in case there were two Mikes, two Bills, or tow Ricky’s.  And I miss those days, even though most shops around SoCal know me, there was a certain comeraderie among us.  It went beyond waving when you passed each other, you were part of an elite group-you rode motorcycles.  But sadly the industry grew, and so did the shops, with mega stores the norm today, but still having to have most parts special ordered, some things never change.  Except the prices....some things should never do change. 

We attend what may be called a mega church, it has over 7000 members.  And coming from a smaller church, it can be intimidating.  So many to know, a new seat to find for yourself, and a new pastor to sit under.  And many don’t feel like they fit in, nobody knows their name.  But how many of you know your pastor, but he doesn’t know you?  Have you ever gone up and introduced yourself to him, or do you think he should seek you out?  Pride and shyness can be confused.  So many just end up attending, and never get involved, blaming the size, the pastor, but never themselves.  But like many size churches, we have small groups, which are much like bike shops of old.  Where everyone knows your name, and you can fellowship more intimately.  Which is a good thing.  And then there are those that church hop, and never get involved, and somehow everyone knows their name, but sadly their reputation.  And I have found that supporting a local church is like supporting your local dealer, you want them around when you need them.  A place of comfort and refuge, and a place to send others.  Yet some get lost in any size crowd, thankfully Jesus knows who you are.  And desires one to one fellowship with you.  And I am amazed at how personal he can be in a service of 3000, or in 25.  Some say size matters, Jesus is interested in you, so much that if you were the only sinner, he still would have died just for you.  And he knew your name long before you knew his. 

So I encourage you to get involved in whatever size church you attend.  Get into a small group, but always choose the small group of just you and Jesus first.  His name should come to mind before your parts guy and service manager.  You should feel so comfortable with him that you are welcome, even if just browsing.  Or hanging out just drinking their coffee and donuts.  There are relationships within relationships, both at cycle stores and church, be involved in both..We are the church, both inside it and outside of it.  And even though both have gotten bigger, keep in mind the personal side of why you attend both.  Jesus does, and you are always welcome.  Bike shops and churches have changed over the years, so have we.  So have motorcycles, aren’t you glad Jesus never does?  And he knows your name and calls you friend.  May your cycle store do the same.  Both can give you the ride of your life...only one never ends.  And church is still open on Sundays!

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

under the hood before the hood

Consider this for a minute, the rise in gang activity rose in direct proportion to the decline of service stations.  Think about it, as teens, many of us hung out at service stations, where gas was pumped by an attendant, sometimes a friend working nights there, they rented U Hauls, they repaired cars, rented out empty space on their lot to dump trucks or trash trucks, who were privately owned before trash became big business, and the back room was a place to learn all about life, from a different perspective than health class.  Before computers and technology, we would help a friend work on his car, personalizing it by first getting it running.  We learned the basics of an LOF, lube, oil, and filter.  We got our hands dirty from using a grease gun, making sure to hit all the zerks.  Which are gone today.  We changed the oil, the filter, learned about points, plugs, and condensers, the key elements to a tune up.  Maybe the garage owner would let us hang around while he worked on cars, and we learned all about mechanical lifters which needed to be adjusted, taking apart and rebuilding a carburetor, and setting the timing for more power.  In the fall we would flush the cooling system and refill it with Prestone, and in the spring drain the Prestone and fill it with water.  While a big part of winterizing your car was also putting on snow tires, where we learned to use a floor jack, or to use the lift if we were found to be old enough.  Special times were when the owner was busy, and the bell rang when a car needed gas, and he asked us to take care of it.  Careful not to overfill when they asked for $2, and careful not to lose a finger to the filler under the license plate, held on by a nasty spring.  I still have bruises from that one.  And being allowed to put the cash in the cash drawer, because you were trusted, a trust you would never do anything to hurt, as this was the time of your life.  And you went home tired, dirty, and with a sense of accomplishment, all for free, but looking forward to the next night, or all day Saturday.  At the service station.  Where you pumped the gas for them.  Self serve was only for bikers, and you learned quickly not to even ask to fill their tank, you just handed them the hose.  Life was under the hood, not in the hood.

But you also learned about dealing with people, and being honest with them.  You watched as change was counted out.  You counted out the Green Stamps.  You would see neighbors outside of their homes, and feel good when they would comment about how you were growing up, and couldn’t believe you were really in high school.  But it was the conversations in the back room, where the girlie calendar hung, where the room often was heavy with Camel or Chesterfield smoke, where life was learned.  You heard about the dates with that girl, and all the conquests, sexual and social that went on when you would be grown up.  And although exciting , it scared you.  You thought you were.  You heard about problems paying bills from the older guys, how Mrs. Brown was getting divorced, and how they would sure like to ask her out.  How the price of gas was raised to over 30 cents, and people complained.  You learned to shut up and listen and learn, sometimes getting the story right from the horse’s mouth, but influenced by the other end of the horse.  But you wanted to be cool like them, and when you noticed the round imprint on their wallet, you knew they were carrying a rubber, they weren’t condoms yet, that had been there so long it had left an imprint.  For showing you were a man...never a thought to using it.  For you talked about sex, but never did it.  There were certain protocals to dating, and respect was one of them.  And sometimes you even saw the price to be paid for indescretion, as a friend would have to get married, and miss out on all the fun you were having.  And suddenly dating wasn’t as much fun, and sex was limited to the limited views of the calendar.  And that the only book where sex came after marriage was the dictionary.  Good times, good friends, and good memories, all hanging out at the service station.  And I miss them, along with the smell  of grease, ethyl gas, and rich running cars.  Smells that today are gone, that we are told are deadly today, but we all somehow managed to make it.  A place where morals, responsibility, repair skills, and respect were taught.  But today we have self serve, no service stations, cashiers hiding behind bullet proof glass, and cars that can’t be worked on.  Even mechanics are now called techs, and wear rubbers, gloves that is, to keep their hands from getting dirty.  Don’t want to mess up those cuticles.  And so kids hang out on street corners, and soon form gangs, and soon get into crime.  If only the service stations were still here, they would learn about life under a car, rather than stealing one.  Learn respect for each other, rather than fighting for turf.  And pass on a work ethic to their kids that our fathers passed not us, and we hope we passed on to ours.  But there is hope, and technology isn’t it.  Is it possible that technology was a good thing, and like progress it just went on too long?

Today we many who don’t go to church, they sit in front of a laptop, sipping latte at a Starbucks watching a streamed church service.  No social interaction, no fellowship with other believers and no growth.  God has been reduced to a convenience, watched at a convenient time when God fit into your schedule.  Maybe even a reminder to pop up reminding you.  We have become so isolated form each other, from pumping our own gas, to driving our kids to places we used to walk, to regulating what they eat, and they better not get their hands dirty-germs!  What it is is living in fear, and even being afraid to admit it.  Perpetuating a lie. And I blame churches, rather pastors and staffs who concentrate on social issues, rather than Jesus.  Who are all about programs, projects, and procedures.  Who forget that we are individuals, and think because we faked it through a 12 step program we know God.  And then sit back and congratulate themselves on what a great job they did.  And I want to puke.  Too many have learned how to work within the system, but don’t know how to escape it.  We need men and women to stand tall in Jesus, and spend time with our kids, building a respect in them for us, so when we tell them about Jesus, they listen.  They listen like we listened at the garage, how whatever we were told, we listened.  We had respect and wanted to be like the guy running the shop.  We wanted to know first hand...and today many still want to know Jesus that way.  We have church clubs, but still need the follow up, the encouragement after the lesson, and when the problems arise.  We need to invite kids over when we work on our bikes, our cars, and to hang out.  To show them that Jesus is not a set of rules to obey, but rather a freedom to live in.  To show he is personal, and build relationships and trusts they can pass on.  To equip others to equip others, the Bible calls it discipleship.  And we need it now.

Invite a kid to church, he may make excuses.  We did.  But invite them to check out your rides, to hang out listening to bench racing, and to get them involved.  A chance to be a witness one on one, and show how life in Christ really is, and not hide behind a monitor.  Get their hands dirty, and send them home with a sense of accomplishment, a sense of belonging, and a desire to come back.  Men we need you now, we need real men who love Jesus, and are willing to open their garages.  To do it without a program, no processes, and the procedure being the holy spirit.  Spring for Slurpees, and watch as relationships grow, the gospel is spread, and lives are changed for Christ.  See people saved.  Looking back  never realized those special days hanging out pumping gas, and cleaning stalls were really preparing me to share the gospel.  But we were having church, maybe we just need to get back to the basics.  The basic being Jesus.  He will change lives that no social programs ever will, but you need to reach that audience.  If you have anything other than cars, motorcycles, and Jesus in your garage, you need to clean it up, and clean up your act too.  The first church met in the upper room, turn your garage into that upper room.  I can almost smell the racing castor now....let the testimonies begin.  Kids need men to look up to, and we all need Jesus.  The ultimate service station.  Under the hood before the hood.  And after.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com