The view from behind the service counter

When I took this job, I thought it would be about motorcycles. I failed to realize it would be about people above all other things.

Most jobs have their share of chaos, stress, peak seasons, and good times. What I've learned over the years is it's our motivation and attachment to what we do that allows us to appreciate each event that comes our way. This has never been more true than my time spent behind the service counter at a busy motorcycle dealership.

A service writer isn't just checking in motorcycles. They're checking in the rider who apologizes for bringing in a dirty bike, followed by the one whose bike is much dirtier and hasn't been cleaned since Obama's first term.

They're checking in the retired engineer who's owned the same motorcycle for over 20 years. You know the guy. He slowly unfolds a handwritten list of everything he wants looked over. A list so detailed you begin to wonder if he wrote the OEM service checklist himself.

Then there's the traveler you've been playing phone tag with for weeks. He's riding across the continent, needs a 12,000-mile service, tires you don't normally stock, and somehow needs it all done today so he can catch back up with his riding group.

Although the focus of the job is fixing and maintaining motorcycles, managing people and expectations quickly becomes the real job. The stories become endless, and before long the motorcycles become the supporting characters in each owner's story.

The conversations rarely disappoint.

"My bike is making a clanking noise."

"What kind of clanking?"

"You know... the normal kind."

"Normal for motorcycles, or normal for your motorcycle?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

A few minutes later…

"My oil light came on."

"When was your last service?"

"Last year."

"How many miles ago?"

"About 12,000."

Those conversations happen every single day.

There is inevitable humor when I walk back into the shop and try to translate whatever I just heard into something a technician could actually diagnose.

"Customer says it's making a clanking noise."

"Front or rear?"

"He doesn't know."

"Engine or drivetrain?"

"He doesn't know."

Long pause...

"Can he make it do it again?"

That's when I realized a service writer isn't just the first person customers talk to. They're an interpreter. You spend half your day translating customer into technician, and the other half translating technician back into customer.

Some riders only ride when the sun is shining, but not if it's too hot or too cold. Others ride so little they don't think maintenance matters because the bike spends more time sitting than rolling. Then there are the riders who put so many miles on their bikes they need major services every season and can't believe the cost of owning something they use exactly as it was intended.

Somewhere between "Can you squeeze me in today for a valve adjustment?" and "I'm leaving tomorrow for a cross-country trip, but I just pulled the bike out of the shed and found out the fuel pump is bad. Do you have one in stock?" are a million stories.

Some end with you becoming someone's hero. Others end with explaining why the impossible is still impossible.

While I'm no stranger to managing expectations and personalities, the addition of anxiety, excitement, pride, and occasional disappointment was something entirely different. I thought years of managing people had prepared me for this job. Nobody prepared me for how attached riders become to their motorcycles, or how differently that attachment presents itself from one person to the next.

In the course of it all, I stopped hearing repair requests and started hearing something else. It took me a while to realize that urgency often had anxiety underneath it, perfectionism usually came from pride, and impatience was often just excitement to move on with the day. Once I noticed that, every conversation became easier.

It's in that hidden emotional side of motorcycle ownership that I not only learned about myself, but found a new way to listen and communicate with people.

One rider rolls in on the motorcycle his father left him. He only rides it a handful of times each year because some things feel too important to wear out. His need to preserve the bike is clear.

Another finally buys the bike that spent years hanging as a poster on his bedroom wall.

Someone else is preparing for the biggest trip of their life. Every bag is packed except the one carrying whatever might go wrong.

Even though every repair order looks nearly identical, the story behind each one never is. The goal is always the same: help them keep something that is meaningful to them safe and roadworthy so they can continue making memories rather than repairs.

Every motorcycle eventually finds its way behind a service counter. I expected to learn about maintenance schedules, warranty claims, and parts availability. Instead, I learned about people who ride them. Amidst filling out repair orders, searching for hard-to-find parts, trying to meet impossible deadlines, and engaging in countless conversations across the counter, I realized I wasn't just learning about motorcycles. I was learning about the people who couldn't imagine life without them.