The People Factor
THE PEOPLE FACTOR
UP FRONT
Perhaps because deep down in their secret hearts they believe this magazine exists to sell motorcycles, the factory guys are always mad at us. We are, they say, too picky. Always looking on the bad side, unceasingly ready to find fault at the drop of a saddlebag lid.
The basis for their dissatisfaction— apart from our not being a sales tool—is that they honestly believe in the virtues of their products. They have visited their factories and watched in awe the welding robots, the lab technicians in white smocks reading millions of numbers from tiny green screens. They know how much money has been invested in computers and proving grounds. Thousands of scientists and engineers have spent zillions of dollars bringing out a line of motorcycles j-hat market research has shown to be ideal. Then they’re forced to lend these wonders to the motoring press, a bunch of guys who think formal wear is T-shirts without writing on the front, and we inkstained and grease-spotted wretches have the temerity to find fault.
We are, I admit with no shame, rather good at finding fault.
We are good at it and the factories’ minions don’t know why and how we are good at it because we have an advantage denied them:
We are the first people to ride the new models.
Let me back up a bit. This magazine reports on motorcycles. We write about them, ride them, dismantle, maintain and modify them. We fall in love about twice a month and we hope you do too. We spend more on our toys than we’d admit and again, we hope you do too, but we aren’t here to sell motorcycles. Magazines yes, books and belt buckles maybe, but not fcikes.
So we get to look at motorcycles as
human beings, the creatures who struggle with notchy gearshifts, forearms aching from throttle return springs so pure they have the strength of 10. We’re the guys who tip back and forth on the right toes while flailing backwards with left toes trying to weasel the blamed sidestand out from behind the swing arm. Damn and Blast! we say, don’t none of these factory experts ever ride these things?
No, in short, they don’t. Not like we do at least.
Eh? Oh, sure. Lots of exceptions. If there weren’t, we wouldn’t be here. And there is a debit side to the human equation. There are bikes with quirks and shortcomings that are the result of one man’s insistence on a feature, and there are weaknesses that aren’t cured because the factory would rather blame the customers for not doing extra maintenance than they would change the design so as not to need constant attention.
But those are the rare motorcycles these days. Instead we get people who are good at doing their jobs . . . and nothing else.
The people who design motorcycles design them to be produced and sold. They design them to perform well in the factory’s own tests.
Thus, we’ll get a superbike that steers and handles beautifully on smooth pavement. But it skips and hops on frost heaves and potholes and we didn’t know why until we went to the maker’s proving ground and saw the smoothest pavement money could buy. They wanted a perfect track, and then they came out with a bike that worked perfectly under the only conditions they knew.
Ever change oil on forks that have the caps hidden beneath the bars, so you have to remove the bars and let the controls dangle and risk kinking the cables? You can bet the designer on that project never had to change fork oil.
Why are oil filler caps nestled within the fins and/or behind cables and exhaust pipes? Because the engineer who did it never has to add oil to his engine. The batteries hidden deep within the frame and covered with panels, blocked by air boxes, etc., are there because the engineers need to put the battery where it doesn’t take space, and because they themselves never have to add water.
Seats and bars and side panels are frequently designed to look right, to harmonize with each other. Looking right isn’t the same as being right, but the designers don’t know that because they’ll never spend a day sitting in the wrong place with their wrists cocked at an inhuman angle.
And so it goes. I could walk out to my bike and find more examples, and so could you.
All these things are listed as an excuse to pass along a true story with a happy ending.
This comes from Steve Kimball. He went on a trip to one of the big factories and had a chance to talk with the chief engineer there.
This brand—I am keeping the name secret because this shouldn’t be a commercial—-ha^abigtouringbiketh^^ flagship of the fleet. It’s famous for having a passenger seat that works. We’ve tested the model and never have we had more passengers saying how comfortable they were for hours on end. (Aren’t puns fun?)
Anyway, Steve was talking about the various models and he mentioned the machine and the good accommodations, in particular how the backrest was located so it worked.
Oh yeah, the engineer said, tell you how that happened.
The engineer rides motorcycles. It’s his habit to go home at night and on the weekends with whatever model they’re working -on. One weekend he had the pilot model of the new touring mount and he and his wife went for a ride.
She said the backrest was too low, so he went back to the design staff and had them put it where it did some good. Being stylists, they’d put it where it looked good.
Next weekend the backrest was fine but the shape sloped them too closely together, so he had the padding rearranged to where each occupant had a place to sit. Then, now that she was sitting comfy, she noticed that the grab rails weren’t useable. As before, they had been located by looks. The rails were moved so they could be used.
Perfect, she said, and that’s the way the seat went into production and the huma$) beings have been comfy ever since.
I am a sucker for magic, the stories with three wishes and frogs into princes. When I do my good deed and get the card that says my word is everybody’s command, no motorcycle will be allowed out in public until the men who designed it have worked on it.
