To be a success, a salesman must convince people that something is missing in their lives. Then he must convince them that the thing missing is for sale before them. These are difficult tasks, and while this art comes naturally to some, it is a terrific challenge for others.

I have never thought of myself as a good salesman. A certain skepticism keeps me from talking nicely about anything unless I really love it. Just as I wear my excitement on my sleeve, I also wear my uncertainty and disdain there, too. And given that I have a genuine appreciation of only a few things in this world, I have always avoided having to sell anyone anything.

That is, except motocross. In the realm of salesmanship, motocross is my lone area of enthusiasm. Without even realizing, I always end up trying to sell it to everyone: to friends, to strangers, even to my wife. In my head I have dozens of random facts stored only for the purpose of promoting dirt-bike racing.

Of course, I am not literally selling motocross. There is no commission involved, and, in fact, I usually can’t think of a single thing that’s in it for me. Yet I always go on selling, opening my gear bag of pro-motocross propaganda at the slightest hint of an opportunity.

For example, a friend of mine is into cars. So he’s into mechanical things in general, and shows a natural interest in my motorcycle from time to time. That’s when I pounce.

“You should really consider unloading a couple of your project cars,” I tell him. “You could buy a new 250F for half of what you got for them. You could probably trick that bike to the hilt, get a couple of sets of gear and still have money left over. Plus you wouldn’t need to spend half your life on your back staring at an oil pan. Motorcycles are way easier to work on, and cheaper to hop up, too.”

I wait for a reaction. Usually I get a hesitant spark of interest--a fatal mistake on his part. Realizing he’s just emboldening me, he then searches to raise doubt. “But I don’t know how to set up a bike,” he says. “And it actually seems pretty expensive to keep one running.”

“Pffft,” I say. “New bikes are so good they virtually set themselves up. And it costs virtually nothing to keep one running.” If I’m within arm’s reach of my own bike, I jump on it and start kicking. After a dozen kicks, it lights up and I start yelling to make my case over the pock-pock-pock of the 450’s exhaust.

“See how good that sounds?” I yell, revving the engine erratically. “And I barely touch the thing! I swear it could go a year without so much as an oil change! I’ve never even seen the piston!” I hit the kill switch, grinning widely and nodding my head as if to say, Aren’t you convinced now?

But his expression--a familiar mix of amusement and doubt--lets me know that I’m failing. He likes motorcycles, there’s no question, but I’m not helping him clear the divide that would transform him from a casual motorcycle enthusiast to a hardcore salesman of the sport like me.

Desperate, I try to arrange for him to come ride with me that week. This is akin to the weary telemarketer who pleads near the end of a wavering call, “But can’t I put you down for just a $10 pledge? Anything would help, sir, honestly.” But by this point he knows my game, and is wise enough to remain noncommittal. “Maybe I’ll come with,” he says. “Just give me a call that day.”

This tactic is brilliant, since it allows him to ride the bike if he chooses, but keeps me from going on endlessly about where we should go and how cool it is going to be and did you need some gear?--and so on. In other words, it keeps me from entangling him too deeply in my sales pitch.

If I only did this with my friends, there would be some sense in the routine. After all, I could gain a new riding buddy if I succeeded in making my case. But there’s no good explanation for why I do this with strangers. In those cases I am not so forward as to insist they buy a bike, but my subtler methods are no less purposeful. For some reason, I become a cheerleader of the general state of motocross in the company of half-interested types, emphasizing how good the bikes are now, and how exciting this year’s supercross series is, and how pumped I am that it’s supposed to rain this week, which will make the dirt so Velcro-like and perfect.

It doesn’t even matter if the stranger has only an ancient connection to motocross, and asks “Is Hannah still racing?” when we begin our discussion. I still do my best, no matter how little time I have with my new friend, to inform him on the current state of motocross and why he would be a fool not to take part in this golden age. I never state that last part plainly, but I make sure it’s implied.

Sometimes my enthusiasm manages to rub off, and the stranger gets excited, too. He starts telling me about his last bike--a Yamaha YZ465--and how he had to quit riding when his cousin got drunk and rode it into a ravine. “I think my aunt in Stockton might still have it in her backyard,” he says. “Maybe I’ll give her a call tonight.”

Continued

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