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It took Delaney another few weeks to get the shop up and running to the point where she was ready for the grand opening. Her biggest worry had been about business being slow. A lot of motorcycle shops struggled and the guys who’d rented this space before her, and failed, were a case in point. But part of her motivation for sticking with this area—aside from not being able to live in Omaha without Dad—was that plenty of people around here had money, which meant that they could afford to indulge in vintage cycles. The closest vintage shop was hours away, so she was confident in a captive customer base. In the time since she’d gotten the space, Delaney had amped up her marketing by introducing herself to motorcycle groups and the people who conducted riding courses, and meeting the owners of the shops across the street. It didn’t hurt that it was June, which was prime biking season. Everybody was pulling their motorcycles out of storage and novices were looking into buying them.
Things are off to a great start!
That would be the caption for the photo she’d post later to the Triple M Classics Instagram account, and to Dad’s Facebook page. She snapped a few pictures of the crowd, many of them clustered around ’33, which had been shined up and put on display for the grand opening. On the other side of the store was a table with refreshments—appetizers and wine from the Italian restaurant across the street. Around the perimeter of the shop were glossy photos of vintage motorcycles—a 1950 Vincent Black Shadow, a 1972 R75/5 BMW, Dad sitting on ’33—along with a couple deployment pics and various prints of celebrity riders and their bikes whom Delaney liked: Peter Fonda on the famous chopper fromEasy Rider; Keanu Reeves and his Norton Commando; Pink, midriff bared, with her custom Indian Scout; Charlie Hunnam and his Harley Dyna Super Glide; and of course, Norman Reedus, both on his blacked-out Tiger and just Norman, no bike, surrounded by zombies, all of them throwing the camera the bird. Other than that little bit of flash, the rest of the shop was just nuts and bolts bikes and gear, an honest reflection of the serious riders she wanted to draw.
It seemed to be working. Her grand opening was only three hours old and already she had work lined up. An older guy with a British accent had bought a ’77 Triumph Bonneville Silver Jubilee last fall and wanted Delaney to take out the shitty Lucas electrical and custom build a new system.
“Is that your specialty?” A tall woman in a Harley jacket who’d been eavesdropping stepped into the conversation. “British bikes?”
“No, ma’am. I can do them all.” Another thing that would set Delaney apart. She’d been working on bikes since she was knee-high. Dad did not discriminate or specialize. He liked all bikes, vintage jobs being his favorite. “British, American, Japanese,” Delaney said. “I have experience with each. I have a soft spot for American bikes, obviously.” She nodded in the direction of the Indian Four.
The woman smiled. “Well, in that case, I got a Shovelhead I need you to look at.”
“Sure,” Delaney said. “Is it on the road?”
“Yeah, I’ve been riding it.” The woman pulled her blond hair into a ponytail and affixed it with a tie. She looked to be in her forties by the fine lines around her eyes that she didn’t try to mask with makeup. Her eyebrows were sculpted, though, plucked and primed, like a kiss of feminine vibes amidst the sea of leather and denim. “But it’s acting funny.”
Delaney wondered if the supposed Shovelhead was a mislabeled Ironhead. She wouldn’t know unless she looked at it. “Bring it in,” she said.
“Don’t gotta ask me twice.”
Most of the people who crammed the grand opening were riders of some kind, whether hard-core or weekenders, but some were thinking of getting into it, and a few had no interest at all, they had just spotted her colorful banners from the road or just liked to look at old motorcycles. A lot of people who stopped by were into riding but had never gone vintage and had a lot of questions.
“It’s not for everybody,” Delaney told one young woman who didn’t even have her motorcycle license yet. “Vintage bikes are fun but they’re a different breed from modern bikes. They’re slower. They’re going to need ongoing work. And unlike today’s bikes, it was assumed they were going to be worked on by the owner. The assumption was anyone buying a bike had some working knowledge on how to keep it running.”
The young lady’s eyes began to glaze over, her lips parted in thought. “I think I’ll hold off,” she said, her gaze darting to the ’33 that was surrounded consistently by at least three or four people.
“Do your research and know what you’re getting into,” Delaney advised. “If you don’t enjoy doing your homework, you won’t enjoy the bike, either.”
“That’s solid advice,” an older guy chimed in. He wore denim and leather from head to toe, had a set of gray Willie Nelson braids and had come in an hour ago with a big smile, talking about Dude’s Bikes. “Wasn’t a great shop,” he’d said. “Those brothers might know bikes but they had no business dealing with the public. They were shady at best and, between you and me—” he lowered his voice “—I think they were dealing in more than motorcycles.”
Delaney had wanted to ask more about that but there’d been too many people around, so she made a note to bring the topic up later, if she got a chance.
“This your Indian?” someone called out, a young man in blue jeans and an old Metallica shirt.
“Hey, are you selling the print with Daryl and the zombies?” someone else asked.
“Did you make this food yourself?”
“Yes, it’s her bike,” the older guy with the braids yelled back. “She’s not selling that print, is my guess, and the food is from Nonni’s, across the way.” He turned back. “I recognize the garlic bread.”
Delaney offered a grateful smile. Normally she’d have been annoyed at someone taking over, but this guy reminded her a little of Dad. Not in appearance—Dad had looked more like Clint Black than Willie Nelson—but in his easygoing but confident bearing and an almost quiet protectiveness that came out in the way he’d handled the crowd. “Thanks,” she said. “I might have to hire you.”
“Hey, don’t offer unless you mean it.” The guy struck a big grin and stuck out his hand. “Walt. Harley to the core. But I like what you’re doing.”
“Delaney.” She shook his large, bony hand. “You know how to work on bikes?”
“Harleys. Could feel my way around the others. This is great, what you’ve done so far. How thick is this concrete?” He tapped his boot toe.
“Four inches.”
“Nice. Great job on the paint color.”
“I know, right? Now I can drop all the carburetor float springs I want.”
Walt laughed big.
