Spartan strives to achieve what executive vice-president John Sztykiel (George's son) labels "impact spending." "We are always asking ourselves, 'If we don't spend money on car phones, can we then use that money to hire somebody in the plant?' We want to spend money on production."
Spartan, not surprisingly, spends little on advertising. Yet last year it willingly incurred $100,000 in interest expenses on various chassis it took to 42 trade shows on three continents -- not to mention the expense of getting people to those shows. John Sztykiel knew that was money well spent. "We got products out there so our customers could touch and kick them. That's the best kind of advertising."
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The Homegrown Work Force
Money is not the only resource that Spartan managers religiously seek to put to best use. When it comes to the work force, George Sztykiel runs as pure a meritocracy as a hierarchically based corporation can muster. "You come here, and what we want to know is, what the hell's inside your brain, what's your attitude?" he says. "Your pedigree means nothing to us." The only credentials Spartan "engineers" seem to have are advanced degrees in common sense and practical knowledge. Most of them started in the assembly plant and worked their way up to the drafting board.
Of 380 employees at Spartan, only 8 have college or advanced degrees. The preponderance come from inside the county, off the farm and out of the local high school. Tony Sommer calls the Spartan work force "vocationally literate" and "not afraid to work." Many grew up on farms, tending -- from an early age -- not only to livestock but to broken tractors as well. Many still rebuild car engines in their spare time. Many come from families in which generations have worked at GM's big Oldsmobile plant in Lansing.
"We are pros in designing chassis. We don't push complexity," says Sztykiel. "Building trucks is not science, it is art, strictly art. The old engineers pass on the feeling to the new guys. We produce 10 times faster and cheaper than big companies, where they have lost the feeling, so all they can do is apply science."
The feeling comes from going to a lot of trade shows, talking to customers, and seeing what's out there in the market. It is developed through a rigorous cross-training of the work force, giving chassis assemblers a greater sense of the overall product. Spartan, meanwhile, hires so many people right out of high school because Sztykiel believes it is mainly the young who are supple enough in mind and spirit to grasp the Spartan unorthodoxy. Todd Chapman, for example, started working at the company during his senior year in high school, through a co-op program. After graduation he came to Spartan full-time, where he is now -- at age 20 -- the head electrical "engineer."
Reed-thin and clean-cut in a sport shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, Chapman looks young enough to still be in high school. He figures he spends 60% of his time either troubleshooting on the floor of the plant or talking on the phone with vendors, learning about products they have in development. How did Chapman end up with so much responsibility so early on? He shrugs at the question: "I guess I'm willing to learn. I'm open-minded, and there are a lot of people with experience and wisdom here."
He's talking about people like Larry Karkau, a 30-year veteran who worked with George Sztykiel back at Diamond Reo. It was Karkau's extensive knowledge of chassis design, coupled with the tenacity of Tim Williams, 25 years his junior, that produced a breakthrough for Spartan in 1990.
For years the company and its competitors had been puzzling over how to produce a low-cost chassis for a high-end motor home. The weight of the motor home demanded expensive components, driving the final cost up to more than $100,000, a price range in which there is demand for fewer than 1,000 units a year. It was a problem competitors seemed to have given up on.
For a year and a half Karkau and Williams labored to produce a chassis that would cut the price in half, a price point at which the annual market widens out to 20,000 units. But there was one big hitch -- the job required custom-made parts.
Williams, says Karkau, "had a lot of ideas. He likes to tinker around. He has a good practical knowledge of how things have to go together." Williams's résumé certainly wouldn't indicate that. He took drafting in high school and spent a decade "kicking around from place to place. I drove a semi for a while." The two men decided to rethink the concept by using a diesel engine instead of a gasoline engine and mounting it in the rear. That resulted in less noise, better fuel economy, and more room in the cab. Those changes piqued the curiosity of other component suppliers. "We convinced outside vendors to make the product we wanted," says Karkau. "The tooling costs were theirs, not ours." Williams recalls that there was periodic talk at Spartan about killing the project, which he resisted. "I was real candid about this. I knew it could work," he says.
