The Ride of His Life

Robert Klick's fifth business wowed Oprah, bowled over Kelly Ripa, and put him cheek by jowl with Russell Crowe. Too bad this amazing celebrity run had to end in work, work, work.

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You might say the idea landed in Robert Klick's lap. While bouncing his then two-year-old daughter Maddi on his knee, Dad noticed something was missing from the pony ride. In full mad-scientist mode, he gutted a rocking horse. Fake fur, toilet paper tubes, and duct tape soon filled his suburban Minneapolis home. Using Maddi--and later, infant son Cameron--for in-house research and development, Klick tweaked his invention for weeks until, voilà , the Po-Knee was foaled.

And the foal had legs. In a rollicking sequence of events, which started last February, Klick has become what he describes as the Forrest Gump of the toy world. He has befriended the president of QVC and partied with Oscar winners and bantered on-air with Oprah--not once but twice. Top toy magnates now seek him out. "It's weird," says Klick. "This thing is a celebrity magnet."

It's also a moneymaker. So far, Klick has sold roughly 14,000 units and grossed $500,000, against a total investment of $110,000. Now he wonders, could the Po-Knee become the next Mr. Potato Head? The windfall might be so great, Klick dreams, that his wife could quit her job, the college fund would be flush, and he'd be free to spend his days tinkering. But for a 39-year-old guy who enjoys bouncing from one business to the next--this is his fifth--the worst thing may be an idea that demands total devotion.

And They're Off!

Klick's story starts in earnest a year ago this month, when he traveled to New York City to attend Toy Fair, the annual industry convention held at the cavernous Javits convention center. In the months before the event, Klick had refined the design, added a neighing sound chip, and lined up a manufacturer in Hong Kong. He had 200 Po-Knees stacked in his home. He also had a provisional patent. The agenda for the trade show was simply to drum up interest, maybe make a couple of deals. His wife, parents, brother, and friends planned to make the trip with him, though several almost bailed when the government raised the terrorist alert to orange for the city days before the show. More problems ensued when the clan arrived to find New York City inundated with 10,000 protesters of the war in Iraq. There were heavily armed military personnel in the streets and cops on every corner. That was followed by a nor'easter, which blanketed Manhattan with two feet of snow. The daily trudge to Javits was miserable. "Three of us had to haul all the Po-Knees through the blizzard," says Klick, "and my banners didn't make it."

One benefit of the weather, however, was that tickets to Live With Regis and Kelly were easy to come by. Hoping to get noticed, the Klicks brought a Po-Knee, which caught the eye of the nine-months-pregnant Kelly Ripa during a break. She promised to show the toy on-air later that week. The Po-Knee's television debut seemed to be at hand. But then Ripa went into labor, and the segment never materialized.

The Clubhouse Turn

Back at Toy Fair, however, Klick was having more luck. A few specialty retailers agreed to sell the Po-Knee, pricing it at $49.99. Though Toys "R" Us wouldn't bite, "all of the old-time buyers loved it," Klick recalls. Then a young licensing representative from Universal Studios stopped by the booth. He'd come to see a man about a horse.

Though Klick "had never even heard of Seabiscuit," plenty of other people had. Hollywood expected the movie, based on the bestseller about a Depression-era racehorse, to be a big hit. But Universal had found few licensees that were right for its prestige picture. Because the story appealed to grandparents--Klick's prime customer base--and because Universal offered him a sweetheart deal, Klick happily signed on as a licensee. As a thank-you, the studio invited him and his wife, Shannon, to Los Angeles for the movie's premiere. The couple walked the red carpet and lived it up at the afterparty. They met Seabiscuit stars Chris Cooper and Jeff Bridges, who autographed a Po-Knee blanket. "I introduced myself to Bridges from one Preston Thomas Tucker to another," says Klick. To date, the licensed line has made up a third of sales.

The Quarter Pole

Walk into Klick's warehouse near the purifying waters of Lake Minnetonka and it's immediately obvious that Po-Knee is a family operation. Bratwurst in the Crock-Pot and Christmas carols on the CD player keep the energy up as various friends and family members wander in and out, offering their help.

Klick had a typical middle-class upbringing. Neither of his parents owned a business, yet they have always supported his oddball ventures (see chart, page 84). "It's hard to have a child who is an entrepreneur," says his mother, Carol, as she labels boxes of toys. "You want them to do well but it can be tough to watch. But who knows, maybe the Po-Knee will rescue us all."

She isn't the only relative helping out. Klick's biggest break came when his sister Nancy, a stay-at-home mom in Colorado, entered him in an invention contest. QVC would select seven inventors to appear on Oprah. The talk-show audience would vote to pick a winner, who would then get to pitch his or her product on the shop-at-home network. "Nancy sent the letter on Wednesday," Klick recalls, "and Saturday morning I was picked up in a limo at O'Hare."

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