(Re)born to Be Wild

Schwartz continued to run the dealership out of its original location--he had built the business to just about $8 million in revenue and $700,000 in profit--and by the fall of 1997, he had nailed down all the proper permits, had presented his plan to Harley, and not only secured the company's approval but also a commitment for a $6 million loan from its financing division. He had also spoken to local community groups, conducted noise studies in the neighborhood, and agreed to put his repair shop on the side of the building that faced the road, not the residents. In November 1997, the wrecking ball came down on the old HoJo's. A few weeks later, a construction trailer was hauled to the site. "Mike sat in that trailer," says his wife, Debbie, "and watched every brick go up." At night, she says, they reviewed the blueprints, studying and tweaking the architects' drawings.

Along with the restaurant, Schwartz also came up with a plan for the Museum of the American Road. He decided to feature motorcycle legend Dave Barr, who had earned a place in the Guinness World Records by riding a Harley WideGlide from the coast of France through Northern Europe and across Russia (in the winter) to the Pacific Ocean. It was the ultimate motorcycle adventure, made even more impressive by Barr's disability: He has two prosthetic legs. "I get approached by dealers all the time," says Barr, who is now a public speaker, "and I get a lot of offers and a lot of it is just rubbish. But Mike was the guy." Barr agreed to send Schwartz the bike he'd ridden to the Guinness record. He also pledged to hand over medals, pictures, and other memorabilia that Schwartz would use to create an interactive exhibit. In return, Schwartz would give Barr a modified Sportster (with a Mike's logo on the fuel tank) to ride on his 2002 "Southern Cross" journey, a 45-day trip hitting the four extreme geographical corners of Australia.

It was December 18, 1998, when Schwartz opened the doors to his new dealership, and he decided to keep it low key; he would save the real fanfare for the spring, when his potential customers were more likely to be dreaming of the open road. Then again, low key is a relative thing. For the many months it took to build his new facility, Schwartz kept hundreds of thousands of passing motorists up to speed on his plans. Mike's Famous billboards weren't as thick on I-95 as they are now, but they were hard to miss. One billboard during the construction started with a picture of a baby and one syllable: "Ba." Then another Ba was added, then another. By the time the new Mike's Famous was open, the sign said, "Ba-Ba-Ba-Bad to the Bone," and the baby wore a bandanna. The dealership was packed on opening day. "We did more business in one day than in any single week at our old place," Schwartz recalls. The building itself seemed to generate as much buzz as the motorcycles. From the road, the 40,000-square-foot complex was reminiscent of Harley's early red-brick manufacturing plants, while its back entrance mimicked a post-World War II service station. Inside, the theme was an eclectic combination of Route 66, art deco, and turn-of-the-century warehouse. Mike's Warehouse Grill was designed to resemble a manufacturing plant cafeteria, with steel conveyors, cogs, and wheels on the walls.

The following June, Schwartz held a proper grand opening. It began in York, Pa., home of a Harley factory. Barr and Schwartz rode their motorcycles side by side, with 500 pumped-up Harley devotees following behind. "We rode with a police escort," Schwartz recalls. "It was a beautiful summer day and I was riding right out in front with Dave. I'll never forget it."

That first year, Schwartz's revenue hit $13 million, and he earned Harley's coveted Gold Bar & Shield award, which recognizes the top 4% of the 650 dealerships in the country for outstanding customer service and sales performance.

Of course, not everything went smoothly. The restaurant, for example, proved to be more of a loss leader than Schwartz had anticipated, dropping $200,000 in 1999. "We were so focused on our unique products"--homemade cole slaw, freshly baked apple pie--"that we didn't realize we had to keep an eye on our food costs," he says. "It became pretty obvious that something was wrong when the restaurant manager kept coming to me asking for a check to cover payroll." In part, the operation was bleeding cash because Schwartz had insisted on creating a restaurant to satisfy his own tastes, rather than one tailored to market needs. It's a common mistake among business owners, but Schwartz could have kicked himself: "I was no different from those old-school Harley dealers who don't understand customer service."

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