Catalonia Kerfuffle

As a child, standing excitedly at an ice-cream truck with a teenager who resented the assignment of babysitting me, I modestly asked for a small chocolate cone. He changed my order to a kiddie cone. It was tiny. It was tiny compared to even my tiny hand. I was heartbroken. I loved ice cream. I swore I’d never put myself in a circumstance like that again.

At the last minute before leaving the USA for an international motorcycle introduction in Catalonia, Spain, it was announced that the USA manufacturer’s host was unable to attend. In his place a lone underling was assigned the hosting duties. The problem with this was, as we would discover during the trip, this underling had unmanageable contempt for motojournalists and no intention of hiding it. Worse than that, it seemed his primary mission was to be all-in on his loathing to ensure that we’d be fully aware of it. From Los Angeles International Airport forward, the journey was an antagonistic game of one side biting the hand that feeds it with the other side biting the hand that pets it.We had to keep reminding ourselves that our host’s unpleasant loathing of us was not supposed to be what we would be reviewing for publication. 

From what our host said during that trip, the reason for his contempt was because motojournalists are prima donnas. I’ve no argument there, but that’s not entirely our fault. Many corporations supply us with gifts, graft and adoration, and then aren’t quite pleased with the outcome of entitled divas. The idea, for some brands, is to take advantage of our generally weak characters for better reviews. But our weak characters often miss the point and just seize on the joys of shiny objects. More please. 

On our first night in Barcelona, the closest city to Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya where we would ride, our host excused himself before we had a chance to order a single nightcap. This was unusual. Our expectations of free drinks for the prima donnas were dashed. So, we bought drinks with our own money and commiserated over how our first long day with our host had revealed his impatience, disgust, and dislike, in nearly every one of our interactions with him. We feared the trip might not improve. No ice cream for us.

The following morning, we piled into two vans. The lead van was piloted by our angry host, the second by me. The sky was threatening, but the air was dry. After following the first van for about 45 minutes, we noticed that we had come down many of the same streets two or three times and hadn’t yet left the city. He finally stopped and admitted that he was lost, as if that was a mystery to us. Following countless  attempts, we arrived at the track, after more driving in circles for over two hours. We later learned it should have taken us 28 minutes. As we arrived, the sky opened up with a drenching rain that didn’t relent until late that night. Every journalist except us Americans had been on the bikes getting 90-minutes of dry track time. 

We were at that point hating our host possibly more than he was hating us. After a brief wait to see if the rain might clear, which it didn’t, it was time for us to suck it up, suit up, and hit the track. So, we did. 

There was a lot of scratched bodywork by the end of the day. I don’t remember the final total, but it seems to have been about eight motojournalists hitting the pavement, myself and two other Americans included. It was just another day of riding in the rain on a racetrack on DOT tires. Our host was not pleased that a couple of us had brought cameras and taken pictures of the massive pile of bodywork in the dumpster behind the pit garages. Worse yet, some of us used those images in print

Yup, that dumpster appeared with my story. I should have known better. I did know better, but now suspect that it was my not-so subtle venting about our host’s attitude. At least I hadn’t let my review be influenced.

After my crash and checking out of the on-track medical center, I hurried back to pit lane for another motorcycle so I could try not crashing again. Waiting at our pit garage with a few other riders, our host from the States crashed a scooter in front of us. We involuntarily busted a laugh watching him slide by on his back. Yes, it was a heartless moment of schadenfreude. And guiltless too but heck, I’ve witnessed manufacturer reps laugh while watching journalists crash. 

That night, our host abandoned us again. By this point, us journos agreed it was for the best. We wandered the streets of Barcelona, fought off a pickpocket, and had an angry Spanish drunk try to punch one of us because we were Americans. Initially he wanted to punch us for being British, but when one of us corrected him he settled for punching at his second-most-hated foreigners. It was a good night, all things considered.

This event was a two-day introduction, with the second day featuring a short street ride on dry pavement. That evening, our host took us to dinner in our hotel’s restaurant and then once again deserted us. We were prepared this time, having surreptitiously gotten his room number for use at the hotel bar. We drank many toasts to his health, compassion, and gregarious attitude, and to our successful revenge.  

On the bus ride to the airport the next day, our host mentioned that he noticed a significantly enhanced bill when checking out of the hotel. He said he would forgive our thievery rather than report us to our publishers or editorial bosses. For a few moments we liked him slightly more. Well, OK, for a few moments we disliked him slightly less.

Thinking later about why this marketing representative hated motojournalists so much, I figured he had forgotten that we were why he had a job. Plus, he should have seen that although we were a fun-loving bunch we were appropriately professional when necessary. Work that requires an odd set of skills requires an odd type of human, no? I also knew he was infamous for his own bad behaviors. Back then, though, what I hadn’t thought of was maybe he only hated a couple of us in particular, such as me. 

He wouldn’t come to like me any better. 

A few years later, as Editor in Chief of a print magazine, I assigned a friend to an international introduction for this same brand. More than just a freelancer, this friend is a former AMA national road racing champion and has depths of personality. Lots and lots of personality. Once again, my angry nemesis was in charge of the intro. 

Shortly after the introduction, my nemesis called me, asking if I’d spoken with my freelancer since the event. I told him we had chatted about when I needed his words and that was about it. He then told me that it was a two-day intro at a racetrack, and on the second day my freelancer didn’t show up for transport to the track. He said they pounded loudly on his hotel door repeatedly and phoned numerous times without a response. They gave up and went to the track without him, not seeing him again until they met for dinner.

I apologized profusely, promising that that would never happen again. He said he wasn’t going to punish my magazine in any way. He just wanted me to know what happened so I could be sure to control my contributors. I was surprised at his grace. 

I called my friend and asked him if anything happened at the introduction that he might want to share with me. He guessed I had received a phone call. He said he was out partying late into the night with another journalist. He was passed out in his bed when it was time to get on the bus. He agreed he had let the magazine down. 

It just might be that this manufacturer’s rep was a better judge of us than I could admit.

Maybe a future extra sample.

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