Chasing Shiny Objects, Too

Stories That Shouldn't Die With Me

We ended the last story with me receiving a call from Rupp, whom I'd just delivered what I thought was the home run of our fledgling racing oil company. That call notified us that the delivery contained black specks in the oil, suggesting contamination. I called Nitro Joe, and he called Rupp's lead engineer; we were then headed to Mansfield, Ohio, to resolve the issue.

Before I left the office that morning, I received a call from a business associate of my father's who had heard about our venture. He opened with, "Ed, have you seen today's Wall Street Journal?" I hadn't seen today's or any other day. He said, "The American Stock Exchange just pulled Rupp stock from the market." While I didn't know much about that stuff at that point in my life, I knew it wasn't good.

At Rupp's factory, I met Joe outside to inform him of the stock market deal. Once inside the conference room, the engineer showed us the oil; indeed, it was red but had black specks. I had no idea what to say, but Joe was unfazed. He said, "Jim, your colors are red and black. We thought black specks in the red oil would add a certain touch." Jim looked over his glasses at Joe with his mouth open. Joe laughed and said, "I'm kidding. Ed and I have been in our lab, and there is no contamination. The issue is our red dye was not mixed adequately, and it resulted in what you see."

Joe continued, "We'll pick up all the oil this week, bring it back to our refinery, filter it, and return it to you next week." Jim was happy and impressed, but I was depressed. I not only had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn't know if he did, since we hadn't tested a thing and had no lab to do so. How do you empty and refill 8,000 twelve-ounce bottles of oil? I brought up the subject of the stock being pulled against Joe's better judgment. Despite misunderstandings with their CFO, Jim assured me everything was fine and I'd be paid on time.

We left a happy customer, but I was sweating bullets. At lunch, Joe assured me he knew exactly how to fix it. We agreed that I'd come to the refinery in two days and bring a helper, and he'd show me how it's done. That night at home, I didn't have a happy wife. She had a husband working full-time, attending school full-time, and running around to get this business off the ground. She was home with our newborn.

You do what you must do in life, and on Wednesday, I drove a truck to Rupp and picked up the oil. Come Thursday, my friend and I were front and center at the refinery. Joe was there and had rigged a funnel contraption with two of his women's hosiery filters. Our mission, which we had to accept, was to empty each case carefully so we could reuse it. We poured the contents into the contraption, rinsed the bottles in alcohol, and refilled and redelivered the products back to Rupp.

Two long days turned into three, but we managed to get it done. Monday morning, I delivered the product to Rupp's and returned to get my life back to normal. Back at school, things were deteriorating with the craziness and subsequent tragedy on the main campus at Kent State. There were only wannabes at my branch campus, but the professors were 'Left' before it was fashionable. The following week in Sociology class, the professor, who turned every class into a government-bashing hour, tripped my trigger.

The mob at the main campus had burned down the ROTC building, and this lady whined and cried about the government. I asked her, "Ma'am, what about the burning of a building on your campus. Are you saying that is fine?" She looked my way with daggers for eyes and said, "Yes. It was an old building, and the ROTC shouldn't be there!" The class cheered. I stood up, walked out, and vowed I'd make it without that degree.

My thirty days came and went, but a check from Rupp did not. My calls went unreturned, and a week later, my dad's friend called again to inform me that the Wall Street Journal just announced its bankruptcy. I now had the raw materials to pay for and the sixty-six bikes I'd bought in what my wife called 'my manic phase.'

Since I dropped out of school, my time working at the mental health center would be ending, but the psychologist who mentored me wanted me to stay for a couple more weeks. I showed up one night for the group therapy session, and the therapist didn't show. I had no choice but to lead the group, which went well with more stories of the kids' escapades from last week.

When I was finished, Mark, the psychologist, showed up. He explained he was delayed because he was counseling an older patient, a lady when he fell asleep during her sessions. She woke him up by banging her cane on his desk. He apologized for being late, saying, "The lady made a big deal about it and got my boss involved." He was a character—a character who was interested in buying some bikes.

Mark was heading home to Kentucky for the weekend and had a buddy he was sure would jump at the chance for these cool dirt bikes. I trusted him to take a package of six of the bikes, and he agreed to sell them and bring me the money I needed. I was happy, and in the meantime, I sold off half of the truckload I'd bought.

It was two weeks before I could get back with Mark and learn about his trip to Kentucky. I looked forward to the money. Rupp was full of promises, but I knew they were empty. When I caught up with Mark, he explained. "Ed, he loved the bikes. But, he had no cash, so I traded them for eight-track tapes." What? He talked his stuff, and what choice did I have now? The dirt bikes were gone, and I was the proud owner of two thousand eight-track tapes from top artists, each for two dollars.

At this point, the shiny objects appeared to be on fire. It was a time to hustle. I threw my efforts into selling the oil, a known quantity. I began working with an ad agency in Cleveland, and one day, over lunch, I shared my woes and quest to pay off the Rupp deal. Because the Rupp product was covered by bankruptcy, I couldn't have them return it.

The ad agency guy says, "Ed, I represent a company that produces 45 RPM records. They sell the ones that drop from peak at five cents a record." He told me about a friend who worked his way through Ohio State by selling records at county fairs, three records for a dollar. I was desperate, so I missed the shiny object alert and said Introduce me to them.

During this period, if you went to lunch or dinner with me, you left with 45s or 8-tracks. At the time, I drove a Buick Riviera with a giant trunk. It was filled with boxes of records and tapes. I'd pop it open at the race track, gas station, bar, or restaurant. One of my racing friends, who helped me remove black specks from Rupp's oil, decided to start a route and sell the tapes at gas stations.

He established a route that he'd hit once a week, and I moved the remaining bikes; it felt like we were going in the right direction. Then, my friend Bob, the guy with the tape route, called me one afternoon. He was in Pittsburgh. He had the best sales there. "Ed, we have a problem." He'd been stopped by the local police, who informed him that the 8-track tapes were knock-offs, not the original label. They told him that no charges would be filed if he returned to Ohio, but he didn't return.

During this time, my ad agency guy called with a shiny object. Yvon Duhamel was a French Canadian motorcycle and snowmobile champion who'd won recent world championships. Duhamel was under contract with Castrol Oils to wear their logo on his uniform. My guy says, "Ed, for ten grand, we can kick Castrol to the curb and put Nitro Joes on his uniform." I didn't have ten grand, but I wanted to do the deal to see faces go, 'Who the hell is Nitro Joe?' I passed.

Life is interesting and goes on until it doesn't. I took the tapes and records to the local county fair, planning to duplicate the success of the OSU student the guy told me about. I rented a booth, set up a table, and tried one of the dumbest things I've probably ever done. To say that spinning records and I are a mismatch would be a gigantic understatement. I don't think I sold ten bucks' worth of product.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I'm living proof of that adage. Rupp eventually paid thirty cents on the dollar, and all the music and bikes were sold; Rupp's bankruptcy didn't cause ours. My father was a principal in founding what is now the World Karting Association and the organization's first national championships were held at his track, Kugler Raceway Park. I was no longer racing personally, but my Mother came calling with two requests.

The first was that I would be the Race Director for the National Championships. The second was that she had a special request, to help my Dad, and that would require me to fly back and forth to New Jersey for the next year. And that's a story for next time.