“Press option 2 if you want to hear a recorded message of false hope. Press option 3 if want to speak to a representative at 3:00 AM your local time. You are now number 346 in queue.” Been there? You’ve tried reading the manual in 86 languages. You’ve downloaded the app. You’ve pressed all the buttons in every possible sequence. And now you’re waiting as the original dream fades, steeling yourself to relive a tale of frustration. Hopefully there won’t be a language barrier. Poor customer service is salt in the wound of feeling dumb. It’s a last resort.
That’s where we found ourselves, in the penalty box. The dream of talking among ourselves while riding on group motorcycle trips is a game changer. Real time communication makes the difference between avoiding hazards ahead, running out of gas, making a wrong turn or, God forbid, leaving anyone behind. For years, we had relied on improvised biker sign language open to wide interpretation. “Did he just shoot me the bird? Am I #1? or am I supposed to look up? In its best form viewed from above, it looks like an ant farm on two wheels. Start, stop, turn around and the common question, where did they go?
Determined to get on the same party line for our next trip, we committed to buy the same brand of helmet communicator which cost as much as a mid range smart phone. For some of us that meant buying new helmets to mount these. At the price of a high end smart phone, new helmets are not a cheap date. Getting bikers to buy stuff like this is hard as dollars compete for more chrome and other mods that make the feel of the riding experience better. No, this was an investment in safety and the soft, gooey relationship stuff. Do bikers have hearts. Yes!
It turns out that you have to be physically together to put all these communicators on the same frequency. Simply follow a process of standing on one foot, do a chant and hold a button for 5 seconds. There we were in my garage planning for the trip like ladies at a cosmetics party trying various schemes, asking the Verizon Wireless question repeatedly, “Can you hear me now?” Tiring of this mating dance, we settled for two smaller groups who could connect with others whose phone lines were dead. How hard could it be? Really hard. The sponsors of this big idea, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, feigned urgency and left the party early. It would be another one of those hand signing trips after all.
Aiding our communication in other ways was the decision to rent a house as a base camp vs. splitting up in separate motel rooms. Complete with a long accommodating kitchen table, it was the perfect set up for story telling and more off road bonding experiences. There’s nothing like sharing a meal together on the road. With no women around, you can eat meat without vegetables, a kale salad, or with your bare hands if you want. Anything goes. Two wheels offers freedom from all kinds of constraints. Emboldened after a great meal around the table, we decided while in freedom mode to demand our rights as consumers of a certain helmet communicator brand. They had broken their promise to us. After a vote, we decided that we’re weren’t stupid after all.
Wearing our helmets around the table looking like we were at a space mission briefing, we took a big swing at the problem. We called customer service. After sword fighting through gauntlet of menus designed to keep us away from a live person, we ended up with an earnest young woman. After a number of customer service battle scars, you get a sense for these things, and mine was telling me that her crisp responses were from reading a script. “Yes, we tried that already.” “Oh, you want us all to reset to factory defaults?” Gulp. “OK.” Sitting at the head of the table with the phone, I felt like I was leading a prayer meeting where you wore helmets to protect you from what was about to fall out of the sky. Slaves to the heavenly gate controller on the phone, we just sat there in compliance until she apparently ran out of everything in her script. We’re weren’t getting in.
It's funny where your eyes go during these times of futility. Mine fell upon a bottle of Iron Wolf bourbon from the Spicewood, Texas distillery whose motto is, “For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.” ― Rudyard Kipling
Deciding to be the wolf for our gathered pack, I thanked the customer service representative for her thorough, patient efforts concluding with, “Your (unnamed) brand’s product design and byzantine instructions have driven us to the only solution at hand; drink away this experience.”
One of the most important qualities a design engineer needs is empathy. They need to be able to put themselves in a seat around that table, or the earlier garage cosmetics connection party. They need to know what pioneers feel when their recommendation proves costly and frustrating for their friends. Companies who sell these products should give those answering the phone more than a script to work with. How would you feel if your expensive smart phone would randomly connect with only a few people?
Exercising our true freedom, we removed our helmets and lifted a toast. Against a backdrop of 10 bikers on an epic trip complete with tales of wonder and brotherly rescue, this was a minor inconvenience. No one, not even a poor product experience, could take anything away from us.
It’s what real wolves and their fellowship pack know.