My Dinner With Andy (The Aerostich Diaries)

Cedar Falls, Iowa to Duluth, Minnesota. 380 miles.

I woke up and Tyler told me a terror plot for flights from England to the USA was stopped. I had a little flashback to the day my brother woke me and told me the WTC was in flames, and we watched the news and maybe 10 miles away it was all going down, visible from the rooftop of our apartment.

I was packed and ready to leave the house before eleven am. But as John Lennon said “life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” I sat on the bike and the starter just wouldn’t fire. So I got off, took out my tools, and lubed the contacts in the starter button. No problem there. When I pushed the ignition button I could hear a clicking sound, but the starter motor wouldn’t turn over. Finally I exhausted my limited mechanical knowledge of the motorcycle and called my personal KLR guru Mark Van Horn. Mark suggested checking the connections of the two relays under the housing cover above the side stand. Sure enough that was it, with a cleaning and a little dielectric grease the beast was running again. I was talking to him via cell phone and when we finished talking I put the phone down on the roof of the family car next to my helmet and went back to work.

I Rode north and realized about 100 miles away that I didn’t have my phone. It was exactly where I left it, on the roof of the car. Damn. Freaked out and called to my sister to let them know not to drive off with it. They found the phone, thankfully, and said they’d ship it ahead for me to Bozeman Montana.

Rode on the highway with the limit of 70mph. Never saw that before. Of course everyone was doing around 80. I was too, and passing people even, until I saw Bambi charging alongside the road while I was in the passing lane with nowhere to go if he decided to jump into my path. Massive adrenaline rush. Slowed down to 75 or whatever the hell the others were doing and got behind them. Let them run interference. I often do that when I am not sure what’s up ahead, especially if riding at night, in the rare cases when that happens. Let a car hit it first and give me time to brake.

The ride got very cold. A front came South off the waters of Lake Superior and onto the highway at nearly 40mph. I was topped out at 70mph with the throttle wide open and the bike couldn’t push anymore against it.

Duluth is a neat little city. I was driving there for one reason really, to finally meet a loyal sponsor and all around cool motorcycling guy, Andy Goldfine, and the crew at Aerostich Riderwearhouse. Duluth has a lots of amenities, cool people, and nice streets and restaurants. And of course the arresting view of the water. Blues fest was going on while I was there, something like 10,000 extra people in town for the shows. I didn’t have a phone but I called Andy from a borrowed cell and thank God he called ahead to arrange a hotel or I would’ve been camping in the back of the Aerostich parking lot. There was nothing else in town.

I’d finally arrived! I was so excited to be there, in the Mecca of motorcycle riderwear and accessories. These are the people that started it all. The fabric motosuit revolution. They were the first to say “leather is not the ideal for daily motorcycling, and we’re going to do something about it.” And they still make the best motorcycle suits in the world. If James Bond was a motorcyclist, Andy would be his Q, making gadgets like heated grips, specialty ventilated waterproof suits, and the ingeniously simple “Evap-O-Danna”, a water-retaining neckerchief that uses the wind stream to cool you off like a personal air conditioner. Just soak it and go. It even has a pocket to stuff it with ice cubes for an even greater cooling effect. Brilliant, simple, and effective. Like most everything they make. And like most everything in motorcycling that is truly useful, it has to serve more than just a single function. That’s why the evap-o-danna can also double as a cold weather scarf when it’s dry.


The factory is an impressive, yet unassuming old building, charming and stoic in it’s utilitarian simplicity. It was built in the early 1900s and used to be a candy factory. The elevator is a crotchety little monster, prone to temperamental stops and fits. Sherry, who’s in charge of the call center and acted as tour guide and all-around helpful sweetheart of a gal, refused to use the old thing and instead walked me up and down the worn steps of the building’s three spiraling flights.

The three floors have a very lived-in quality, looking well-worn and loved. There’s an ordered chaos, like the toys neatly put away on the living room shelves of a family home, that at any minute can all be scattered across the floor by squealing children.

I found Andy upstairs in his office, behind stacks of papers and notes on his desk, and, overwhelmed with emotion cried out “Dad!” I hoped to instill some sense of instant paternal affection so he would adopt me and outfit me for all time with all the amazingly cool stuff he had lying around. He just looked at me funny for a second then smiled and stuck out his hand.

Andy is not at all what one might expect after years of talking to him on the phone and reading his catalogue, which is more like a motorcycling how-to with useful outfitting ideas thrown in, rather than a marketing tool for the impressive inventory of anything and everything that could be ever be useful on a bike.

He looks a bit like a slim version of Henry Winkler (the actor that played the Fonz on Happy Days). Atypical of the hardcore biker, he’s slight of build and has small hands and a somewhat disheveled appearance, kind of like the absent-minded professor after a day hiking. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a couple day’s growth on his face. Andy has an easy, deliberate way of talking. He weighs his words before he speaks, and intermittently sprinkled into his everyday casual banter will be the most profound and interesting thoughts. He is humble to a fault, and shuns any and all attention or lauds, deferring instead to the group. He continually reminded me that the Aerostich we know today couldn’t have been possible without the amazing people he works with. To hear his version you’d think he had very little to do with it all, which of course couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s the kind of guy that can teach you a lot, and you will never realize you were learning the whole time.


The building is basically broken down by the three floors. The cutting room, design stations, and head offices were on the top floor. Suit construction began there. The suits are made from patterns copied off of a cutout master sheet. (They are in the process of switching to computerized patterns). The cut materials for each suit are added together with all the ballistic pieces needed and then sent to the second floor for sewing.

The second floor has sewing machine work stations, maybe twenty or so, some making small accessories, others making suits. Every single suit is hand built, each one sewn together in it’s entirety by just one person. This is the hardest part of getting employees, as it takes nearly 6 months to train people in the art of sewing, which seems to be lost in this country. (However it must be a great place to work as there are employees there who’ve been sewing together suits for over 20 years.) When nearly done the suit is handed to another worker who seals the seams from the inside with a waterproof seam tape, applied with great care and remarkable speed. This step can’t be messed up because the tape is applied with heat and is extremely adhesive once it’s put on. After that the seamed jacket goes back to the original builder for more details and finish work, and then it goes downstairs for inspection and approval. Each custom suit is marked inside with the date, size, builder, and future owner (below).


The first floor holds the showroom, shipping, cafeteria, inspection area, servers, and call center and it positively bustles. There are bikers from all over walking in off the street to admire the wares (I met four Australians, two Canadians, and a Londoner in an hour). The phones rang constantly while employees stuffed boxes and inspected suits across the tables.

Aerostich currently employs 99 people, and has a serious commitment to them. They used to offer free aerobics classes in the meeting room on the first floor, until it expanded so much they converted it into a receiving room. They also have a smoking cessation program, which will pay for any treatment that can help an employee quit (aside from hypnotherapy), and actually gives cash bonus for those that can stays off cigarettes!

Andy feels he can be a distraction in his own place because he talks to visitors in the showroom so much that the employees want to tell him to “go away and let me get these people into new suits.”


One of Andy’s greatest passions is his “Ride to Work” program. He’s been involved with the project for 14 years and feels very strongly about it. If it were up to Andy everyone would take motorcycles to work. More efficiency, less congestion and consumption, and just better all the way around.

But Andy didn’t always have so much free time for side projects. In the beginning it was a huge hassle just getting his business started. At first none of the wholesalers and retailers got it. He was repeatedly told “Nobody is going to pay $300 for a rain suit.” He realized he needed to market directly to the people, to make them understand what he was selling was a personal survival pod, water- and wind-proof, built for comfort and repeated steady abuse over miles and miles of wear. And, above all, there was the security in knowing that your bare skin was protected from the road by armored pads and ballistic-grade nylon. Eventually the idea caught on, and in no time the wolves of imitation were howling in the distance, making cheaper, inferior suits with none of the thought and care that went into every suit Aerostich sells. And even today there is no equal to an Aerostich riding suit. To roll up into anyplace where bikers gather wearing a Darien jacket or Roadcrafter is to silently inform them that a serious motorcyclist has arrived.

And the suits are constantly evolving. New designs, additions and revisions happen with each generation. And each new idea is personally tested by Andy and his staff for fit, utility, and effectiveness.


My stop at Aerostich was easily one of the highlights of this trip, and I recommend anyone who likes to see cool things being made, in action, stop by and check it out. My most sincere thanks to Lynn, Kim, Dennis, Shane, Jim, Sherry, Nick, Elina, Debi, Andy, and all the others that made me feel so welcome while I was there. You guys rock!

posted by goat hill dreamer @ 4:20 PM