I fell in love at the American International Motorcycle Expo (AIMExpo). Not with the hunky guy at the Sta-Bil booth (although he did give me a bag full of nice samples). No, I met My Next Bike. I sat on a BMW F700GS, and suddenly little Disney bluebirds were orbiting me, as a shaft of golden light streamed down from above, accompanied by harp music.
I entered my contact information on the very helpful booth guy’s iPad, and braced myself for the onslaught of pushy sales calls that would surely follow.
Ten days later, I received an email from one of the two area BMW dealers. Here it is, with the dealership and salesperson’s name blurred out to protect the marketing-impaired (click for a larger view).
Despite that almost irresistible, overwhelming high-pressure sales pitch, I was firm in my resolve not to jump into a decision. I responded, indicating that I was interested in the lowered suspension option and asked if he could provide more information, including pricing for that option.
To date? Bupkis.
A few days later, I went to the website of the only other BMW dealership in the area and filled out their contact form. Unlike the first dealership, at least they have a contact form. Soon, I received a confirmation of my information (click for a larger view).
This gave me hope.
To date? An equal amount of bupkis. I’m swimming in bupkis.
Are they so overrun with would-be buyers waving fistfuls of money at them that they just don’t have time to respond to potential customers? Is this Nature’s way of saying I should just stick with my 10-year-old Suzuki? I’m accustomed to the insistent bearing of car salesmen, so this is new to me. Maybe I’ll create a fake identity and have some fun with them…