Robert Egger stands behind the glass door like a footballer before a free kick, glaring at the visitor with alert eyes.
The look gives it away. He is about to put on a broad grin and greet the reporter with a firm handshake: "Welcome to Specialized!" - Welcome to Robert Egger. He is one of the long-serving employees of the bike company from Morgan Hill in California. His bright red business card states his job title as "Troublemaker". Elsewhere he is referred to as Creative Director or Lead Designer.
Egger routinely leads us through a showroom on the ground floor, where a few prominent bikes are hanging, with which the big S wants to document its significance for the bike world. The first Stumpjumper, the oldest production mountain bike in the world. The first FSR, Specialized's entry into the world of full-suspension off-road bikes. Plus Tour de France bikes and downhill bikes. A real little company museum. Egger has probably given the tour hundreds of times. We interject: "We know the history of Specialized. We want to find out more about you." There's that free-kick pattern again for a moment, then Egger turns round and leads us up the stairs to the first floor, to the gallery.
"Do you wanna see the world's first mountain bike?" he grins and leads us to a Flintstone mobile, half of which is made of modelling clay and emblazoned with the Specialized-S. Egger built it. Just like the cruisers up here, the Hotwheels bike with its life-size packaging, just like in a toy shop. Or the police bike that he once designed for the law enforcement officers of Morgan Hill.
"This is the donut holder down here. When we handed over the bike, the applause was muted," Egger chats. American police officers are rumoured to overindulge in desserts, Egger joked. The police never ordered one of the bikes. That suits the troublemaker just as well as his latest project, with which he wants to give the UCI, the world cycling organisation, the middle finger: the fUCI is a racing bike with a huge rear wheel, aero fairings, luggage compartment and integrated motor. There is also a full-suspension racing bike here, and of course there are many bikes with a motor. Is it Egger's job to build fantasy bikes here (for 30 years) with a wink? Egger gets serious again.
"I've done all sorts of things here. I've mopped the floor, cleaned the windows, painted bikes and applied lettering. I've done marketing, industrial design, engineering, photography. I'm the go-to guy for everything because I started here when it was still a very small company."
The youngest of eleven siblings, Robert Egger grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. He gives an unadorned account of his meagre everyday life, his poor circumstances and the thick skin he had to put on in arguments with his older siblings. The farm didn't provide much more than the daily meals. Robert was given the grown-ups' worn-out clothes and his bicycle had already been used by half the family. He was determined to have his own bike. His father honoured his wish and fulfilled it as best he could: "One day he drove up in his pickup truck and there was a pile of old bikes on it. He had driven to the scrapyard and gave me a pair of pliers, a spanner and a screwdriver. 'Build your own bike,' he said. I was five years old." Stunned by his own story, Egger points to his waist. "I was this tall when I started building bicycles."
Egger then talks about the freedom he experienced on two wheels at an early age, the escapes from the farm and the first deals with neighbourhood children, for whom he soon built bicycles and earned his first money. It was to continue like this. Of course, he was ridiculed by those around him for this idea, only the Trek company in Waterloo took him seriously.
Egger was hired as a designer by the bike giant and thought he was in seventh heaven when he entered the material warehouse in Wisconsin for the first time. But Trek was just a stopover.
Egger was a passionate cyclist, a multiple state champion in Wisconsin, and the Trek staff was not nearly as competitive as he was. When the opportunity arose to perhaps be selected for the American Olympic team, Egger dropped out and moved to a training centre in California. But even there, the hyperactive farm kid didn't fit in: "I would have had to say yes to everything, and I was too stubborn for that." Does that also mean the pharmaceutical sector? "It means everything." Egger pauses again briefly, looks serious and penetrating, then the casual story continues. Instead of training for the Olympics, he did design work for companies like Blackburn and worked in a bike shop on the side. Even there he kept his own head, and when a customer was interested in a simple saddle bag, he strongly advised against buying the Specialized model. Too cheaply made, not a good design, to be honest: "Really shitty." At the checkout, the customer finally introduced himself: "I'm Mike Sinyard, the founder of Specialized." Egger's heart sank, and when he was summoned to Morgan Hill the next day, he was expecting the ultimate thrashing for his misguided temporary dealer work. Instead, he got a job offer.
From the gallery area at Specialized, you walk through open-plan offices with a typical bike company atmosphere: large screens on spacious desks, pinboards with drawings and sketches, bikes, frames, parts of all kinds hanging, lying and standing around in between. This is where most of the products are conceived that you can buy a few months later from Specialized dealers all over the world. But the desk is not Egger's workplace. He leads us into a small area of a workshop that looks more like a frame construction workshop: Egger's real realm. Here he welds, solders, laminates and paints, tries out colours and shapes and discards them. The word "art" has already been used several times. Egger sets himself no limits.
"I'm here to give the brand soul," he says and explains that he walks through the open-plan office every day, where the data believers sit, the engineers who want to calculate everything and incorporate findings from the in-house wind tunnel into products on the screen. "I love and hate this thing. The bikes all look the same because the wind dictates it." So Egger intervenes when he deems it necessary. "It's a constant battle. I've had boxing matches here and put someone in a headlock until they say, 'Designers are the best: 'Designers are the best'." He adds a little more quietly that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
There is no set of rules for Egger's intervention at Specialized. He tries to recognise where something is being developed and reacts to it. An internal design guideline is currently being developed. What are his battles about?
"Everyone has the data, so everything looks pretty much the same. But we always have to be irreverent and do things differently: When you see a bike in the shop, it has to look like it wants to jump right off." Egger points to an Epic, Specialized's cross-country fully, and traces the straight line between the rear dropout and the head tube with his finger. "If it looks good, it's fast. Your eyes understand much more than numbers and data." This is also how the main frame of the enduro bike with its characteristic crossed top tube was created, for example. But Egger's work is not limited to the look of the bikes.
He repeatedly draws comparisons with cars and motorbikes, which he adores for their powerful design language. The fact that bicycles will also be increasingly motorised in the future has long been a foregone conclusion for Egger and is therefore not worth mentioning. "If I look just five years into the future: Bikes will be very different by then, with much more integrated technology than in a car."
This is also how the SWAT system was developed in the down tube of some models, a storage space that can be opened with a flap to accommodate hoses, tools and bars. Egger waves an aluminium tube with a cut-out and a tinkered-in hose, the first step in the development of the SWAT system. "I feel lucky that Mike Sinyard lets me do all this crazy stuff here. He knows that parts of it will be incorporated into our production bikes. Of course, I don't think that's enough."
How did he manage to stay with this company for so long, when many had come after him and left before him? Egger thinks for a moment, describes the pressure that prevails in the company and talks about the daily test that he also has to face. And that a Mike Sinyard never gives you the feeling of being truly satisfied. Then he adds: "It's a question of relationships: A lot of people who come here think it's a tough working environment. And it is. My advantage is: I've been through the toughest part for a long time. It's never been as hard as it was in Wisconsin." Then he smiles. Proud and blissful. Like a footballer after scoring a penalty.
We are standing in the evening light on Egger's small farm, which he designed and built and on which his wife breeds goats. There is a wonderful view over Monterey Bay, bicycles are parked in the garage next to motorbikes and an old BMW that he refurbished himself. Down below, the evening lights are slowly coming on in the surfer's paradise of Santa Cruz. Earlier, Egger fired up the BMW and grinned broadly as the roar of the engine filled the garage and drowned out our conversation. The kid from Wisconsin has made it.
Info Robert Egger
The US American is 55 years old and was born on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. After entering the bike industry at Trek, he has worked for Specialized in California for over 30 years. Egger is a serial winner of the infamous Lunch Ride and is otherwise responsible for product design. His most famous designs include the "Epic Silhouette", the lines of the Epic line. Egger is currently working on an internal design guideline. In addition to bicycles, he likes fast, beautiful cars and motorbikes.
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