How my First Partnership Broke

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Historical context.

Rocky Mountain Bicycles was built by a group of enthusiasts that shared an obsession – to create a better bicycle. There was no roadmap, just a team of enthusiasts with a range of skills: Jacob Heilbron, Pippin Osborne, Paul Brodie, and Sam Mak.

We named the company Rocky Mountain Bicycles, even though “mountain bike” was still a registered trademark of a U.S. company called Fisher MountainBikes. Legal letters arrived telling us to stop using “mountain bicycles” in our name. But after a few back-and-forths, the issue faded. Later we learned the trademark lapsed because Fisher hadn’t paid their lawyers. That’s how new and uncertain the whole industry was.

In 1982, we released the Sherpa, with a frame built in Japan. A year later, the Thunderbolt was hand-brazed by Paul Brodie – these were the first truly Canadian mountain bikes. Demand exploded. We couldn’t build them fast enough.

Jacob Heilbron: My first Partner.

I moved production out of the East Van retail store into a Richmond warehouse and brought in a new “silent” investor to help fund the purchases. We formalized ownership: Jacob, myself, and the investor each held 30%. Rocky Mountain’s identity separated from the retail stores. We were becoming a real company.

But what I didn’t realize at the time was that Jacob and I had very different values. We never talked about it. Never asked, “What does success look like to you?” or “How do you want to lead?” I assumed we saw things the same way.

Jacob was fast-moving, promotion-driven, focused on U.S. markets. He wanted Rocky to be about freedom and fun, while growing fast. I was more serious, more cautious. While he showcased the thrill of mountain biking, I focused on what our expanding team of twenty-plus needed to achieve. I thought we were building with great people; he pursued the momentum from great marketing.

Both approaches have merit—but we never had the conversation. We never talked about trust, leadership, or control. We never asked, “What is all this for?”

And for a while, it worked.

Then one morning in 1985, I arrived at work and found an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a letter from Jacob’s lawyer, exercising the shotgun clause in our shareholder agreement.

I hereby offer to either:
Purchase your interest in Rocky Mountain Bicycles for $28,000,
Or sell my interest to you, on the same terms and conditions.

Jacob’s office was just a few feet away. I walked over with the letter in hand, waited for his phone call to end, and said, “Hey, I got your letter. I had no idea things were this bad.”

“Just talk to my lawyer,” he said.

It’s clear he wanted control of the company. He assumed I’d walk away. His message was unmistakable: “This is mine now.”

That moment shook me. I’d assumed our shared ambition was enough. But distrust, the lack of shared values and poor communication, weakened, then broke the partnership.

I can see why the shotgun offer made sense to Jacob. He saw himself as critical to the company, and felt that my contribution was not essential. Still, I couldn’t walk away. I believed in what we were building. And I couldn't just go back and open another retail store, selling someone else’s bikes.

I met with the silent investor. “I want to continue,” I said. “Let’s buy out Jacob and split the company between you and I, 50/50.”

So I turned the shotgun clause around – you only get one shot. Jacob had fired the opening salvo in the letter. I countered. I bought his shares. He was forced to sell.

He was silent, as I don’t think he imagined I’d call his bluff.

It’s been 35 years since then. I left Rocky over 25 years ago. Though I’ve tried at times, Jacob and I have never repaired our relationship.

Rocky Mountain Bicycles is now a global brand. And I’ve learned – painfully – that partnerships rarely fall apart because of product failures. They fall apart because people don’t build a foundation of shared values. Because when stress hits, assumptions are exposed, and without a shared worldview, you start seeing the same picture in two different frames.

Looking back, I own my part in it. I assumed our values and ethos were meshing, but I was too busy to work it through. And in later ventures, I’ve seen the same thing happen when values don’t align.

I still have a long way to go. I’m learning that long lasting partnerships mean I have to ask vulnerable questions, to listen without judgement, and stay emotionally aware.

Relationships don’t get better just because I work harder—they get better when I slow down enough to care about what the other person is actually trying to say. I used to think alignment would just happen if the goal was big enough or the project exciting enough.

I’m learning late in life that I still default to action over understanding.

But I’m trying to catch myself sooner.
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I would love to connect with you on LinkedIn, Facebook, or Instagram​

See you next week,

Grayson

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