At farm shows, he spent more time near equipment his father would normally walk past.
He talked to operators rather than salespeople.
He wanted complaints.
Real fuel use.
Downtime.
Parts delays.
Transmission behavior.
How machines felt after twelve hours, not after a fifteen-minute demonstration.
One tractor kept appearing in those conversations.
The Massey Ferguson 8S platform.
The more Tyler studied it, the more interested he became.
Continuous variable transmission.
Strong torque delivery.
Good operator visibility.
Competitive fuel use.
A cab designed around long workdays.
He wasn't naive enough to believe one red tractor would magically transform Brennan Farms.
Every machine had weaknesses.
Dealer support mattered.
Parts availability mattered.
Resale value mattered.
But Tyler no longer believed the question should begin with paint color.
By January, curiosity became serious enough that he called a Massey Ferguson dealer south of Des Moines.
He didn't tell Ron.
He told himself that was because he wasn't buying anything.
He was only looking.
The dealership was smaller than the Deere operation back home.
No giant polished showroom.
No wall of Brennan family history.
Just machinery lined across a cold Iowa lot and a service building smelling of hydraulic oil and diesel heat.
A salesman named Rick Holloway met him outside.
Rick was in his mid-fifties.
Gray at the temples.
Work boots instead of polished shoes.
He didn't open by praising Massey Ferguson.
He asked,
“What are you running?”
“Deere 8370R.”
Rick nodded.
“Good tractor.”
That answer surprised Tyler.
“You sell Massey.”
“I do.”
“And you're calling my Deere good?”
“Wouldn't trust a salesman who says everything he doesn't sell is junk.”
Tyler smiled.
Rick continued.
“What don't you like about it?”
Tyler hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“It's costing me time.”
That became a two-hour conversation.
They discussed field conditions.
Planter size.
Transport.
Fuel use.
Maintenance.
Tyler showed Rick his acreage figures.
Rick showed him reports from comparable operations.
He didn't promise miracles.
He didn't claim Massey was perfect.
At one point, Tyler asked the question that mattered most.
“If this were your money?”
Rick leaned against the desk.
“I'd demo it.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Sure it is.”
Rick pointed toward the lot.
“Spec sheets sell tractors to people who already want them. Fields tell you whether they were right.”
That was enough for Tyler.
In February, a Massey Ferguson demonstration tractor arrived at Brennan Farms on a lowboy.
Ron saw it through the kitchen window.
He was drinking coffee.
The red hood came into view behind the truck.
Ron stood.
Said nothing.
Walked into the machine shed.
He stayed there until the delivery driver left.
Tyler ran the demo hard.
Not abusively.
Honestly.
He didn't want a flattering test.
He wanted the kind of work that exposed weaknesses.
Heavy residue.
Tillage.
Transport.
Uneven ground.
Long hours.
He paid attention to ground speed and engine load.
Transmission response.
Cab noise.
Ride.
Fuel.
By the end of the second day, Tyler stopped hoping the Massey would merely be competitive.
It was doing exactly what he had wanted.
Smooth power delivery.
Less hunting for the right operating range.
Easier speed control.
Lower fuel use in several jobs.
Most importantly, it felt less tiring after a long day.
That mattered more than many equipment brochures admitted.
A tractor didn't only consume diesel.
It consumed the person operating it.
If a machine left a driver less exhausted after fourteen hours, that had value.
Tyler spent that night at the kitchen table building a comparison.
He included everything he could quantify.
Purchase cost.
Trade allowance.
Fuel.
Time.
Maintenance projections.
Financing.
Expected resale.
He deliberately included disadvantages too.
The Massey dealer network was smaller.
Certain parts might take longer.
Their local Deere mechanics already knew Brennan equipment intimately.
Switching brands meant learning new systems.
Tyler wanted a real answer, not proof that he was already right.
The numbers still favored the change.
So he printed everything.
The next evening, he sat down with Ron.
“This isn't about liking Massey.”
Ron stared at the paper.
“Sure looks like it.”
“Read it.”
“I know what a tractor costs.”
“Then read what this one saves.”
Ron glanced through the first page.
Tyler explained.
Fuel.
Field capacity.
Operator hours.
Projected five-year costs.
Ron lasted less than a minute.
He pushed the papers back.
“We're not switching.”
Tyler stared.
“You didn't even read it.”
“I read enough.”
“Then tell me where I'm wrong.”
“This isn't a math test.”
“That's exactly what it is.”
“No.”
Ron leaned forward.
“This farm is here because people stood behind us when numbers said they shouldn't.”
Tyler knew immediately what he meant.
The 1980s.
The dealership.
His grandfather.
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop acting like loyalty is stupidity.”
Tyler's frustration finally surfaced.
“Loyal to who?”
Ron said nothing.
Tyler continued.
“A logo? A dealer? Or the farm?”
“Watch yourself.”
“If staying green costs us money every season, who are we protecting?”
Ron stood.
“Conversation's over.”
Tyler stood too.
“No. You ended the conversation before it started.”
Ron walked toward the door.
Tyler called after him.
“You taught me this farm comes first.”
Ron stopped.
Tyler waited.
His father didn't turn around.
Then Ron said,
“I taught you not to forget who helped build it.”