Henry Kaestner didn’t want to wrest control of from Morken. It wasn’t the $1 million offer for the domain name (which he turned down) but a phone call from a North Carolina investor he’d never met. But after the Forbes article dropped that September, Morken caught his second lucky break. He was hustling, maxing out credit cards, pulling all-nighters, and trying to close deals.
Visionary or not, he wasn’t living a gilded life.
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Forbes took notice and profiled him, calling his registration of the domain name “visionary.” Morken received more than 180 leads worth up to $2.2 million in the first month. He was in the right place at the right time.ī took off. Businesses seeking higher-speed internet connections would land on Morken’s website, and he’d act as a middleman and connect them to services through the major telecom companies.
The first iteration of banked on its searchability. He wanted to be part of it.Īfter graduation, Morken joined the Marine Corps and served as a judge advocate in Hawaii before returning home in 1999. (As the original registrar, he paid nothing for it.) He’d read an article predicting that fiber-driven connectivity would herald a new age of economic growth. OK, really, it was a walk-in closet in a spare bedroom of a half-duplex, where Morken sealed himself off to make calls.įive years earlier, in 1994, before the dot-com boom, Morken had registered the domain name while studying law at Notre Dame. Morken’s parents lived on one side, while Morken, his pregnant wife, and their three young children lived on the other. More than anything, it’s the story of David Morken’s knack for being in the right place-and in the right niche-at the right time.Īctually, it was a half-duplex.
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The company’s success is less a fluke than a byproduct of years of staying ahead of the curve-of spotting a need on the horizon and figuring out how to fill it. When the world abruptly went remote two months ago, Bandwidth (and its shareholders) hit a morbid kind of jackpot. “It’s gratifying to see the team rise up and achieve. The fit, youthful-looking 50-year-old-a self-described “ Jesus freak” who says he frequently crawls under his desk to pray-is sitting alone in a conference room in Bandwidth’s Centennial Campus headquarters sipping an Arizona iced tea. “It’s humbling,” founder and CEO David Morken says in an interview over Google Meet (another Bandwidth client). The company’s market cap today is more than $2.6 billion, more than six times its valuation when it went public in 2017.
Since the market crashed in late February, Bandwidth has seen its stock price nearly double. The 20-year-old company never imagined profiting from mass misery. And more people were dialing into those conferences than ever before.Īll of a sudden, Bandwidth was making more money than ever before. More people were virtually conferencing than ever before. Birthday parties and church services went virtual, as did staff meetings and sales pitches and business strategy sessions. By the middle of April, however, 316 million people in 42 states were living under stay-at-home orders. When they do, a fraction of a penny goes to an under-the-radar Raleigh tech company called Bandwidth, which has amassed a nationwide Voice over Internet Protocol network of 70 million phone numbers, including the ones used by major virtual conference companies.īefore the coronavirus pandemic transformed open offices into viral vectors, just 7 percent of Americans worked from home. About a fifth of users call in with their phones instead of connecting over the internet.
At any given moment during the business day, 5 million virtual meetings take place throughout the U.S.
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