#garage

Reader, as you likely know, we here at Motorcycle.com test a lot of bikes. It’s kind of our job. As such, there’s always a continual rotation of motorbikes coming and going from our respective homes. Naturally, where would you put a motorcycle at your home? In your garage, of course. The cars can live outside, hun. The garage is reserved for motorbikes. 

Well, this is too easy. The best time to buy a motorcycle is after your ship comes in, ie., when you become wealthy. As one of our favorite bucks-up bike fanatic/collectors said when asked what’s the best time to buy: “I never gave it any thought.” 

“¡No milagro, milagro, sino industria, industria!”
(“It’s not a miracle, a miracle, but industry! Industry!”)

It’s on rainy, cold nights like this one that I’m glad I have a garage. Looking at your motorcycle parked outside as it’s pelted with rain, sleet, hail, mud and other unpleasantness can make you weep with impotent rage. Cover it? Motorcycle covers are a hassle to put on and remove. First, you have to wait until the bike cools to avoid melting the cover to the exhaust. Plus, they can blow off your bike, get shredded and messy-looking, and trap moisture underneath, which can cause rust and mold. Nasty!

It didn’t take long for my initial excitement over having a decent-sized garage turn into my other primary emotion: Never satisfied. Looking at my 52-year-old garage floor makes you wonder what people have been doing in here? Or maybe it’s just the nature of cement or concrete, or whatever it is? Parts of it look like powerful acid was spilled on it, other parts like a massive oil spill (I’ve been known to add two quarts of fresh oil to the Chevelle myself, in my dad’s garage, before realizing as my feet began to slither that the sump plug had not been replaced): Other parts look like bonfires had been used by native peoples for cooking since antiquity, who knows?

The good news is I finally found new digs in beautiful Orange County, California. The bad news is I had to team up with the ex-wife to make it happen financially. Don’t cry for me, Argentina, so far it’s working out better than I could’ve hoped: Ex is the perfect housemate in that she tends to not be around for three or four days at a stretch, and when she does appear, she’s got the Master Boudoir, whose bathroom opens onto the backyard/patio. In exchange, I get the Big Office, which opens onto (now that I punched a hole in the wall) the big old 2-car garage out front. Which is all I really need in a house. We’ve achieved separation of church and state, so to speak, both of us get to live in a much sweller place than either of us could afford alone, and no motorcycle (or resident) should have to sleep under the stars anymore unless it wants to.

A lot of things get fixed in a garage, not all of them mechanical. I’ve come over the years to be convinced that a garage is an essential part of being a whole human being and a vital member of the community, any community you wish to be a part of. Sure, there is the obvious: working in a garage is preferable to squatting in a mud puddle in a gravel driveway in February. But there is more, much more.