Obsession is only Unbridled Passion

My garage sits at the bottom of our garden. It is my retreat, but there is nothing sanctimonious to be found here, the opposite, in fact. My garage is a space to chill, relax, and putter leisurely around. My garage relaxes me. Everybody should have such a refuge. Let me tell you about my garage.

From the outside, this cream-colored, 22-foot square garage looks like many others. It is an unimpressive structure, with two side-by-side, up-and-over garage doors. However, like the human body, its heart beats from within.

Often, especially if I close my eyes, the scents of my garage assault me with memories. Lurking under these cresol rafters and shingle roof, are the accumulation of 14 years of indulgence and unbridled pleasure. On the shelves, you will find a plethora of cleaning agents, oils, and glues, all with their labels carefully aligned outwards. Discreet in the shadows, there are eyebolts, lashing rings, and cleats that echo of risqué play never to be spoken of. Today, as I prepare our motorcycles for the trip, each canister, spanner, eyebolt, and nut whispers to me of their exploits.

Memories are what manufacture an individual. Memories release love when loneliness threatens. Memories guide you when trouble is brewing. Memories are the history that accompanies us into the decays of old age, so we may find a reason to smile. Memories are the map of our lives.

This ordinary garage was erected in 1956, by men who are all most likely dead by now. Did they express pride in their craftsmanship when they were building my garage, or was it just another mundane job to put food on the table and clothes on their backs? As they worked in the summer heat of 1956, could they have guessed that I was across the Atlantic Ocean, in Ireland, floating warm and safe in the amniotic sac?

While these workers positioned and secured the joists with hammers and two-inch steel nails, my mother, several thousand miles away, waddled to the corner-store, her only concern that dinner should be on the table when my father got home.

The cresol soaked trusses overhead will never rot, nor invite insect infestation, and protected within, the steel nails will last three hundred years.

As humans, we seldom consider how our actions affect others. They do. Virtually every step of our life’s journey intersects with others. Mostly, it is subtle like a fragrance in the air as you pass a bakery, but occasionally, beyond all reasonable expectations, it creates an emotional trigger that lies dormant, like a dry seed in the earth, a memory waiting to bloom.

Sixty-two years later, I thank these men for their craftsmanship. This perfectly square structure is a symmetrical refuge of tranquility for a dyslexic, obsessive-compulsive, semi-deaf owner to enjoy the silence, and relish the ambiance in peace. There are no threats in my garage. No hidden alcoves to cast a shadow of inquiry. Just straight, clean lines of indifference. Everything here is visible, orderly, and neat. Everything is within a few steps and stretch of an arm.

Even the cresol trusses that support the roof overhead run perfectly aligned; - a mathematician’s dream at exactly sixteen inches center to center, without deviation, not a single warped piece of timber.

It is a perfect space. Purchased empty, and furnished solely by my hand, it is a practical example of my extreme fetish for order. Every canister and bottle label is facing out and positioned squarely to its shelf. The floor is twice coated with a bright sky blue epoxy, harder than varnish, more durable than cement, and most importantly oil-resistant.

The exposed roof trusses are without unsightly hooks or dangling leftover trinkets that might prove useful in years to come. Overhead, there is only one carefully positioned eyebolt that holds a block-and-pulley, which resides in a clear plastic bag until a heavy lift is required, be it an engine block, plaything or motorcycle that I’m working on.

Religiously, twice a year, January and July, the extended arm of my garage wet & dry vacuum cleaner reaches up amongst the trusses to remove all spider webs and traces of dust. My garage must be as clean as my house and my motorcycles. I demand it be so. Such order relaxes my mind and stimulates me with good intentions.

To my rational mind, which demands justification by logical reasoning, this space of simple horizontal and vertical lines offers no resistance. There is no malice lurking. My garage is my church. However, unlike a mosque, synagogue, cathedral, or temple, my garage requires only myself, and some motorcycles to make it complete. My garage, therefore, is my sanctuary. There are only my thoughts and accumulated knowledge for guidance. The religion of my garage is based solely on the sensibility of logic, information, research, and action to create a logical solution. The result may be amicable, disagreeable, or even abhorrent, but the answer will always be sensible, logical, and never exceed my practical abilities. Yes, my garage is my church, and my salvation comes from within myself, always from within.

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To put my passion for motorcycles into perspective, since we purchased our house and detached garage in 2004, I have circulated more than $1.2 million on motorcycles, and the indulgence continues. Circulate may seem a strange choice of words, but remember I first purchase the motorcycle, then after driving for a period of time, I sell it, and that money gravitates to my next motorcycle. Therefore, $1.2 million is just the overall number. My actual expenditure, at a guess, is slightly under $200,000.

It may sound like madness to some, but my quest is simple. Allow me to explain. In Europe, vehicle taxes can be 165% of retail, and there is a significant annual road tax fee. A gallon of gas costs over 7 dollars and vehicle insurance is typically quadruple the American rate, with severe restrictions.

In Europe, only the person named on the policy is insured to drive the individual vehicle, whereas, in America, the vehicle is insured, so with permission and a valid driving license, anybody can drive any vehicle.

Additionally, the American used motorcycle market is enormous. Buying second-hand bikes privately is a doddle, and they are so cheap compared to European prices. In Europe, I owned about fifteen motorcycles and never held more than two at the same time. In America, I have owned more than nine motorcycles on numerous occasions. If I see a bargain, like the bike, and have the cash, then it is a no brainer. It’s mine! As I was saying, realizing the availability and cost of motorcycles in America, I challenged myself to own and ride every make and model of motorcycle that I like. Also, I have friends who visit that are motorcyclists, so a spare ride is always appreciated, especially when American insurance affords them the opportunity.

With my mechanical abilities and attention to detail, if I purchase right, I can make repairs, clean, polish, add extras, and enjoy the bike for a few months. Then I flip it with minimal loss, or on the rarest of occasion, show a modest profit. Profit is the sweetest pill of all. I have owned many motorcycles in America. The tally to date of writing is 173. The breakdown is: -

Honda, 41 units - reliability and efficiency with decent manners and looks.

BMW, 40 units – ageless, robustly efficient, ultra-functional, and most models hold their value at resale.

Kawasaki, 38 units - the plow-horse of motorcycles, with rock-solid performance and minimum maintenance.

Suzuki, 32 units - inelegant, but functional.

Yamaha, 9 units - practicable, sedate, reliable, and as exciting as a sleeping hippo.

Ducati, 5 units – beautiful, exciting, and designed to keep the reckless safe.

Can-Am, 2 units - interesting, but not the motorcycle experience I presently seek. However, these trikes are super for two up riding, smoothness, and handling. Their comfort, and luggage capacity are excellent. I would like to write another book about such a journey.

Triumph, 2 units - surprisingly refined with a hidden thrill factor. The Rocket, I loved; - the Daytona was too small for me. I felt like a giraffe trying to have sex with a dog.

Buell, 1 unit - that was one too many.

Harley Davidson, 1 unit - one should never say never again, - but definitely, never again.

MV Agusta, 1 unit - guaranteed to remove the beat from the faint-hearted.

Moto Guzzi,       1 unit - charisma and efficiency blended into fun.

There are many more motorcycles on my shopping list, a used Hellcat would be a dream, perhaps a Bimota, and a Motus, and a Ninja H2R, and definitely a 4-cylinder Ducati Panigale R, and I think you grasp the picture I paint. How much heroin does an addict crave? My perfect garage contains 101 motorcycles with room for one more.

If I may be so audacious, my passion has also given me an insight into the status of the motorcycle market. In general, the picture I see requires a serious address. Unfortunately, since the mass sell-off of private motorcycles after the 2008 financial collapse, the market has continued to shrink. Only Asia is experiencing significant growth in motorcycle sales, but most are under 400 cc, and frequently the only mode of motorized transport for an entire family.

There are many reasons why motorcycling has become less fashionable, and perhaps people more responsible. Fewer young people are entering the sport as the draw of modern interactive technology, such as online gaming, lures them away. There is also a...