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A gleaming new floor, cabinets, and a totally organized workspace make up David Booth's renovated garage.
A look at David Booth's drab, cluttered and lifeless one-car garage before the transformation.
Two thumbs up for a clean, uncluttered workspace to work on your one true love, err, your motorcycle. Since my son, the Basement Troll, fled the coop, my living space, such as it is, has dwindled down to two rooms. And no sooner had he left the basement than motorcycle bits, like some slow-moving plague, started taking over his abandoned lair. The only solution, of course, was to build a man cave, a garage so dreamy that not only would it be becoming of the beauty that is a Honda CB1100R (1982 being the most desirable C model, by the way) but would somehow organize all the various and sundry bits that ten years of Honda obsession had accumulated. Said artiste was Marc Javet of Premier Garage, whose first wallet-damaging revelation was that resurrecting an old townhouse garage floor would take more than a slap-dashed hundred-dollar epoxy floor kit from Canadian Tire. We encourage all readers to share their views on our articles using Facebook commenting Visit our FAQ page for more information.
Oh, I still have ownership of an entire three-story 1,800+ square foot luxury townhome (with four bathrooms no less). Even as my hermit-like status reduces the amount of space I take up, my motorcycle addiction, er, hobby, has slowly taken control over the rest of the Booth manse.
At first, the encroachment was innocuous, a couple of spare wheels here, a rare-as-hen’s-teeth Calfab swingarm there. Filters, pistons and power tools would meet epoxy floors, work bench and storage cabinets in one orgiastic gathering of organization. Of course, I was limited by the fact that a) I live on a journalist’s salary and b) I have a one-car garage in a townhouse. Salt, oil and the occasional brake line drip had given my concrete the pockmarked visage of a bullet-ridden ville in Afghanistan. And stuff, if it is to be at all useful — or at least found — needs organized storage space.
Yes, the very same inch-and-a-quarter slap of maple that wives and significant others the world over covet for their dream kitchens is where I denude carbon-crusted cylinder heads and oil-soaked crankcases.
Indeed, even before said troll fled the premises a year ago, motorcycle gear, spare parts and three entire bookcases of motorcycle magazines had taken over the other upstairs bedroom while the master bedroom’s walk-in closet had become little more than a repository for spare Avon radials and a precious, recently-repainted gas tank.
But, before I knew it, there was an air compressor in the corner, a collection of used camshafts in his forgotten Ikea armoire and a ginormous Honda four-cylinder motorcycle engine smack dab where his bed used to be. Nonetheless, I was determined to not Cheap Charlie this whole affair despite its humble origins.
Dreams of a mojito-filled vacation to South Beach quickly went poof in two days of -based substrate and multiple layers of colour chips and epoxy.
I am not sure if the accompanying pictures do the Booth garage any justice but I now have enough Windswept Pewter Premier Garage cabinetry (yes, even motorheads are susceptible to the overly precious naming of cabinet colours, though we tend to the drab rather than the pastel) to store an entire other motorcycle.
The kitchen, save for a single burner turned on about once a month, grows mothballs (or, more probably, mold), the taps in three of my bathrooms would likely pass more dust than water and I have a balcony that I swear I have not set foot on in my 10 years of condominium townhome ownership.
I had been dreaming of, well, a dream garage since I was old enough to turn a wrench and was determined that some concrete and gyprock artist would render my hovel man cave worthy. Despite the fiscal trauma, however, there was no denying the end result was the garage equivalent of an Italian marble floor, my once renovated kitchen starting to look a little shabby in comparison. Another has enough engine bits — did I mention that I have four CB11 clutch baskets even though, as far as I can tell, no such clutch basket has ever failed — to start a historic race team. Oily camshafts no longer litter drawers previously reserved for Tommy Hilfiger; rear suspension bits and their equally oily damper rods are no longer spread on Brazilian Cherry floors. There are even professional garage-like small parts bins so that oil soaked hands no longer sully bedroom carpets looking for that gasket in a haystack. My home — and maybe I should have pitched this as an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive rather than hiring a contractor — had basically become a life support system for a 1982 Honda CB1100R.
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Published at: Barn Shed Plans