One of my daily struggles is navigating the minefield that is my overly impacted garage. Every time I head out there to start something, I manage to trip about 27 times just trying to get to it. The garage is supposed to be my sanctuary—my happy place. But living in a house with five adults and three cats? Sanctuary is a pipe dream.
The fleet of motorcycles and parts are just the beginning. Add in my woodworking arsenal—two table saws, a chop saw, drill press, planer, bandsaw, belt sander, and a mountain of hand tools. Then there’s the camping gear for two families (and one single son), eight mountain bikes, several boxes of computer parts, two 3D printers, and… well, the list goes on. Sure, a lot of it’s mine. But let’s be honest—I still blame everyone else.
The Mountain House: A New Sanctuary
Thankfully, the Mountain House—our cabin in the woods—has stepped up as my temporary sanctuary. It came with about 800 square feet of unfinished space downstairs and another 900 square feet to expand into. Over the past few months, we’ve been making big strides toward turning it into something special.
The existing space now houses my personal gym and a 33’x16’ game room. The gym is fully operational and getting plenty of use. The game room? It’s mostly done, just waiting on flooring and a custom bar to complete the vibe. The other half of the space is earmarked for a bunkhouse and a workshop.
As part of my Garage Liberation Project, I’m relocating all the woodworking equipment to the Mountain House. Joining it will be the Zero DS, the 1997 XR600R, the 2024 Husqvarna FE501s, and three mountain bikes. The process of moving things around has left me with boxes of parts, tools, random junk, and more empty boxes than I care to admit. Hence, the 27 trips-and-falls.
Garage Liberation: Therapy in Disguise
My recent evenings have been consumed with sorting, boxing, and stacking the chaos. It’s not exactly the most thrilling form of Garage Therapy, but I’ve got to admit—it’s rewarding. Along the way, I’ve unearthed missing parts, tools, manuals, and even an old notebook where I logged expenses for my very first bike, a 1971 Suzuki TS250.
Sure, this isn’t as exciting as revving engines in the driveway or admiring shiny new parts, but there’s something deeply satisfying about creating a space where I can actually walk to my bikes without risking a rib or two. Progress may be slow, but it’s progress nonetheless—and I’ll take it.
