To make matters worse, I didn’t have a garage or a shop. The bikes and my tools shared space in a tiny, unheated garden shed a short walk from the house. But there was a workbench, electricity, and enough room to scoot around the DR-Z’s now empty frame if I rolled two other machines outdoors. The miracle of the motorcycle is that it takes up no space, that you can stitch one together in the square footage of a queen-sized bed. I’d be joining the army of fools who’ve assembled bikes in kitchens and bedrooms, basements, and, yes, sheds.