It is known and referred to by most as, simply, The Shop.

What was once a small car dealership building--with a large, open front section and a smaller rear garage--is now a shadow of its former self. The larger front section is now a makeshift storage facility. A late '80s Chevy pickup that hasn't run in years sits near the west entrance, over the non-functional hydraulic car lift. A handful of '70s Japanese bikes with various parts missing (no doubt sold or borrowed for another project) are grouped together near a Cub Cadet lawn mower, hibernating here during the winter months. The only thing relatively new is the 6'x12' enclosed trailer with large SUZUKI script on the front and rear. The roof leaks in various places, and after a rain there will be puddles on the concrete floor. There is a path though all this random machinery that leads to a single door in the back. This leads to the back room, the garage...The Shop.

This is a far different place than the run-down front section. The roof is new, and there are no leaks, although one of the two garage doors is currently out of order. The concrete floor is swept regularly so it's clean--no losing any parts in dust and grime on the floor. There are two workbenches. One has various BSA chassis and wheel parts spread out in methodical order, with spare parts and trinkets places on the shelves below. Next to it is an older refrigerator with an old Snap-On radio on top, followed by a hanging rod with 15 or so tie-downs hanging from it. On the next wall is another large workbench. Next to this is the stack of tool boxes, all tools neatly arranged in their drawers. At the end of the bench is a small TV/VCR combo, usually used for racing videos, a MotoGP race one day, or one of my club races the next.

And then you notice the, ahem, "art". This winter, my dad decided the place needed some additional decorations - the BSA poster on the refrigerator and the Suzuki poster on the door apparently weren't enough. So now, hanging from the ceiling by wire, is an assortment of "moto art" pieces. My first pair of knee pucks, ground down almost to the backing, hangs in the middle of the room. A clutch basket from a GS500, my first race bike, hangs over the workbench. The stock, warped brake rotor from the GS is off to the side, and a chrome shorty muffler rounds out the dĒcor.

The collection of machines in this room--my father's "museum"--is diverse. From left to right, there is a completely original '66 Sears 250 two-stroke, which may be one of the ugliest motorcycles I've ever seen, followed by a raked-out '65 BSA 500 twin carb that's basically a frame, wheels and engine. Next to them is a bare '66 BSA 441 Victor single in need of a rebuild, and then a completely restored, gorgeous, and running '71 BSA Firebird Scrambler--the one with the side pipes. Off to the side is an early '90s Kawasaki Vulcan Cruiser and my '03 GSX-R600 race bike on front and rear stands--looking a bit out of place. In the corner is a '74 Honda CB125 with knobbies and a number plate--the old pit bike--and an '86 Honda Aero 80 Scooter, also with number plates--the current pit bike.

In the center of the room, sitting on a 50-gallon drum and secured with tie-downs, is a '68 BSA Lightning nearing completion—frame, engine, and rear wheel all shiny and new, waiting for the rest of the package to be assembled. The only bike not here is my father's '06 Bonneville, because that bike stays in his garage at home.

Ah, the back room. This is the reason we come here. This is where we work on our bikes, where we sit and talk about bikes, where we tell and re-live motorcycle stories, where we have a beer and hash out family issues. "We" being my father and I, and whoever else happens to be hanging around.

I keep my race bike here, even though I live in St. Louis, 90 miles away. My one-car garage isn't big enough for the bike, generator, canopy, plastic tubs of spares, or the trailer. But it's more than that. Truth be told, I could probably squeeze all that stuff into my limited garage space at home. But it wouldn't be the same. The Shop has many memories, and having the GSX-R there is a good excuse for me to get up there once a month or so to hang out, work on the bike or one of dad's projects, and just spend some time with my dad there.

My dad, you see, is also my crew chief, lead mechanic, lap timer, and co-truck driver. He and I are the entire racing "team" as we hit our CCS club racing events or track days. It's always been this way—it's the tradition. I leave work in St. Louis early Friday, Dad has the trailer loaded and ready, we hook up and head to the track of the week—Blackhawk Farms, Mid-America Motorplex, Gateway International, Topeka, Putnam Park—we've been to them all, and had a blast most times. My wife is an integral part now as well, being a great support and terrific helper in the pits when Dad can't make it. But it started off as just Dad and me—and that's the reason the GSX-R lives here.

It's funny how family ties can be traced to two-wheeled transportation. In this regard, I'm luckier than most. My dad didn't tell me I couldn't have a bike when I was a kid—in fact, he bought me a YZinger when I was 6 and said "ride this". I know people, in their early 30s like me, who don't really connect with their fathers all that much. And yet, I get to spend quality time with mine routinely—at least during racing and riding season. We are never at a loss for conversation, because we can always come back to racing, riding, stories, etc. Motorcycles tie it all together.

When I was a kid, I'd ride my dirt bike or bicycle in the alley or the bank parking lot on the corner while my dad worked on a car or bike inside The Shop. Back then, I'd have him help me change a flat tire on my bicycle. Now we measure the sag, adjust the rear-sets, safety-wire the bolts, and bleed the brakes on my GSX-R. Yet, the concept is the same as back then.

The beauty of The Shop is the fact that it's sort of a hideaway—a treehouse for adult males. It's located three miles from my dad's house, which is close enough to run home if you forgot something, but far enough away that you're not bothered by anything at home. I don't think I can remember a time when I was at The Shop when at least one or two of my dad's buddies haven't dropped in. In a town of 3500, you know a lot of people, and people stop by, to see how the current project is coming, to ask about the last race, or to simply hang out. The visitors arrive by old pickups, new Harleys, minivans, Britbikes, you name it. All are welcome.

The Shop isn't pretty, it isn't new, and it isn't fancy. But it's perfect—a place for guys to hang out, talk bikes, racing, or anything else; prepare for a race weekend or restore a '68 BSA; have a beer and re-live the last race or a BSA moment from the '60s—all while being surrounded by bikes, bike parts, bike posters, and most likely, a few friends.

AFITC is a reader-written column on SuperBikePlanet.com. To submit a column, send it here.