The most unexpected thing happened in 2025: we decided to leave behind a restoration facility that had been in use for barely over a year, and within just three months build—and move into—an even better location elsewhere. It was a headache of a beginning, and all I could do was find ways to amuse myself along the way. As an old Chinese saying goes: to turn a funeral into a celebration.
The idea of moving out was first raised by my partner. It was September 14th. He walked in and asked me, almost casually, “Don’t you think it’s a bit small here?” Without a second thought, I replied, “Yes—honestly, it would be perfect if it were twice the size.” He lit up immediately. “Well then,” he said, grinning, “what if I told you I’ve found a place that’s more than twice as big—would you be happy?” I thought he was joking. After all, we had only moved in a year ago. “Come on,” I said. “That’s impossible.”
The next day, he came in again and said exactly the same thing. Normally, we only see each other once a week—sometimes not even that. “I’ll take you to see the new place,” he insisted. But I had no interest in going. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll get back to you later,” I said—though of course I had no intention of actually visiting any “new place.” At that moment, I was enjoying the climate-control system I’d spent a small fortune installing at the current facility. All I felt was regret for ever admitting I wasn’t fully satisfied with the place in the first place. It was like a parent scolding their own child: it doesn’t mean they want to replace the child.
On the third day, I was, in the strictest sense, dragged there. The engine teardown of Big Apple was in full swing, and the thought of wasting an hour to look at what would surely become a massive financial sinkhole filled me with irritation. One of our employees—under my partner’s instructions—essentially escorted me into his car. Five minutes later, we arrived. Even then, I still couldn’t understand why we needed to move. It would cost time, and it would cost money—plenty of both. But my partner told me we had no choice: we had to move. The reason was somewhat difficult to put into words, but in the end, I agreed.
I had poured tremendous effort into our current “Bau”, even though I could hardly claim to be satisfied with it. First, it was small: the main working area was only 140 m². With such limited space, the moment we had three cars in progress at the same time, the entire place became cramped, chaotic, and barely functional. Second, it was damp—literally damp. The roof began to leak; rainwater seeped into the walls, slowly devouring the freshly renovated surfaces we had just completed. Dust and debris constantly fell from inside the ceiling. In short, it needs a new roof—but the landlord had no intention of paying for one. Third, the site sat too low. This year alone, we were hit by flooding at least three times. In retrospect, raising the workshop floor by 20 centimeters was a remarkably foresighted decision—but the donor cars in the yard were not nearly as fortunate.
I think the experience of restoring cars has given me a tendency toward forgiveness: a car may come with a terrible past, and an even worse present state—that’s alright. I forgive you, and I will make you whole again. That kind of forgiveness, that quiet calm, has gradually seeped into my soul. Before long, I found myself trying to identify the advantages of the new location—or the shortcomings of the current one—simply to comfort myself, and to gather the strength needed to start over in the new place. It was the same as last time we moved: I never enjoy moving, no matter where we move to. Because I know that none of these places are permanent.
Conception
Before I had even fully accepted that we were truly moving, my partner had already told the landlord that we would be leaving the following month—October. The landlord was furious, because we hadn’t given him any advance notice. As a landlord, a vacant property is a direct loss. He and my partner had already argued before, and the first thing I had to do was to be a peacemaker —negotiating our lease to be extended through the end of 2025. Even with that settled, the scale of what lay ahead felt absurd: within just three months, I somehow had to get Big Apple running under its own power, while simultaneously designing and rebuilding an entirely new facility. It felt less like running a workshop and more like doing Spielberg’s job—editing Jurassic Park while filming Schindler’s List in Poland in 1993.
The new site is a grain warehouse built in the 1980s—constructed from reinforced concrete pillars, a steel frame, and mixed brick masonry. In China of the 1980s, grain was still among the most precious social resources, and facilities like this were the kind guarded by the military. As a result, it was built to a far higher standard than the boiler-house building we are currently working in. The warehouse totals 1,000 m². My partner secured two-fifths of it—400 m². The remaining portion belongs to a neighboring tenant who runs a furniture manufacturing business. The shelving left behind by the previous tenant became our boundary line. My partner’s long-term plan is to take over the other 600 m² once the neighbor eventually moves out. For that reason, one of the guiding principles of this renovation is simple: we cannot build any permanent structures in the direction where we intend to expand.
The building is oriented northwest to southeast, and we occupy the southeastern corner. So although we no longer enjoy the abundant direct light from a due-south exposure, sunlight is far from scarce here—thanks to the roof windows on all four sides and the surrounding warehouses of similar height, which allow the light to circulate. The site itself also sits higher. For the moment the roof shows no signs of leaking, and the interior is remarkably dry. After all, this used to be a grain depot. In other words, the three major disadvantages of our current facility have all been resolved. An additional advantage is that we have gained an open area of roughly 3,000 m²—enough to build further structures in the future. So, in reality, our usable space is not limited to 400 m² at all. That said, these are long-term plans. For now, the immediate priority is to transform this 400 m² section into a facility built to our own standards.
Although my partner and I operate in a rather uncomplicated symbiosis—he covers the rent and personnel, while I take responsibility for the physical infrastructure—I did incur losses as a result of this relocation. For that reason, he will bear a substantial portion of the cost this time, mainly by taking on the larger-ticket items: the concrete paving of the yard, the workshop heating system, and the partition wall separating us from the neighboring tenant. As for the rest, I will handle it myself. By the simple principle of whoever proposes it takes responsibility, if I insist on a higher standard for the workshop, then I can only treat this move as an opportunity to upgrade. It is still a considerable expense—but hopefully, it will prove to be worth it.
After building the previous “Bau”, I learned something else. As long as not a single inch of this 9.6 million m² of land is truly privately owned, we are merely passing guests in these buildings. Last time, I tried to transform the boiler-house into something entirely different; looking back, it feels a little arrogant. A boiler-house is a boiler-house, and a grain warehouse is a grain warehouse. Even though places like these have long been forgotten, and now serve as spaces where we study cars, their architectural nature does not change. So this time, I no longer want to impose drastic, irreversible alterations on the building itself. I hope that one day, when we eventually leave, it could still become a grain warehouse again.
Rolling
I have to take on, alone, the roles of project initiator, consultant, designer, cost estimator, project manager, and site supervisor—while also participating extensively in construction and procurement. Within the three days in which we reached agreement, the finished form of the building had already been uploaded into my brain. In that time, I calculated material costs and workload, produced the functional layout, and created visual renderings. A relocation plan running all the way to December 31st was drafted—Big Apple’s progress also cannot be delayed. I also had to sit down with our current landlord, pay the rent, and ensure that the remaining three months of cooperation would conclude peacefully. And by then, the excavator had already arrived and begun working on the ground—before October had even started.
Sunlight is where everything begins. The illumination here is, of course, not as generous as at our current place—but this is still the most favorable corner of the entire building. Because the neighbor’s production creates a constant storm of sawdust and noise, my partner negotiated with him and turned our boundary into an airtight Berlin Wall—a dust-proof defensive barrier. Since the neighbor occupies the northwestern corner, where hardly any sunlight reaches in the first place, we lost nothing. He, on the other hand, is the one who suffered: inside, it feels like a black hole. But he doesn’t seem to care. As a former grain depot, this building was designed to stay dry—and to stay out of the light. The windows, therefore, are not large. My partner decided to preserve these timeworn historical windows, replacing only the broken panes of glass. For that, I can only give him a sincere thumbs-up.
My partner was curious how I would deal with the lighting. My answer was simple: to go with the flow. Since this was never meant to be a bright building, there is no reason to force it into becoming a banquet hall. In fact, I would like to embrace an environment that is slightly dim—yet still warm. I designed two lighting systems. One is a series of wall-mounted lamps that runs all the way around the workshop. It exists purely to create atmosphere. It will not improve brightness in any practical sense, but it does add a little light to the heart. If I had the choice, I would honestly keep only this system. Personally, I dislike turning on lights during the day. It feels like a quiet violation of nature’s intention.
That said, our wonderfully unrefined, detail-agnostic, and aesthetically indifferent workers (and I mean that as a compliment) are forever craving sunlight-level brightness. So, to avoid the inevitable popular demand for full-scale light pollution, I decided to add LED strips directly above the workstations where illumination is actually needed. This works far better than hanging blinding industrial floodlights from the ceiling—at least it delivers exactly the kind of brightness they want, precisely where they want it. In this way, the two independent lighting systems can each fulfill their purpose. In the spirit of energy efficiency and basic human decency, the lighting at each workstation is also controlled independently. I, for one, enjoy working alone—surrounded by darkness, with only a small island of light.
The floor of the warehouse is made of precast concrete slabs, varying in thickness from roughly 10 to 20 cm. It is not level enough, and it is hardly friendly when it comes to cleaning. Installing a vehicle lift requires cutting the floor open and pouring reinforced concrete, which means the entire floor will have to be rebuilt anyway. Since the space is already on the darker side, and concrete floors naturally carry a brighter tone, we might as well keep this light-colored ground as part of the atmosphere. We have already “rehearsed” this floor saga three times in our current workshop. The first version was my dream: red brick—but it proved hopelessly unforgiving when it came to dirt and stains. Then I painted the bricks yellow, yet the paint refused to stay put. Finally, for the sake of cleanliness and easy maintenance, we covered everything with LX Hausys vinyl flooring.
This time, I looked into the kind of 60 cm × 60 cm tiles commonly seen in public squares—tiles that are also used at the metro station where I get off every day. Their surfaces are flame-fired, which makes them denser and more durable. My plan is to lay these tiles in the heavy-duty zones (such as around the vehicle lifts), while reusing the vinyl flooring we already have in the “soft” working areas—the assembly section. Interestingly, whenever I ask about tile colors, salespeople always answer with absolute certainty: “Of course dark colors are the most dirt-resistant.” The same thing happened last time I was choosing floor paint. But anyone with common sense knows that the dust we deal with here is usually light-colored—and it shows most clearly on dark floors. This alone says a great deal about how ignorant the system we live in can be.
The floor plan is divided by function. Out of the 400 m² available, I allocated 70 m² for storage and 96 m² for assembly. The storage area, strictly speaking, is still not enough. But in order not to compromise the integrity of the building, this was as far as I could go. I added only two discontinuous partition walls to define the zones. There is still a considerable amount of open space whose purpose will have to be decided through actual use. That said, I have already limited the number of working bays to four. Yes—two fewer than in our current 140 m² workshop. I have come to realize that proper work on a single car requires more space, not less. This time, each assembly bay is nearly 50 m². And in practice, more space usually means one thing: greater order.
In the final zoning plan, I added one exhibition spot and reduced the number of workbay by one. In fact, for me, the ideal rhythm of restoration is one car per year—only at that pace can I truly guarantee quality. As for my partner, I don’t think he should take on more than two. Restoring a car is a complex and enormous undertaking. In work of this scale, mistakes are inevitable. The greater the workload, the higher the pressure—and the more errors one is likely to make. Fortunately, our timeline is generous. We restore cars only for ourselves; there are no clients waiting impatiently, no deadlines imposed from the outside. Given our current team size and workshop area, three fully restored projects per year sounds like the absolute upper limit.
The heating system was my partner’s responsibility. His beloved “Director of Comprehensive Governance”—a pleasantly plump woman with an unwavering talent for hunting the best deals—naturally went straight for the bargains. As a result, we ended up with a pile of white radiators that matched absolutely nothing in the building. Against our dark walls, those radiators stood out painfully—turning what could have been a clean, coherent surface into a visual interruption. I had to perform emergency aesthetic surgery in two ways: first, by placing shelving units near the radiators to partially conceal them; and second, by spraying the exposed radiators and pipes in silver. This no doubt compromises the efficiency of the heating system to some extent. But hopefully the comfort of our eyes will generate a bit of warmth of its own.
Outdoors, I built a 104 m²shed to accommodate a vehicle lift, bringing our total working area to roughly 500 m². This space is dedicated to dismantling cars and cleaning parts—the dirty work, in every sense of the word. To maintain the cleanliness of a developed country, one must export all pollution to the Third World. Across from it, we also have a 40 m² storage area, along with the dormitory, cafeteria, toilets, and the boiler room for heating. Even to support a four-person team—one that is meant to function with a degree of humanistic care—requires this much space.
Filling
I am constantly asked what the next step will be. But I am not an industrial architect—nor am I truly a director. I cannot complete everything in one grand gesture, and more often than not, I simply don’t know what the next step is. Especially after some reckless attempts in the past, I would rather wait, think things through, and understand what belongs with what before moving forward. The best methodology, in my experience, is to let the cars enter first—and then see what truly fits them. Yes, I have many cases I admire. But I also firmly believe that any intervention should remain faithful to the building’s original character. And for the sake of order and clarity: less is more.
One timely opportunity came when a W140 owner in Beijing—who had found me through Instagram—needed HHT diagnostics. I remembered that when he first contacted me a year ago, I had turned him down, because we were in the middle of moving. This time, even though we are again in the middle of moving, I didn’t want to disappoint him. So we arranged to meet directly at Bau 3. His car was a fully restored 1992 400 SE. Apart from the wheelbase, it looked like Nonna’s twin. And there it was: in an unfinished space, the car and the architecture somehow coexisted in quiet harmony—and the lighting, too, proved its worth. Of course, in the final layout the cars will not be parked in that orientation. But at two o’clock in the afternoon, it matched the sunlight perfectly.
The difficulty is that, beyond the necessary functionality, I want this place to offer as much humanistic care as possible. What I mean is: it should be a place the people who work here can be proud of—a place they would not mind being discovered in by their family and friends. Because although the Constitution may declare workers to be the leading class, in reality they are discriminated against everywhere. In a career-promotion video made at my child’s school, my son was placed first. He said, proudly, that his father can fix cars. Yet in some edited versions, we were the only ones cut out. In China there is an old saying: people mock poverty, but not prostitution. Are workers looked down upon simply because prostitutes generate GDP more efficiently? There should be no such logic. Later, I began to understand. A prostitute may be clean in the flesh, yet dirty in the soul. What that saying truly means is not “mock the poor, not the prostitute”—but rather: mock what seems dirty, not what is merely poor.
After all, expensive cars are everywhere—but truly clean cars are rare. We have long grown used to luxury cars with interiors in absolute chaos, yet we still tip our hats to the owner of a compact car that has been lovingly cared for. I believe that if this building can offer emotional value to the people who work here, they will naturally understand why it is worth maintaining. Then everything will begin to stay in order, forming a positive cycle. With that purpose in mind, you quickly realize that space is never enough. Four hundred square meters may be more than sufficient for a family of four—almost generous. But for a family of four who love restoring cars, it is still a little crowded.
For me, the single most emotionally rewarding element would be an exhibition area for the cars—one that also includes a place to rest. It would serve as a constant reminder to everyone in the building of the value of excellence, and of the possibility of perfection. If the families of our three employees were to visit, they would feel proud of them. Conveniently, Christmas is approaching. So I bought a Christmas tree and placed it inside first, simply to see how the rest of the space might respond to it—how everything else could be arranged around it. Under the moral constraints of my current identity, as an unbaptized atheist Chinese, I am not exactly supposed to commemorate Jesus Christ. And indeed, I do not celebrate Christmas. This tree is not for me—it is for the cars. They come from a civilization that does.
Around the Christmas tree, I experimented with several layouts, yet none truly satisfied me. And so the vinyl flooring remained uncut for a long time. The problem was how to display two cars without blocking the circulation routes needed for the cars to move in and out normally. I am certain I will not sacrifice the building’s primary identity—its function as a repair facility—simply to create an exhibition area. The cars should be able to enter and leave the display zone along an effortless, logical path. They are free souls. This brings me to my rather shallow understanding of spatial arrangement. My father is an architectural designer, and he has always loved buildings without partition walls. In his words, he prefers “spaces that flow—connected, continuous.”
The houses he has renovated for himself have always been like that. But my own view is different: functional zones must be clearly distinguished. Sometimes I would rather sacrifice a bit of space and add walls—not only for order, but also because walls create opportunities to give each area its own character. In this grain warehouse, we have already separated the clean final-assembly zone from the slightly greasy lift area. But separating the assembly zone from the adjacent exhibition area turns out to be far more difficult.
My personal working bay is where I recharge. It occupies one fifth of the building—about 100 m²—dedicated to restoring a single car. Along the walls are several cabinets for parts waiting to be used: either new parts, or parts already restored and ready for installation. These cabinets are organized and labeled according to SA group classifications. Some smaller groups are combined—for instance, Group 40 (Wheels) and Group 41 (Propeller Shaft / Driveshaft). Even so, I still have a considerable number of parts stored in the small storage room across the yard. Recently, I’ve been trying to reduce the overall inventory, because accumulated parts take up far too much space. Now, aside from a few NOS items, I only keep enough parts in stock for one car at a time.
Editing
For a structure as complex and chaotic as a building, modifications become inevitable—even before it is put into use. The lady in charge of procurement for my partner quickly produced results through her strict cost control. Thanks to the cheapest possible radiators and piping, along with the most straightforward installation methods, the cost of the heating system was reduced by one third. Besides the rather unfortunate white radiators, the pipes themselves were also made of white plastic. In terms of raw material, plastic is not dramatically cheaper than iron; the real savings lie in labor. Plastic pipes and fittings are joined through heat welding—fast, clean, and convenient. Iron pipes, on the other hand, require threaded connections. Yes—even in China, where labor is traditionally seen as inexpensive, the cost of labor has become impossible to ignore.
These plastic pipes began to warp immediately after the first water-pressure test. It was the result of thermal expansion and contraction—at that point, the water temperature was only 60°C. Once the outside temperature dropped below freezing, the dormitory needed more heat, so we raised the water temperature to 80°C. That was when the pipes started to twist like intestines. The visual ugliness was probably the least of our concerns: after seeing our feedback, the supplier immediately warned us to reduce the temperature back to 60°C—otherwise the pipes might burst. Now we have to add electric heaters to the dormitory as well. Usually, when you save a little money upfront, you end up regretting it later—and the “fix” is rarely something you can solve by simply paying a little extra. I always say: the quality of a person’s things reflects the quality of the person.
Because the pipes have become so badly warped, even those that were already sprayed silver are no longer fit to be seen. Now the only option is to make certain pipes—and radiators—disappear: some will be painted the same color as the wall, and others will be hidden behind cabinets. And my cabinets were never sufficient to begin with. There are many oversized parts—plastic door frames, bumpers—that simply cannot be stored neatly in one concentrated place. So, opposite my workstation, I built what looks like a temporary solution, but is in fact a permanent zone: a storage area for large parts. Inside it are all the bulky pieces that refuse to fit into cabinets, along with dirty and old parts waiting to be processed. This 5 × 3 × 2-meter space is enclosed by an L-shaped open partition, so the mess inside remains out of sight.
This area is hardly beautiful, but at least it hides something uglier—and it can be moved at any time. For a brief moment, I nearly decided to place the lift at my workstation vertically, aligned with the direction from which the winter afternoon sun enters. But then I realized it might create an opportunity for misuse: the moment the workers discover that more cars could be parked indoors, cars will begin to appear there—and before long, it will become the new normal. So I would rather waste a little space as emptiness than allow cars to be packed together like the cramped storefronts of Japan and Hong Kong. In order to make access easier for cars entering the area, I adjusted the dimensions of the parts enclosure to 5 × 2 × 2 meters.
Earlier, I brought two sample tiles back to the workshop and tested them with carburetor cleaner, paint stripper, engine oil, and brake fluid. All of it could be cleaned off without leaving permanent damage. But I forgot the most fatal point: the textured bumps I liked—meant to prevent us from slipping on lubricants—would also wear the tires. When the front wheels turn slowly, they leave tire marks on the floor. The marks can be removed, but they are difficult to avoid entirely. At the moment, we have inherited all the vinyl flooring from the previous facility, and removing it is anything but effortless. Only half of the area remains uncovered. I am still observing the tiles in real use, to decide whether we should simply lay vinyl flooring across the entire shop.
lthough we had to maintain productivity while relocating—so that work on Big Apple could continue—nothing was ultimately delayed. During the construction of Bau 3, we rebuilt and installed the front and rear axles, as well as the engine. On December 21st, Big Apple drove under its own power into its workstation. Bau 3 officially went into operation, and we finished ahead of schedule. January 1st was a bright, sunny day. I invited my wife and children to spend the first morning of the new year here with me. In March 2026, we will also build a dedicated paint and detailing area, in preparation for Big Apple’s paintwork.
As for how long we will be able to stay here—when I asked for the shipping address, I noticed something unsettling: the word grain warehouse appears nowhere in it. Officially, this place is listed as Phase III of a real-estate development site. The landlord later told me that the developer had acquired this reserved land long ago, and the original plan was to build residential housing here. But as the property market has contracted, housing prices have fallen by about 40% over the past two years, and even the newly completed Phase I apartments have been sitting unsold. That development is right next to our former workshop. It was built on the former site of a shipyard. For now, everything remains as it is. But if the real-estate market ever recovers, these grain warehouses will likely be demolished.
As I said before, I remain open-minded about moving. Sometimes, the truth is right in front of us. When I look at the portrait of Chairman Mao on the wall of my partner’s office, I can’t help but think of one of his lines:
“Preserve the people and lose the land, and both people and land will still be preserved; preserve the land and lose the people, and both people and land will be lost.”
