A path of passion, persistence, and practical know-how

Behind a set of double doors on a quiet West Auckland street sits a place that hums with quiet energy. From the outside, it’s a shed. But to Kevin Norton, it’s home. A sanctuary. A life lived among machines. Now living with motor neurone disease (MND), Kevin has adapted his world around what he loves — proving that purpose and independence don’t stop with a diagnosis. His story is one of several being shared throughout MND Action Month to highlight the strength, insight, and determination of people living with MND.

The shed is enormous—around 22 metres long, eight wide, and tall enough to have once housed a 40-foot motorsailer. Today, it holds something far rarer: the independent life of a man with a passion for mechanics and a determination to keep moving.

“It’s my own space,” Kevin says. “I live here. I work here. I don’t have to go anywhere. It’s just a good place to be.”

At one end is a warm living area with a wood-burning stove. In winter, it’s toasty, in summer, it’s sweltering. The rest of the space is alive with projects—vehicles in various states of repair, rust removal rigs, a repurposed hospital trolley, and his prized Holden Ute. “Hopefully, the Harley will take that title one day,” he adds, gesturing to the three-wheeled motorcycle.

There’s no set routine. “I just come out of my room and see where I go,” he shrugs. “There’s always something that needs tinkering.” On the workbench, a generator mount awaits rewelding. “My brother welded it, but backwards,” Kevin explains, smiling. “So I took it apart, lined it up properly, and gave it back to him.”

“I just do it. I can’t do anything else.”

A working life, built by hand

Kevin’s love of engines began early. At just 13, he bought his first car for $50—money earned from doing a paper round. “It didn’t run,” he says. “So I pulled it apart and learned from there.” That meant a full engine swap, and eventually, getting the car roadworthy and warranted.

From that point on, he was hooked. “Even if something didn’t need fixing, I’d pull it apart just to see how it worked.” It wasn’t just about fixing things—it was about understanding them. Systems. Mechanics. The satisfaction of figuring it out.

He left school before finishing the fifth form. “The principal said, ‘You either come to school or you don’t.’ So I said, ‘I’m not coming.’” He worked on a chook farm, then as a car groomer. A workshop manager noticed his natural instinct and offered him a mechanical apprenticeship. “That was it, really,” Kevin says.

Eventually, he spent over 26 years working at a local mill—first as a truck driver, then as a mechanic, then as second in charge of the workshop. “I knew the place too well,” he chuckles. “I’d even come in on Sundays to set everything up for Monday. No one asked me to. I just liked knowing the job was done right.”

His perfectionism didn’t stop at work. “I always did that little bit extra,” he says. “People used to say I was too much of a perfectionist. But that’s just how I was.”

Improvise, modify, carry on

Kevin was diagnosed with Primary Lateral Sclerosis (PLS), a slower-progressing form of MND, in December 2018. “I’d been having symptoms since late 2016—tripping, dragging my feet. My GP sat me down and said it was likely motor neurone disease.”

His reaction? “Shit happens,” he says plainly. “I didn’t even know what it was. I figured I’d just keep going.”

That’s exactly what he’s done. When a hip fracture made it difficult to navigate his shed, Kevin’s brother Gary stepped in and helped clear a safe pathway. “There was a time I felt trapped in my room. Couldn’t get out the other side of the shed. But now I can.”

Kevin’s walking frame doubles as a mobile toolkit. “There’s a space under the seat—so I thought I might as well fill it with tools.”

His grip has weakened, but his determination hasn’t. “I can’t undo bolts like I used to, so I improvise. Modify. Whatever it takes.”

Technology has become a valuable ally. “I never owned a computer until lockdown,” he says. Now he uses it to research parts and find solutions online. “Most of what I need is easier to get from Aussie than here. I scribble notes, I Google stuff. It helps.

“I improvise. Modify. Whatever it takes.”

Making time count in his own way

Kevin’s shed is full of stories. There’s a toolbox he’s had since he was 17, now perched on an old hospital trolley salvaged by his brother. His parents’ ashes rest on a shelf beneath the flags of England and Wales—a nod to his father’s and mother’s heritage. “I’d have liked to go there one day,” Kevin says. “I was born in Australia, but we moved here when I was three. I’ve never left New Zealand since.”

Kevin’s shed isn’t just a workspace — it’s a museum of memories and oddities, with stories tucked into every corner. Fantails regularly dart through, as if on cue. “They do a loop, chatter away, then fly out again,” he says. In a drawer, an old video player still works. And in a family anecdote that feels almost too good to be true, his brother once cooked for David Bowie during a tour stop in Auckland. “He was working at a hotel at the time — Bowie even signed one of his records.”

Even his old workplace had its wild moments. “I was inside a boiler once when a tornado came through,” he recalls. “Suddenly, I hear this roar — next thing, a river of water comes rushing past my feet.” He pauses. “Pretty close shave.”

He doesn’t talk about legacy. But it’s here in the order of his tools. In the old tyres shifted to create a safe path. In the Chevy he dismantled during lockdown, to stay busy.

Ask him what he’d tell someone newly diagnosed with MND, and the answer is simple: “Just keep going. Don’t sit in a corner and wait. You don’t know how much time you’ve got, so keep as active as you can.”

He still dreams of getting the Harley running again. “My sister said she’d love to see me ride it.”

And you believe him because everything about Kevin Norton says: still going, still building and still moving.