Step into Kraynick's. Close the door. At first by feel, then, as your eyes adjust to the dimness, by sight, make your way along its creaking floors. Frames are leaned against frames leaned against frames that lean against forks stacked in front of a wooden cabinet of drawers filled with derailleur bolts and clamp screws and washers and barrel adjusters and straddle hangers and quill-stem wedges and end caps and crimps and bearings and retainers and vials of touch-up lacquer and any other bit you might randomly pick out of a small-parts catalog. There are tool cabinets too. Dusty boxes on top of everything. Wheels hanging from the ceiling. Circle around a bit and, when you return to the front door, take a look at the truing stand. See the headlamp hanging on it? If you want to find the light switches in the basement and the two floors above (which used to be apartments) you'll need to use that headlamp, or borrow a flashlight from Jerry Kraynick.

One of the most interesting things about bicycle shops is that they succeed in many guises: There are pro shops, family shops, funky mountain-bike-town shops, coffee-bar shops, vast sparkling warehouses, European homages, museums. Kraynick's is a junk shop, and one of the best of its kind anywhere.

The four-story catacomb was founded in 1946 by Steve Kraynick, a steelworker who would pick up forsaken bikes at a junkyard on his walk home from the mills, teach himself how to repair them at night, then sell them. Soon he began selling enough bikes to open a small storefront in the rough Hills district of Pittsburgh. His son, Jerry, now owns the shop and is also its sole employee.

The inventory, which fills every room of the building except one of its four bathrooms, is a tangle of parts, most of it low-level detritus. In the mid-'90s, for example, a Schwinn rep called to see if the shop would help the bike company clear old stock. For rock-bottom prices, Jerry took in 1,100 frames and 2,000 forks, many of which are still piled up or hanging on the walls. And doomed evolutionary off-shoots, such as the Shimano Biopace oval chainrings lining one wall, gather here as if they've migrated to their final resting place. But there are some treasures: World War II-era New Departure coaster brakes, for example, or 116mm Campy chainrings for the Victory and Triomphe gruppos. (And, in an odd twist, Schwinn recently asked to buy back the 20-year-old Paramount forks Jerry purchased 15 years ago.)

All seven bikes for sale are lined up, leaning on kickstands, in a back corner. Among them are a striking pink Schwinn 10-speed with a step-through frame, and a metallic red Mongoose, along with refurbished cruisers and commuters selling for $25 to $200. There are no new bikes—Jerry says he doesn't need the hassle.

In fact, he'd rather not even do your repairs. He prefers to sit and read the paper while customers help themselves to his tools and a work-stand in the back. "I'm just the keeper of the parts," he explains, adding that yes, by the way, he does know where everything can be found.

The workshop is the cleanest area of the store. Six workstands for customers crowd the sides, while piles of forks litter the floor and rows of tires lean in from the walls. Not only is there no charge to wrench on a bike, you also don't need to buy parts from Jerry. All he asks is that you help the less knowledgeable while you're back there.

Like all notable bike shops, Kraynick's has a loyal community of similarly tuned bike geeks. In this case, there's no spandex or carbon fiber to be found. Down-and-dirty bike commuters, fixed-gear hipsters and gray-haired retrogrouches buzz around searching for parts to repair bikes that in most cases see nearly daily use or to build up new project bikes. Among the faithful are a few younger men who, Jerry says, wouldn't mind being the next caretaker of Kraynick's. Jerry is 66, and there's no younger Kraynick to inherit the shop. But, as he tells a curious customer, "Anybody with money doesn't want the shop, and anyone interested never has any money."

In the fading light of his family's legacy, Jerry Kraynick smiles. "Who will take over after me?" he says. "Maybe you."

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