The Man Behind the Bikes

I walked into Via Bicycle Shop looking for a cheap bike.

At least, that's what I thought I was looking for.

A friend's nephew was coming to town and needed something to ride while he was here. I figured I'd stop in, get a price, maybe look at a few options, and be on my way.

Instead, I met Curtis.

When I first walked into the shop, he was sitting on a milk crate surrounded by bike frames, wheels, chains, tools, and the accumulated clutter of a life spent fixing things. He was working on some component, holding court from the middle of the chaos.

He told jokes. Not necessarily jokes that would make you laugh out loud, but the kind that make you smile because you know he's told them a thousand times and still enjoys telling them.

I had Reilly with me that day, my friend's puggle. Reilly believes every human she meets is a potential source of treats. She immediately made herself at home with Curtis.

There were no treats.

She liked him anyway.

When I asked about a bike, Curtis didn't answer with a price.

Instead, he started asking questions.

How old is he?

How tall?

Where does he live?

What kind of riding will he be doing?

At first, it felt like an awful lot of questions for someone who just wanted to know how much a bike costs. But as the conversation continued, it became clear that Curtis wasn't trying to sell me a bicycle. He was trying to find the right bicycle.

The price would come later.

The person came first.

Before I left, he even offered a solution I hadn't considered: buy the bike now and sell it back to him when the nephew returned home.

As I was leaving, I introduced myself as a photographer and asked if I could come back someday and photograph him.

He handed me a card.

We shook hands.

A few minutes later, as I was walking away, a man rode past me on a bicycle.

"I've known Curtis since I was ten years old," he called out.

Then he smiled. "He's a great guy and has always been that way."

A few days later I came back with my camera.

When I arrived, the shop was waking up for the day. Bikes were being wheeled onto the sidewalk. A mechanic was already at a workbench. Everyone seemed to slip naturally into the rhythm of another day.

Curtis greeted me with a smile beneath his impressive mustache and then immediately returned to whatever task he had been doing.

"Excuse me while I finish a few things."

That sentence turned out to be the theme of the morning.

Most of the time we talked, he was working. Tightening something. Adjusting something. Reattaching a chain. Wrapping tape. Fixing one thing while thinking about three others.

The conversation wandered.

We talked about where we grew up. Childhood memories. His son.

He told me stories about the shop's old location, a building so large that he once kept an eleven-foot pool on the top floor where he and his children would create whirlpools together.

At one point an elderly woman stopped by carrying a bag of almonds and something homemade wrapped in a corn husk.

She handed them to Curtis.

He explained every week or so she brings him food.

In return, when her bike needs a small adjustment, they take care of it. Sometimes for free. Sometimes for a couple of dollars.

It felt less like a business transaction than an ongoing friendship conducted through bicycles.

Later, a father came in asking about training wheels.

Do you have them?

How much are they?

Simple questions.

Curtis responded with questions of his own.

How old is she? 10

How tall? 5'2"

How's her balance? Terrible

As the conversation unfolded, the father's expression changed. He realized that Curtis wasn't trying to sell him training wheels.

He was trying to help his daughter learn how to ride.

Curtis grabbed a bike and began explaining how to get a child comfortable with balance. How to direct her attention forward instead of down. How to build confidence before worrying about pedals.

He even had the father climb onto the bike so he could experience it himself.

By the end of the conversation, the father looked relieved.

He hadn't just gotten an answer. He'd gotten a plan.

Watching from the sidelines, I realized I was seeing the same thing that had happened to me a few days earlier.

Someone walks into the shop thinking they're there for a bike.

What they actually get is Curtis.

As I was packing up to leave, he pulled out a photograph another photographer had taken years ago. In it, his son sat on his shoulders inside the shop.

Sixteen years had passed since the photograph was made.

As he looked at it, his eyes filled with tears.

I didn't ask why.

Some stories don't belong to me.

What struck me wasn't sadness so much as love. The kind of love that lingers in old photographs and catches you off guard when you least expect it.

By then I had spent only an hour watching people come and go.

Customers.

Friends.

Neighbors.

People bringing food.

People asking advice.

People looking for help.

And through all of it, Curtis kept working.

Fixing bikes.

Telling stories.

Asking questions.

Taking care of people.

Cracking jokes that don't always land.

Photographing him felt a little like stepping back in time, into a version of a neighborhood shop that's becoming harder to find. The kind where expertise isn't hidden behind a website and community isn't a marketing strategy.

It's just a person.

Sitting on a milk crate.

Surrounded by bicycles.

Doing what he's always done.

You can find Curtis and Via Bicycles at 622 S Broad St, Philadelphia, PA.