I knew of him long before I met him. The rumour was that Igor Kenk bought, sold and traded hot bicycles. If you’d had a bike stolen and you paid a quick visit to the Bicycle Clinic, Kenk’s storefront on Queen West, chances were you’d find your bike there. In fact, that’s where the cops sent you.

In the summer of 2002, after my bike got stuck in a subway turnstile and its frame was sawed in half by TTC workers, I was left with decent parts to off-load. I never considered going anywhere else. Kenk made this sort of transaction easy. There was no wait time. You’d show up with a bike carcass to sell and leave with cash. Kenk’s reputation didn’t seem to matter. The situation was rotten, and we all knew it.

The Bicycle Clinic looked like it belonged more in Lagos than Toronto. As I approached, two pitbulls sniffed my trainers. A smell of must, stale oil and rubber wafted from the store. Inside, it was tangled with rusted bike frames, tire tubes, gear cables and old rags. It was imposing and almost comical, like an installation piece, an orchestrated mise en scène for Kenk’s theatrical bravado.

He was bent over a bike, his muscled back curved as he pulled down on a wrench, his long hair hanging limp in the humidity. There were knots in his forearms, and he had the hands of a bare-knuckle fighter.

“Whose is the fuckin’ bike?” he wanted to know. He did not stop tinkering with the BMX between his knees. In a city known for its passive-aggressive obsequiousness, I found it refreshing that here, the customer was not always right.

I told him what happened and he cocked his head, as if trying to hear voices on the other side of the street during a gale. When I was done, he straightened up and asked, “How much you want?” The parts were in good shape and I figured $80 was fair.

The head cocked again. “Eighty? Did I hear you correct? My friend, you are not a very good fuckin’ businessman,” said Kenk. “That bike is not worth 80.”