Take the Queen and John intersection, build a cycle shop steps away, staff it with good-looking boys, and hello, I’m sold.

Ahem.

Hormones aside, Urbane Cyclist is a pretty cool and ridiculously popular bike shop. Once the weather becomes slightly un-cold, the after-work urban professionals come in droves, mouths open, gobbling this place up with their higher-end wheels and higher-end accessories. In fact, it’s so overrun by bike fever that it could even convert a Hummer fanatic.

Though I love bike culture, cheapskates like me don’t belong. No Canadian Tire Supercycles here. Nothing used. Just premium, light-weight, slick-looking wheels that start from the mid-$300s.

In fact, my beater of a bike, bought for $50 in an alleyway last year, looked a bit sad in comparison. It was in bad shape, and this was the closest place I could find to get it fixed. Definitely out of place.

My repair associate knew the bike sucked, too, but he didn’t judge me for it.

In fact, he tried to keep the costs down to a reasonable figure; as soon as he noticed my eyeballs roll into my head at the final figure — double the amount of my bike — he quickly suggested I re-think the fix and take some time to think it over.

No condescension, no pressure. He didn’t even lead me to the new bikes on display, which would have surely happened in another smarmy store.

I walked out of Urbane Cyclist without dropping a dime.

A store that doesn’t jump to take my cash? I’ll definitely be a returning customer.

And I swear it has nothing to do with my hormones. I swear.