There are people in Chris Gatto's life who wish he would have stopped asking customers for spare parts and flipping bicycles because, 30 years later, his hobby is a full-blown, dyed-in-the-straitjacket obsession. Launched in 2002 as a small Internet and retail operation proffering used and NOS parts for American V-twins, Gatto's business, Cycle Warehouse, now occupies five floors of the old Troutman's department store on Main Street in sleepy Butler, Pennsylvania. As if Fred Sanford were a motorcycle nut, every inch of the place is packed to the rafters with motorcycle ephemera, hard parts and hundreds of bikes in various states of (dis)repair. Like the archetypal general store of rural America, Cycle Warehouse is part pawn shop where customers can hock or trade bikes and parts when times are hard, and part museum-quality curiosity shop filled with rare and collectible machines like the 1926 Indian Chief in the front window. In an age of look-alike, smell-alike dealerships, Cycle Warehouse may be the last of an endangered breed of shops more concerned with stocking what customers want rather than what the OEMs demand.