Imagine a place where abused and neglected bikes are reborn. Imagine a place where people who can't afford a car find a form of transportation that costs them nothing. Imagine a place where people who were once afraid of their bikes learn how to service them — and therefore, use them more.

As gas prices bog us down, such a place sounds almost like utopia. Surprisingly, Santa Fe has had such a place for more than four years. It's a community bike shop run by six volunteers.

With the Chainbreaker Collective in town, there's no need to trash a bicycle in a Dumpster or a landfill.

And with the Chainbreaker Collective in town, there's no need to live without a bicycle, no matter how broke you are.

At this hand-me-down shop on Second Street, patrons learn basic bike mechanics. They leave with something they've built and can sustain themselves.

"We believe in empowerment through education, humane economics, sustainable ecology, and the active deconstruction of social inequalities," the Chainbreaker mission statement reads.

The shop, which is open two days a week, operates on a few simple principles:

• Rescued bicycles are reserved for people who can't afford to buy a new bike. Priority is given to those who need a bike for transportation.
• Volunteers don't "do anything for anyone, but instead provide the instruction and guidance to help you learn how to fix your bike yourself."
• The shop doesn't sell bikes, parts or labor, but survives on donations and the trade system.

Founded in 2004 as Santa Fe Recycle-A-Bicycle, the grassroots organization has changed names, membership and locations over the years. After years of touch-and-go survival, the collective plans to apply for nonprofit status, which will allow it to get grants and tax-deductible donations.

"Initially, we were too punk for all of that," said member Owen Conley, 22. "I think we've gotten to the point that we won't survive without nonprofit status and grants."

Paying rent is always a struggle. Collective members say they would like to stay in the Hopewell neighborhood, but move to a larger yet affordable building.

"We're going to be homeless in a couple of months," Conley said, noting the unstable rent situation.

The collective isn't sure how many bikes it has redistributed over the years.

"The numbers are actually countless. It's maybe a new face or two a week," Conley said.

About two years ago, Conley was studying film at the College of Santa Fe and couldn't afford a $60 rear wheel for his commuter bike, so he stopped by the shop, which was off Berry Avenue then. He donated $10 and learned how to set up a rear deraileur.

"It's the gift economy versus the capitalist economy," he said.

Unexpectedly, that experience led to his job as a full-time mechanic at Rob & Charlie's Bike Shop. He still doesn't own a car.

Early on, the group used to count the number of people who got a bike at the collective and decided not to buy a car or sold a car. The last count was 58. "They realized that human power is all you really need for a 15-minute commute in Santa Fe," Conley said.

As gas prices soar, the Chainbreaker Collective is seeing a "huge influx" of people who, likewise, are motivated to change their ways.

Under bright blue skies this past Sunday afternoon, half a dozen people were building bikes.

"I can't afford to pay for gas anymore; it's getting scary," said Serrama Gay, 17.

She had picked out a purple Mountain Track Trek, and searched the Chainbreaker Collective for a rear wheel.

Her boyfriend, Alex Van Sickle, was assembling the bike with her. He has a gasoline-free lifestyle and works at Mellow Velo — one of several businesses that donate bike parts to the collective.

Though Gay plans to continue driving to school — Monte del Sol Charter School is across town from her home — she will pedal around town this summer. "I drive a lot of places I don't need to," she said.

Inside the shop, 10 bikes for children hang on hooks from the ceiling. A wall is covered with bike wheels. Upstairs, about 40 bicycles are in various stages of repair. The stereo, which played reggae music, was swapped by one of Chainbreaker's patrons for bike stuff.

Replacing an axle is one of the many challenging tasks that bikes present. But on Sunday, Lee Ellen Thornton, 22, was doing just that.

"It all makes sense," she said of bike mechanics. "It's simple enough."

When she showed up at Chainbreaker Collective three weeks ago, she declared, "I want to learn how to build a bike from the ground up." And now her bright-red Schwinn WorldSport is almost finished.

"I'm totally inspired," Thornton said. "Really, these people are awesome."

Thornton's previous bike didn't fit her body right and didn't function well.

"I can't afford to buy a new road bike," she said, "and now I've built one for myself."

She bought $6 worth of cables and housing for it — but that's all the bike cost her.

The collective isn't staffed by certified bike mechanics, so before Thornton calls the deal done, she'll need to have a local bike shop inspect it.

Plenty of people who come to the Chainbreaker Collective aren't novices, though.

A tattered black Schwinn, stickered with rebel adages such as "Jesus Spits on Hummers" and "Bread Not Bombs," kept Brad Littlebear busy on Sunday. He said he volunteers his time, but would like to see Chainbreaker develop into something more and have a better stock of tools.

Brannigan Draic, 37, also has had a lifelong love affair with bicycles. He takes pleasure in helping others while he builds a KHS hybrid for himself.

"I just love it on an energetic level," he said. "The main gig is reciprocity — the give and take. I've been keeping a conscious balance between giving and receiving."

Across the paved lot on Sunday, a woman tinkered with a blue frame Draic had traded in.

Draic says he is so committed to snubbing his 1997 Jeep that he removed the battery terminals. He's going to reserve gas guzzling for big grocery runs, family emergencies and furniture moves.

Boyfriends, as well as gas prices, seem to be a motivating factor for some patrons.

"I haven't had a bike since I was 10 — and he bikes everywhere," Lauren Oberlin, 22, said, nodding at her boyfriend, Andrew Perry. "I'm trying to make a transition."

Not every college kid can get a free bike here, but Oberlin is on financial assistance at St. John's College, so she qualifies. She learned about the Chainbreaker Collective from the school's circulation librarian, who apparently lives "car-free with two kids."

Lucky for her, her boyfriend, also a St. John's student, is a certified bike mechanic who used to volunteer at a community bike shop in Austin, Texas.

Oberlin's bike is far from glamorous right now. A 1980s Diamond Back in turquoise, the body is splattered with black paint and graffiti that says, "Rock Solid." "The paint looks awful," she said, but this was the best frame she could find for her size.

Before she came to the shop Sunday, she read how to adjust brakes at www.sheldonbrown.com, which offers a crash course in bike mechanics. "It helps with communication a lot," she said, admitting that she isn't familiar with technical terms.

When collective member Eliza Lutz isn't volunteering at the shop, she works in the fashion and silkscreen studio at Warehouse 21.

At 14, she banished her fear of bikes here, and built a road bike with turquoise handlebars from the frame up. Now 17, she still depends on that bike. She has never learned how to drive a car.

Last August, Lutz decided to become a member of the collective. She witnessed that the "see one, do one, teach one" educational method works.

"People have a greater appreciation for their bikes when they build them," Lutz said.