Biking with Robin Williams was like taking a spin class at
the old Holy City Zoo. Every time I rode alongside him, he matched our tempo with
manic, mile-a-minute shtick, a running comedic commentary on everything from
the spandexed rear of the rider in front of him to the French obsession with
Lance Armstrong’s doping. I interviewed Williams maybe ten times over the
years, and rode with him at least five, in the Bay Area and Los Angeles;
Austin, Texas; and even at the Tour de France, where we both cycled as ardent
fans before Armstrong and the other pros took the course. After Williams’
suicide last week, I dug through my archives and, while I still can’t find the
photos I know we took during some of those rides, I did find old recordings of
some of his in-the-saddle routines, some captured while we were riding, others
taped during rest stops or by the side of the road, watching the peloton rush
past us.
In the company of a radio reporter, even one clad in lycra,
Williams was always on, almost incapable of biking in silence. He knew people
expected him to make them laugh, and he was determined to deliver. And that he
did, in frenetic, hilarious, often self-deprecating fashion, his mind racing
even faster than his thickly muscled legs to churn out a stream of comic
consciousness.
“Look at the lovely Miss Dee, what a derriere,” he said
during one Texas ride as we caught the wheel of the woman riding in front of us.
“To draft behind Dee is a gift. I would say this is like swimming behind
Jennifer Lopez.” He joked about
the smoothly-shaved legs of the professional riders in the peloton. “In my
case, it would take a weedwhacker. I’m a Chia pet. The moment I shaved, it
would start to grow again. It would be a frightening thing. Forget US Postal,
I’m going to be sponsored by Poulan Weed-Eater.” Asked how much he enjoyed
biking with the obviously much faster Armstrong, Williams quipped “it’s the
best two seconds of my day.”
For years, when he lived in San Francisco’s Seacliff
neighborhood, the comic icon and Oscar-winning actor rode five days a week, a
thirty-mile loop over the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin and back. Williams would
joke that he wasn’t built for distance; after 30 miles, he’d poop out. But he
was strong for those first thirty, able to keep the jokes coming even as he
pumped out the miles. He had a stable of about fifty bikes, and employed a bike
wrangler to maintain them. I never saw him ride the same one twice, and he was
always fantasizing about the Pinarello or Colnago frame he would buy next.
It was tough to keep up with Williams, and I don’t just mean
on the bike. His mind would boomerang from one joke to the next, flashing like
lightning from one pop culture reference to another. If some of the gags went
over your head, were lost on your not-as-nimble mind, that was okay, as long as
that stitch in your side was from laughing so hard that you couldn’t keep the
cadence up.
Williams was close with Armstrong, helping the cycling
champion raise money for his cancer foundation. They bonded over biking, and
Williams would visit Armstrong in France during the Tour every year and also
appear at his annual Ride for the Roses bash in Austin, where the comedian’s
bike-themed performances became a highlight. Once, he did a bawdy, ten-minute
riff on Armstrong’s testicular cancer, joking that after the cancer survivor’s
success, every rider in Europe was having one cut off to improve aerodynamism.
He spoofed Armstrong’s main rivals, trotting out his arsenal of foreign
accents. He joked about the Texan’s friendship with fellow Lone Star icon
George W. Bush. “I had a telegram for you Lance, from President Bush, but
they’re still correcting the spelling.” Like many of us, he refused to believe
Armstrong was doping. He defended Armstrong’s insistence that he had only used
EPO and other doping products as part of his cancer therapy.
From the first time I met him, Williams struck me as deeply
insecure, someone with a pathological need to entertain, using humor to deflect
and defend and protect his own fragile psyche. It’s an all too common trait among
comedians. But Robin was also an unusually sweet and generous man, with a warm
heart and a kind soul. He would talk sincerely and passionately about the
“extraordinary people” he met through cycling, and included Armstrong in that
group. He said of the cancer survivors he met, “it humbles me in a great way.
It’s a good humbling, unlike when Lance kicks my ass on the bike. Hey, I hung
with Lance a little longer today. He waited a full four seconds before he
decided to actually ride. He dropped me with a fierce breakaway.”
You could sense the sadness inside Williams, the tears of
the clown masked by the rush he got from making other people happy. In the end,
he leaves us all so sad, because he couldn’t find a way to do the same for
himself, even on his bike.
