Last June Bobby and I did the Cycle Kids charity ride together. It was a metric century, notable for its 4,000 feet of climbing, and I wanted to do it because it cost almost nothing, I liked the charity, and I thought the route was pretty. Various people turned me down but it never even occurred to me that Bobby wouldn't do it, despite the fact that he was still recovering from his eye surgery with nasty complications. During the summers, Bobby and I rode together almost every day, which meant I should have been an authority on the limitations of his vision. Instead, I was probably more clueless than most because Bobby was just perpetually up for everything. Nineteen MPH out to South Acton? Sure! 100 miles round-trip to Newburyport because I wanted a really good bagel? Absolutely! Every ride was wonderful, every idea was a great idea...I took it for granted. In retrospect I realized that he had made some noises about the climbing, but I was doing a lot of climbing last spring and just didn't see the problem. You come to a hill, you climb the hill; what's the big deal?
The ride had a rolling start and Bobby and I got there toward the later end of the window, having decided, first, to ride the 15 miles to the start/finish, and second, not to get up at the crack of dawn. After handing me my bib number, the ladies at registration directed me to "Bob," who was doing the pre-ride talk. He asked what route I was doing. "The metric," I told him.
His eyes widened. "Oh, no," he said. "You're much too late for that. You'll have to do a shorter route. If you do the metric you won't make it back in time for the barbecue."
"I don't think you understand," I responded. I've got Bobby Mac with me. We don't do shorter routes. We'll be at your barbecue." And off we rode. Bobby, who overheard the exchange, thought it was just great, and chuckled about it for the next hour. He also sang, shouted, "Go, team!" at other riders, and consoled me when I got us lost in Sudbury: "It's okay, Iris--bonus miles!" But as we approached Stow, the hills started in earnest, and Bobby got quieter. I knew better than to ask how he was doing, but the dearth of pep talks, dirty jokes, and occasional coaching ("Iris, I think you stand up too much") did have me a bit concerned.
Finally, we made a turn onto a new road and I gave Bobby an opening I was sure he wouldn't be able to resist. "Look, Bobby, we're on Lover's Lane!" Nothing. No lascivious come-on, not even a "Yeah, babe!" Just silence. God, I thought, I'm killing Bobby. True to the rest of the route, Lover's Lane was a steady uphill grind. Guilt overwhelmed me. What had I done? At the top of it, as I prepared myself to stop and forcibly suggest gu despite how much that would annoy him, he piped up behind me, loud and clear: "I know why they call this Lover's Lane. It's because when people get to the top, they're like, 'Fuck me!'" And that's when I knew he'd be just fine.
The thing about Bobby was, he believed in being your best self. I found out only later that he was terrified of this ride, sure he wasn't in good enough condition, couldn't do all that climbing, couldn't see well enough for the fast descents. But he didn't want to be the blind guy with limited capacities. He didn't want to be the one others had to look out for. He wanted to be Bobby Mac, up for everything, champion charity rider and you'd better believe we'll be at your fuckin' barbecue (which we were--take that, "Bob"). He wanted to be what the rest of us saw when we looked at him. He was overjoyed after that ride, ready for anything, and stopped using his white cane in public.
Bobby once confided to me, probably at the MS ride or something similar, "Iris, you don't know this, but this bike thing sometimes changes people's lives." I looked at him in surprise, not because it seemed at all like a foreign concept, but because he seemed honestly not to know how much he'd changed my life. Sure, he taught me all sorts of things: draft, eat before you're hungry, go at your own pace, know what to kiss and when. But Bobby's real gift to me was a glimpse at my own best self, through his eyes.
I was nothing special before the Quad ride. Often irascible, frequently isolated, sometimes depressed, more than a little bit shy. But suddenly Bobby was there, extolling my virtues to whoever would listen. Road captain! Charity Czar! Thousand miles for charity! The lovely Iris Miranda! I remember Bobby booming the results of my first race to the assembled multitudes at the end of the bike path: "TENTH PLACE!!" "Bobby!" I said, mortified, "There were only thirteen women in the race!" "Shh!" he said sharply. "TOP TEN IN HER FIRST RACE!" Last week, in his hospital bed, he told me, "You're amazing. Everyone knows it. I don't see why you don't see that in yourself."
I wasn't with Bobby until the end. I wanted to be, and told him I would be. I think a lot of us did. But he had other ideas. "THERE WILL BE NO FUCKING DEATHWATCH" he texted to me, just a week and a half ago when he got the final death sentence. And I'm upset and disappointed; there were things I wanted to say and I wanted him to be surrounded by his loved ones. But I wonder if his "no visitors" edict once he left the hospital was his way of preserving his own best self. So we'd never see him truly fall apart, lose the ability to entertain and inspire, give in to this appallingly swift disease. He wanted to remain Bobby Mac, the living legend, in our eyes.
And how do I honor that? Seriously, what tribute would, could possibly, be appropriate? The group ride will continue. I'm sure there will be a ride in his name, to raise money for some worthy charity. While he asked for no funeral, we will gather together for him nonetheless. But in the end, I think I honor Bobby by trying, daily, to live up to what he thought I was. If I can be that person, even in fits and starts, then maybe I can hold onto the best of Bobby as well.
