[Editor's Note: Today is the second anniversary of Robin Williams' death. In honor of the late comedian, here's a story about him from Dallas Adams, the founder of Citizen Chain Cyclery in North Beach.]
It was a little after 7pm on Tuesday, September 16th, 2008, and I had just closed my shop. I was going to work on a few bikes for a while, so I left the Dutch door open.
My intention in cutting the door this way was to allow access, much like the horse Mister Ed had. People walking by would lean in to check out what was going on, or I would lean out to watch the world go by. It was an idea I got from my father, Fred A.
"Make people feel like they are welcome, and it will be easier to talk with them," my father said.
On this Tuesday night, someone wanted to talk.
With the Dutch door still open, I caught the Range Rover pulling up in front of the shop. Then, a few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
When I looked up, Robin Williams was leaning over my Dutch door and peering into my shop. "Wow! What a nice selection of vintage bikes you have," Williams said, as I quickly rose from my desk and began moving towards the door.
"I have some time before my show at Bimbo's and saw your door was still open. Do you mind if I come in and check out your shop?" he asked.
My excitement was tempered, as I knew he was a bicycling fan and collector. Plus, what was before me was not the Robin Williams of jest and mirth. The man before me was quiet, polite and focused on one thing: bicycles.
After inviting him into the shop and shaking his hand, we began talking about the bikes in the shop. In the midst of all this, I couldn't help but blurt out, "Mr. Williams, it's about time you showed up! What took you so long?"
"The times I have come by, you were closed and I had to look in the window," Williams said, as he chuckled. For the next hour, all we talked about was bicycles. I told him about Rosebud, a specific type of bike, and how I had come up with the name for the shop.
He was looking for a vintage Colnago, so I showed him the 1970s Masi track bike that was hanging above his head. I brought her down from the ceiling and placed her in the bike repair stand in the middle of the shop.
"She's a beaut!" Williams yelped.
He had moved closer to my desk, where he saw my "Darwin Ape Thinking" bronze sculpture and the necklace that hung from its neck.
"54 years of sobriety?" Williams asked with astonishment. "Are you in AA? Did someone give you this chip?" The anonymity of a person’s issues is taken away by such questions.
"It was my father's," I said, a bit somberly. "He passed away last year. He's one of the reasons I started this shop.”
Williams was now sitting in my chair, holding the monkey in his hands and looking closely at the 54-year chip. There was a story that I needed to tell about my father, and it seemed I was meant to share it with Robin Williams.
"I was born and raised in San Jose, but my dad's hometown was Aberdeen, WA," I told him. "Every summer, my father would pack up the station wagon and we would head north to visit. These road trips were pretty epic, and we would take side trips throughout Oregon, Washington and Canada. It was a great time for our family."
"My brother had moved up to Medford, Oregon, where he was raising his family. Eventually, my father and mother sold their house in Cupertino and moved up to Medford as well. After my father passed away, I was holding his cremated remains when the idea of taking one last road trip popped into my head. So, I took that chip you have in your hands," I told him. "Then, with one of his pictures and the box with his ashes, I put them all in a little bag."
"The next morning, as my mother waved goodbye, I headed north, for my dad's hometown in Aberdeen. One last road trip with my dad and the BMW station wagon. My plan was to get there sometime after dark, but on the way, I stopped in Beaverton to visit some friends and was running behind schedule."
"It was near dusk when I entered Washington, and with no cars in sight, I began to accelerate. Glancing over at my passenger seat to make sure my dad was safely buckled in, I pushed down on the accelerator and hit 100 MPH. My father did not say a thing," I said, as I smiled and looked over at Williams.
"You got pulled over?" he asked. Nodding in agreement, I smiled.
"I got pulled over by a Washington State Trooper in the boonies, 125 miles from Aberdeen. He had been on the top of the grade, sitting and waiting for some joke like me. Less than a minute after I passed him, he quickly spun around, and I heard the siren."
"After he had pulled me over, there was the obligatory, 'License and registration, please,' from the trooper," I continued. "As he clipped my license to his board, he asked, 'Mr. Adams, do you know how fast you were traveling? Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?'"
"Instead of trying to come up with a witty response to his question, I decided to be straightforward. I told him, 'I am taking my dad to Aberdeen for his last AA meeting. I didn't want him to miss it.'"
"What? What do you mean his last AA meeting?" Williams asked.
I looked at him, smiling. "Funny, that's the same thing the trooper asked. He scanned the back of my station wagon to make sure I was alone, and asked me where my dad was. I pointed to the brown paper sack in my passenger seat. 'If we are late, I doubt he will say anything about it,' I continued, and I took out my dad's picture to show him."
"No!" Williams shouted in disbelief.
"Oh yeah, I did!" I exclaimed. "After he had gotten a good look at it, he gave it back to me and said, 'Let me guess, the box in the bag has his ashes, right?'"
"After answering the trooper's question, he closed his book and told me that he was the only law between here and my final destination," I told my guest.
"He let you go?" Williams asked.
"Yeah, kind of cool, huh? My dead dad got me out of a speeding ticket! I figured I had to take him to an AA meeting, right?"
"Damn straight. He earned the meeting," Williams said, with a sly grin.
It was getting close to the time when Williams needed to be at Bimbo's. As he began walking to the door, I gave him a "Rosebud was a bike" shirt, hoping he would wear it at his show.
He tried to pay for it, but I refused and just asked him not to be a stranger. As Williams pulled away from the shop, I found myself smiling and thinking, Robin Williams is a regular guy.
For about an hour, I got to spend some time with a really cool and funny guy that had the same fears and questions as everyone else, but who also happened to be famous.
After all of this, I find myself becoming more certain of one thing. Good people, like Robin Williams and my father, Fred A., change lives even after they are gone. My dad has been dead for more than seven years, but his actions still affect the lives of others today.
As I've been reminiscing about my past encounters with these two people, I've been asking myself this question a lot lately: How do you live a life?
For me, following in the footsteps of my father Fred A. and Robin Williams doesn't seem to be like a bad idea at all.
Do you have memories of seeing or meeting Robin Williams in San Francisco? Share them in the comments.
