Robert Hicken
1968 -2007
I first saw Robert in the cardio area of the gym, on a snowy day back in 1998 or so when I joined the club. He was riding an old-school stationary bike harder than I’d ever seen anyone ride, period. He was pedaling like the devil was at his heels, bent low over the handlebars, sweating heavily and oblivious to anything around him. He was the only person in the room until I walked in and got on the other stationary bike. His eyes were squeezed closed, his jaw clenched, and the whirr of his bike’s flywheel was the only sound.
I looked closer and saw his motivation – headphones. I still wonder what song was driving him.
I settled onto my bike and began trying to warm up gradually, but the presence of Robert, riding like the Tour de France title was at stake, was in turn making me ride harder. I surreptitiously watched him. Wearing a ratty sleeveless t-shirt over his bike shorts, he was surprisingly muscular in the arms and chest for a cyclist, but the fluid circles of his pedal stroke revealed that he was no gym rat. His upper body was nearly motionless while his legs kept an astonishing cadence.
This was also in the days before indoor cycling classes became popular, if I recall. These two stationary bikes were the only two in the club that resembled actual bicycles…the rest were the upright-style exercise machines burdened with huge, squashy seats and computer screens. No one rode the stripped-down stationary bikes except people who rode bikes in the outside world as well. It was clear that Robert was no stranger to this kind of workout.
As I watched, he ramped up his effort even more, and within 20 seconds or so his interval reached its maximum intensity. Now I could hear him gasping hard, his hands clenching the bars, and he appeared to find a kind of endorphin high for a brief moment as a radiant smile crossed his face. Then his legs slowed drastically, and as he recovered, eyes still closed, he looked as though he were miles away, hearing a cheering crowd as he crossed the finish line. I’m still not sure to this day if he even knew I was in the room until he sat up and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. But by then I had averted my gaze to my own feet, and busied myself with my Walkman.
I don’t remember when I finally met him, officially. He was a personal trainer at the club, and hung around there a great deal, training clients, teaching classes, and doing his own workouts. He was very generous with his attention. He treated his clients with warmth and professionalism, and reached out to everyone at the gym.
Eventually we somehow got to know each other a bit and chatted in the weight room. I asked him for some advice, and he happily gave it, along with tons of diet information and cycling training plans.
As indoor cycling classes became the vogue, Robert taught them, as well as headed up the cycling program at the gym. In the winters I took these classes with frequency, and learned Robert’s nickname: King of Pain.
He had gotten the moniker from his ski conditioning classes that left people staggering out of the group fitness room, sweaty, noodle-y versions of their former selves. But boy, were they motivated to come back and get as strong as he was. He could do plyometric jumps onto a box as high as his chest from a dead standstill.
And he never let people think badly of themselves. His relentless encouragement during those classes got people excited to work out, to watch their bodies get firmer and fitter. And he made them laugh with his easy humor; he got their hearts pumping with his music collection, which his friends say he maintained fanatically, making new mixes for cycling classes every week. He didn’t want his students to get bored.
I curse my terrible memory, for most of our interactions have long been lost. But two events stand out to me now: one time we rode together outdoors – in December, of all strange times. I had gotten a crazy idea to ride “Super Hall” – from Boulder along U.S. 36 to Hall Ranch in Lyons, ride the trail, and then return on the road – on a mountain bike, in the snow. I was in good enough shape to do it, although I wasn’t fast, and I knew one person who would take on that kind of weird adventure: The King of Pain.
He and I saddled up on our hardtails and headed out. He was very solicitous, not seeming bothered by the slow pace or the fact that we were getting frequently passed by roadies, some of whom knew who he was. We talked about music, cycling, living in Colorado, and any number of things I can’t recall now.
We got to the trailhead and that’s where things got snowy. I was a relatively new mountain biker then, but the packed-down surface blunted a lot of the technical aspects of the trail. Perhaps this memory is wishful thinking, but I recall walking very little, and feeling happy with my accomplishment. Robert was encouraging and complimentary, as he knew how to be. He mostly rode behind me, a gentlemanly thing to do for a guy who was probably dying to haul the mail.
We stopped at the park bench at the top of the rock garden to survey our snowy domain. We didn’t plan to ride the top loop, since our ride was so long already and the day was getting on. We took a few photos there; I still have the snapshot he took of me standing on the bench, flexing my arms in Swartzenegger-style toughness. I wish I could find the photo of him, but in my endless moves around Boulder, it seems to be gone. Or I hope I gave it to him at some point.
The other thing I remember is running into him in the Daily Camera parking lot a few years ago, as I was headed to my car.
“Marty, you gotta hear this!” he called, waving a CD. “This is awesome.”
We got into my car and fired up the stereo. He couldn’t get the grin off his face as he slid the disc into the player and turned up the volume. Within seconds, the thumping groove of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” filled the car, and we both started cracking up.
“No way,” I said. “Are you using this in a spin class?”
“You know it!” he replied, and started rapping along to the song until I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. That song, which I never fully appreciated back in the day, became a favorite after that, and yes, I can rap the whole thing, too.
In 2002 Robert moved to Hawaii and we lost touch.
He passed back through Boulder at times, worked a stint at University Bicycles, and then went back to Hawaii, then back to Boulder. But our paths had rarely crossed recently, and I was never sure if he was still around.
Then two weeks ago I saw him at my new gym, where he was once again teaching indoor cycling classes. We chatted quickly, and he seemed his usual self, looking me right in the eyes in that way that always made me feel like he really saw me. I peeked into his class a few minutes later, and saw that on the studio’s television, he was playing a video he’d shot at Walker Ranch. Through his microphone, he called out, “Come on in, Marty!”
So I took a seat on the floor and stretched, watching the video and listening to the boundless energy of Robert’s teaching style. It was good to see him again, and I noticed, as always, the relentless powerful spin of his legs. After a few minutes I took my leave and gave him a quick wave goodbye, not wanting to disrupt the class. I had no way of knowing that I would never see him again.
I wonder if he knew that.
I hate hindsight. It only exists because some circumstance forces you to look back – usually with regret.
I wish I’d hugged him. I wish I’d invited him out for coffee. I wish I’d looked him in the eyes with the same attention he always offered me. I wish…but it changes nothing now.
I attended his funeral in a state of numbness. How is this possible? I just SAW him. How on earth can he be lying in that casket?
I listened to stories from his friends, as well as from his brothers, who I met for the first time. (I learned that he'd raced on the velodrome at the Olympic Training Center as a teenager. I learned that he was more than just brawn: He had a bachelor's degree in biochemistry and a master's degree in kinesiology.)
The regret that I did not reach out to Robert, just five days before, burned itself deeper into my heart.
Not that I had the arrogance to think I could have changed his mind. But at least he would have known someone cared.
Another cyclist and spin instructor got up and went to the microphone in the little church. She looked hollow-eyed. She encouraged all of us to take Robert’s death as an opportunity to make more time for the people in our lives. No matter how busy we think we are, she said, does any of that stuff matter more than our friends?
I sat with my teeth clenched, blinded by tears. I knew by now that I wasn’t alone in my feelings, but it didn’t matter.
I just couldn't stop thinking about what was going on in Robert's mind. How much pain do you have feel to want to put a gun in your mouth?
There’s a tendency, after people have passed away, to glorify them a little. Thank god. I’d much rather remember the good things about people, and I sure hope it’s the same for me when I’m gone. I admired Robert for his passionate approach to life and to the things he cared about. He was not one of those people who just plodded through each day, and I loved that about him. I think life let him down a lot, because he expected other people to give as much energy and attention as he did. He gave so freely of himself.
I put the one photograph I have of him – at the Stazio Criterium, in an old-school, East Coast bike shop jersey that he’d brought to Colorado when he was 17 – on my refrigerator, to remind me. Not only of him, but of my commitment to the friends I still have.
Goodbye, Robert. Thank you for the inspiration.
