A tribute to my brother by Jim Rainey
Robert Rainey
April 19, 1958 - May 31, 2012
Robert
was a shy boy and quiet through his high school years. He didn’t go out
much for sports or extra curriculars. But when he got to Humboldt State
up in the Redwood country, Robert was reborn.
The school was
starting a crew team and Robert was one of the first to join. It turned
out that inside this reserved, modest young man there was a beastly
strong heart and a will to compete. Running and rowing with the
Lumberjacks crew team began to transform Robert into the person he would
become—powerful, hard-working, resilient and terribly loyal to the
team.
Not long after college, he returned to Los Angeles. His
athletic pursuits had turned him into something of a health nut, so it
wasn’t surprising that he went into that field. He trained at UCLA to
become a respiratory therapist and worked in that profession for a few
years before going to chiropractic school.
When he was going to
Cleveland Chiropractic College (near Downtown), he continued to live on
the Westside. He stopped virtually every morning for breakfast at the
Original Pantry, sitting at the counter and eating eggs while bantering
with Romeo and the other workers.
He married Peg Regan in 1993
in her hometown of Scranton, PA. Margaret Regan Rainey is one of nine
Regan children, a close-knit family that greatly expanded Robert’s
world. That was both in the figurative and literal sense, since Robert
now has 28 Regan nieces and nephews.
He opened his first
practice on Motor Avenue in West L.A. before moving to his location on
Venice Blvd., where he has been for about 15 years. Robert believed in
chiropractic and alternative medicine. He wanted to see people healthy
and always encouraged them to eat right and lose weight. He saw some
patients who couldn’t afford to pay much, so he would take $5, or
whatever they could spare.
Besides Peg, Robert’s three great
loves were running, travel and his corgi dogs. The Raineys saved money
for big trips every year or two. They were particularly enamored with
Venice, Italy and had vacationed there several times, maybe throwing in a
marathon or another distance run for good measure.
They also
liked to travel in the Italian countryside and sample wine. Robert had
become a bit of a connoisseur in recent years. He would bring a large,
insulated storage container to Italy and return with it laden with new
vintages. When he would share a bottle, he would always ask: “It’s
pretty good, isn’t it?” His huge smile made it clear there only one
answer was appropriate: Yes, the wine was fabulous.
Robert’s
love of running expanded when he joined the L.A. Leggers running group.
He made a lot of friends who he would keep for decades. Later, he joined
the Mountain Goats, a group that runs on weekends in the Santa Monica
Mountains and points beyond. Robert loves the Goats, as they called
themselves, and the Goats loved him. His friends announced his death
Thursday by saying “a member of our herd has been stolen from us.”
The Goats routinely run 10 or 15 miles or more. A few times a year some
of the group meets at the Phidippides (later Fleet Feet) running store
in Encino and runs over the hill to the Westside, where they feast at
the Firehouse restaurant on Main Street in Santa Monica.
I
once ran into my brother on the Venice boardwalk and said “How far have
you gone?” Answer: “17 miles.” My kids gaped in amazement and Robert
beamed. He had a really, really big smile.
Robert had just made
that run with his friends this past Sunday. He was a bit stiff when he
and Peg came to visit me and my family in South Pasadena on Memorial
Day. I always joked with Robert what a great advertisement he made for
chiropractic—limping around like an octagenarian after another mega-run.
(One of the contradictions of Robert, the spinal health guru: He wanted
others to stretch but would never bother to stretch himself.)
Robert was well known among ultra-distance runners, as well. He traveled
around California with Peg for the endurance tests. He was something of
an anomaly for a distance runner—at almost 6-2 and about 210 pounds he
was built more like a free safety. Some of the runs included a
“Clydesdale” Division for the rare specimen would could run hundreds of
miles and still keep their weight over 200 pounds. Robert was a
Clydesdale.
Robert kept the pounds on by eating every meal as
if it was his last. On Thanksgiving, he would tear away what seemed like
a quarter of the turkey, pile his plate high with mashed potatoes (he
insisted on making the potatoes himself, because only he understood how
to get the consistency just right) and then all the other fixings.
Again, my kids would gape in awe. The mountain man had come from the
wilds to live among us.
Robert liked to finish meals with
copious helpings of pie and, especially, ice cream. His bowl would
overflow and he would power through it. Somehow, in his somewhat
cockeyed universe, ice cream was a noble vice, but he couldn’t
understand how anyone would eat two or three cookies or some candy.
It was not uncommon for Robert to retire to the living room sofa after
one of these eating bouts for a good, long nap…He really didn’t mind if
you carried on the conversation over and around him.
He loved the
outdoors, gave to the Wilderness Society and recycled everything. If you
began to throw a bottle in the trash instead of the recycle bin, he
would spring up to correct the error.
We take some solace in
knowing that Robert did a lot of the things he wanted to do. He climbed
Mt. Kilimajaro a few years ago. He went so fast that the guides
marveled. One of them told him he completed one stretch of the climb
faster than anyone else that season.
Robert planned to run the
Mountain Goats season-ending event this weekend at Sycamore Canyon on
the coast. Also on the calendar: the 16th Annual Holcomb Valley Trail
Run on June 10 near Big Bear Lake. Peg was going to run the 15-mile
version. Robert had signed up for the 33-miler. Given a choice of
moderation, Robert would inevitably choose the alternative.
The
world travelers had reservations to hike in the Dolomites in August and
in December to travel to South Africa for an extended trip, returning
home through Paris, where they planned to spend New Year’s Eve. There is
a stack of seven travel books for that latter trip sitting on the
coffee table as I write this at my brother’s house.
Our father,
Ford Rainey, lived to two weeks shy of his 97th birthday. Robert told
people he would live longer. At first he said he was shooting for 100.
At some point he moved his target to 105. Recently, he recalibrated
again: 110 didn’t seem unreasonable.
Robert would talk to every
oddball door-to-door salesman who came by his office. He would give
handouts to the homeless men who hung out in the neighborhood. Sometimes
he would pay them for an odd job. Many of his friends agreed they
wouldn’t have been so open to people so different from themselves.
Robert and Peg loved to talk to their dogs, Cade, Henry and Zoe. The
Raineys felt they were in charge of their household, but eyewitnesses
confirm that the corgi brigade ruled the Culver City roost.
Robert Rainey was a gentle man. He didn’t pick fights or look for
trouble. He had a kind heart. When he watched his nieces and nephews
singing in school plays or playing soccer he had that wonderful, broad
smile. More than you can say of most men in their 50s, he was something
of an innocent—wanting to believe the best about the world and the
people who live in it.
He deserved a much better, more humane
end. But the outpouring of so much good feeling from patients, running
buddies, family and friends has made these first hours of our grief a
bit more endurable. Peg and I and the rest of the family thank everyone
so much for their support and love.
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