Remembering Richard Simmons (July 12, 1948 - July 13,2024)

It was a curiously warm afternoon in San Francisco. The chill that normally seems to permeate the city was nowhere to be found. A few friends and I decided to take a walk through Chinatown. The year must have been around 2003 or 2004. We were passing the souvenir shops on our way to a restaurant someone had recommended when, without warning, one of our friends suddenly bolted across the street. I couldn’t imagine what had caused such hysteria.

Then I saw who he was running toward: Richard Simmons.

I’m not usually one to bother celebrities. They’re people like everyone else, and I imagine they get tired of being ambushed by strangers armed with cameras and requests for photographs. In my years as a tour guide, I once had two very high-profile recording artists and performers on one of my tours. One mentioned that she wanted to stop at Walgreens. The other quickly discouraged the idea, explaining that he was afraid they would get trapped inside by people wanting pictures. They were trying to remain incognito.

It didn’t quite work.

As we rode around the French Quarter, people recognized them whenever we stopped at a stop sign and promptly asked for photographs. So much for going undetected. Still, I crossed the street with my friend—the same friend who, as fate would have it, was behind the camera taking the photograph below.

To my delight, Richard was incredibly receptive. I told him it was a privilege to meet him. He picked up on my New Orleans accent and asked if I was from New Orleans. I confirmed that I was. Then he told me that he was, too. I had no idea—How had nobody told me?

New Orleans has a way of putting its celebrities on pedestals. We know our icons, celebrate our legends, and proudly claim anyone who has ever had even the slightest connection to the city. So why wasn’t Richard Simmons being celebrated in the same way?

It was a question I found myself asking then—and one I still ask now. We chatted for a while, reminiscing about familiar places. Eventually, I asked what part of the city he had grown up in. His answer caught me completely off guard. The French Quarter!

In fact, he told me he had grown up only about three blocks from where I would later operate Flambeaux Bicycle Tours, over on St. Louis Street. Suddenly, the encounter felt less like a random meeting with a celebrity in San Francisco and more like running into an old neighbor thousands of miles from home.

We didn’t want to take too much of his time, although Richard seemed perfectly willing to keep talking. But once I learned that he was from New Orleans—and that he had grown up in the French Quarter—I had to get a photograph with him. In that brief encounter, Richard came across exactly as the public persona he had spent his life cultivating: genuine, friendly, generous, and deeply caring. That warmth was not a gimmick. It was the source of his connection with millions of people.

Richard, you ran your race. You made an extraordinary impact on the lives and well-being of millions of people.

Now rest in power, my fellow New Orleanian.

Yours truly,

Eric Gabourel