My pops was an interesting man. He took up both surfing and road biking in his 40s and did them until his body gave out in the 70s. On his long bike rides, he'd take his walkman with a tape of this concerto. He'd talk about how he'd do intervals to the ebbs and flows of the concerto, including the killer crescendos when he'd be pumping to the max. He'd follow the tour de France almost as avidly as his sons' football seasons. Fast forward to his late 80s in hospice care set up in the front room of my sister's home. My sister calls and says he's on his last legs and I'd better get there soon. She reports that he seems restless and can't get comfortable. I tell her to play some soothing music. I fly that night and when I arrive she says the music isn't working. At that point, I remember my pop's stories of his bike rides to Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No 2 and go searching for it online. I found one performance, turned it on, and went and patted him on the arm (he was unconscious or sleeping), and I said: "Go get your yellow jersey pops!"

My sister and I sit back down and talk while keeping an eye on him. We notice that during a crescendo he seemed to grip something with his hands. She remarks, "he's gripping the handlebars." When the music slowed, he relaxed his hands and drifted into the next realm.