We do the garbage man, the construction worker. “It’s like a Norman Rockwell,” Schwarzenegger told me. Universe, Terminator, Barbarian, Governor of California, etc.-one of the strangest and most potent alloys of American celebrity ever forged-can reconnect with something in the neighborhood of a pedestrian existence. He describes his ride as a kind of vigorous nostalgia trip, a time when the former Mr. Schwarzenegger does not wear a helmet and seems to enjoy being recognized, startling commuters with drive-by cameos. “Heyyyy, Mister Arnold!” the double-taking driver of a landscaping van shouted out his window. Drivers honked and yelled at the speeding cyclist in the lead until they realized who he was.

I braked hard and, being neither an action hero nor a stunt double, barely stayed upright. He zipped through intersections with cars screeching behind him.

Schwarzenegger can be selective in his observance of traffic signals. It is also, I learned while following behind him on that foggy day in October, a terrifying expedition.Ĭheck out more from this issue and find your next story to read. The bike ride is his favorite part of the morning. From there he sets out on the three-mile bike ride to Gold’s Gym, where he has been lifting on and off since the late ’60s. At 7:40, he puts a bike on the back of a Suburban and heads from his Los Angeles, California, mansion to the Fairmont Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica. He makes coffee, putters around, feeds Whiskey (his miniature horse) and Lulu (his miniature donkey), shovels their overnight manure into a barrel, drinks his coffee, checks his email, and maybe plays a quick game of chess online.

I had joined him one morning as he rushed through his daily routine.

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