In the movies, Arnold Schwarzenegger has killed Vikings, vultures, clones and zombies. Now it seems that he is trying to kill me. We are cycling through Los Angeles towards his pre-breakfast workout. It should be a gentle ride. But the former governor of California-turned-environmental campaigner does not stop at red lights; he simply stops pedalling as he skips them. A driver blasts his car horn in protest. “What’s the drama?” deadpans Schwarzenegger, an action hero who always wanted to be a comedian. Six red lights later, we arrive at Gold’s Gym, the self-proclaimed Mecca of bodybuilding. Here, too, the rules do not apply to my companion. He leaves his bicycle outside without locking it (a bodyguard keeps watch from a 4x4). Other gym members sign in via computer screens; Schwarzenegger does so by handing his leather jacket to the receptionist. On the walls above us are two life-size photos of him in his prime. Biology should be catching up with Schwarzenegger even if traffic cops ...

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