The Born Cyclist

An interesting cycling article by Kyle Damon. Next change is 'The Born Cyclist II' .  So watch the space.

I have not watched the movie but there were controversies surrounding the 1995 Rugby World Cup Final between South Africa and NZ.

KT

Matt Damon

The Born Cyclist

Before filming the holiday blockbuster Invictus, Matt Damon went on a nice, long ride with his lesser-known little brother and avid cyclist, Kyle.

ByKyle Damon

When my little brother, Matt, finally asked me to join him for a bike ride, I was ecstatic.

I love cycling—I ride 100 to 300 miles a week—and had been trying to get him into the sport for 10 years. When Matt would call me to do something like show off a new accent he had mastered for a movie, I would be equally ready to boast that I was holding a water bottle and watching CNN while riding rollers. But I'd never convinced him to get on a road bike, even once.

Then Matt was in Cape Town, South Africa, about to begin filming Invictus, in which he plays the role of South African rugby captain Francois Pienaar. The shoot was scheduled to start the day after the annual Cape Argus Tour, the world's largest timed one-day cycling event, and Matt decided he wanted to ride it as a benefit for Pienaar's Make a Difference Foundation (MAD), a children's charity. He'd rented a tandem for us, he told me, and was counting on me to pilot him safely through the nearly 30,000 cyclists who do the 109-kilometer route.

Though I'd never captained a tandem, my instincts told me they resemble road bikes the way U-Hauls resemble sports cars. But I immediately said I'd do it. I'd waited a long time to show Matt why I love cycling so much.

On race morning we awoke to the noise of wind howling around the hotel and rattling its windows. In the room, as Matt practiced clipping in and out of the pedals, I did what I could to prepare him for what we were about to face. This proved to be akin to instructing someone how to swim just before capsizing the canoe. As we put on our MAD kits, I had to convince him that I was not joking about the purpose of chamois cream and that cyclists don't wear underwear beneath their shorts.

The front of our hotel was blocking the 45-mph gusts, so it wasn't until we rounded the corner, awkwardly soft-pedaling, that it became clear we should reassess the situation. People could barely stand up in the gale, let alone ride a bike. As we rolled to the start line, we could just make out each other's relentless swearing over the sound of the wind. Dave Bellairs, the race director, came to greet us.

"I don't know, Kyle," he yelled into the wind. "We've had half drop out so far! I've never seen it this bad in its 30-year history. Your call!"

With Dave and Matt staring at me, waiting for words of wisdom, I spoke eloquently: "Lemme go pee, and think about it." A Porta-Potty blew down the street in front of us, toppling end over end. Dave ushered me to the VIP version, which was anchored with cinder blocks.

But I was not visited by any profound revelations by the time I stumbled like a spandex-clad Buster Keaton back through the wind to Matt. "Bad news," I said, grabbing the top tube of our stretch-limo bike. "I can pilot this thing and guarantee that we survive. But with respect to collarbones and road rash, we're rolling the dice."
Matt looked down. He had to be at the film set the next day (where-as I had important plans to ride the course backward on my road bike).

The film's producers were already terrified he would get hurt—and that was before our tenuous situation as tandem first-timers was compounded by the high winds. Matt is smart enough to know that the producers weren't being paranoid, that hundreds of people were counting on him to be in top form the following morning. But he is also athletic, competitive and confident in his physical ability: When he was five, I watched him tie a towel-cape around his neck, climb to the top of a jungle gym, and—before I could stop him—launch himself off the top, believing that he could fly.

Despite the cape, he'd broken his ankle.

"Let's do it," he said.

The starting gun was barely audible with the clamor of upended staging, flapping banners and tumbling debris. Of the 73 start groups, only two completed the first hundred meters without a crash. We snuck through, remaining upright. A few kilometers in, we hit a 4 percent climb. Figuring all four of our legs were now loose, I told Matt to put down some watts, then heard a loud snap.

"What just happened?" I heard from the backseat.

"You might be a cyclist after all," I said. "We just broke a chain."

A couple high-fives later, in celebration of our power, we dismounted to wait by the side of the road for the official support team.

Some passing cyclists yelled, "Jason Bourne wouldn't quit!"

Soon, a mechanic on a motorcycle appeared with a chain-break tool. He repaired the link, gave us an Afrikaans pep talk and cruised off. We started again, grinding away into a wall of wind.

By the time we reached the next climb, our front derailleur was failing, and we were stuck in the big chainring. Pedaling uphill was like doing sets on a leg press, and our brief attempts at synchronized standing were thwarted instantly by the wind. Once again, our mechanic friend skidded up to us, but this time his contribution was far less helpful: "Looks like you're stuck in the big ring," he observed.

"What does that mean?" my rattled stoker asked.

"It means the wind is no longer our primary concern," I said. "And we now have something in common with the dude in the upside-down Porta-Potty."

The next couple of hours were grueling. Our cadence averaged below 80 rpm, and we couldn't stand, even just to bring blood back to our most sensitive areas. As captain, I couldn't take a drink or the bike would get away from me in the unpredictable gusts. Sweat dripped from my face, turning my bike shorts into a Jackson Pollock of perspiration. My first and only attempt to glance sideways to appreciate the scenery and loosen my neck coincided with the rider in front of us being blown off the road—past our front wheel.
Matt yelled as I dodged the wreckage and returned promptly to my one viable body position. Otherwise, he'd been quiet. I knew that was a sign of trouble. I suggested a nature break, which revealed that he could barely walk. His rear was, in his own words, "swollen in the shape of a bike seat."

"Are you sure we're not supposed to be wearing underwear?" he asked.

Support vehicles pulled over to check on us, including one filled with movie producers. One of them rolled down the window and shouted, "This is ridiculous—hop in the car." Another said, "We'll do a press release describing your mechanical issues and the wind, and no one will fault you for stopping."

"No way," said Matt. "We're gonna finish this thing."

We threw our stiff legs back over the now-familiar one-and-a-half-meter top tube.

The gusts were strongest in the valleys. Near the bottom of a long descent, I yelled to Matt to brace himself. We were approaching the coast—and a torrential sandstorm. Our legs and arms stung from the merciless pelting, as the grit penetrated our skin and filled our ears.

As we leaned the bike into the grain-filled squalls, Matt screamed, "I really like cycling!"

I laughed. The bike shook.

The remaining climbs were too steep for the big ring, so we resorted to stopping at the base of each one so I could manually move the chain to the small ring. Then we'd embark on the inelegant process of mounting a tandem pointed uphill in high winds. Each stop was further complicated by requests from well-meaning fans who emerged from the storm wanting autographs. Matt was reaching for Sharpies when he needed calories.

The last hour featured two 7-kilometer climbs that squeezed the little remaining strength from our legs. I was wiped out, and I knew the sport. I couldn't imagine what Matt's legs—and butt—must have felt like. Even so, when we limped across the finish line, he was smiling.

I don't know if he'll ever be a cyclist the way I am, but he'd seen the dark side of the sport and never quit, even when the red carpet to a gracious exit was rolled out for him. Every rider who finished that day deserves credit, but not everyone was subjected to a stream of invitations to stop and enjoy a luxury-car ride, a gourmet sandwich and a published excuse. Yes, the conditions were horrible, which made the ride sublime. Such experiences cannot be planned or manufactured, and I think that's what draws many of us to them. In all his films and travel, Matt had never done anything like this. The next morning he hobbled off to work with the Cape Times under his arm. The headline, in bold type, read "Toughest Cycle Tour Ever."

"Thank God we're not shooting an action scene today," he said.

"Pretty cool," I said, "for a hairy-legged actor."

Kyle Damon is a Massachusetts-based painter, sculptor and five-time Ironman triathlete. When not riding a tandem, he races with Team Psycho and works with his brother advocating for Water.org. Matt's movie Invictus opens December 11. He has promised Kyle a second ride.