Tour de Pytka
Back on the TV shoot with Pytka. Got up at 4:00 am and put the bicycle together and got in a ride for an hour and a half. We’re on location at the LA convention center. He is extra ornery and extra mean today.
When he works, he blinks both eyes at the same time, as if he is struggling for focus. Other times, he looks into the camera, or at the scene, and takes a mighty breath that fill both cheeks like a chipmunk, then he exhales. It’s like he’s trying to breath life into this thing, put his life into the film.
After lunch, he asks me to play him in a game of basketball. I have heard that he broke a writer’s arm playing basketball. Since the Ride for the Roses is one week away, I tell him I don’t know how to play basketball. I’d gladly be part of a bicycle race. He declines. How about a sailboat race? He says sailing isn’t a sport, it’s a pastime. Basketball is a skill game and I have no skills so I am obviously a pussy.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at my computer rewriting the script for the one thousandth time when Pytka pulls up on his bicycle and challenges me to a race. He has two large, black, heavy Schwinn Bicycles. Mine is a Schwinn Cruiser Six.They are junk, but they are both junk.
Fair enough. I take the Schwinn from his tattooed assistant. Pytka wants a 100-yard race so we pedal past the production vehicles, past the camera cars, grip truck, and motor homes.
“You want a rolling start or a standing start?”
I reply I want a rolling start.
Even though I haven’t had much time to think, I have a strategy. Go out fast and get the hell away from him. I think he might grab me with his massive arms or knock me over, or attempt to kill me, so I want to go out hard and fast and be done with him.
He says, “Go” and we roll out. Two pedal strokes into the race and I’m sure the bike I’m riding is going to rip to shreds. I can feel it flexing under me, bending. My peak power output is around 950 watts. Tour de France sprinters routinely put out 2500.
My measly 950 watts and 163 pounds is bending the bike, the cranks, and I can feel the chain slipping. The rear derailleur is juking and jiving, clicking and clacking. The handlebars, which are about five feet wide, feel like they could come loose at any second without warning.
Safely ahead of Pytka, I drop the hammer and put him away. While I don’t believe in gifts, I do believe in dignity so I let up for the last bit of the race to offer him some dignity. I do not raise my hands over my head in celebration.
Even in defeat, Pytka is a King. He was born in 1938, he has no cartilage left in his knees, and he outweighs me by at least 100 pounds. But what the hell, how many guys have had a private bicycle race with Joe Pytka? How many have won the Tour de Pytka?
As soon as the race is over, I’m back at my computer, re-writing madly.
Certainly, I’d be a fool to play him in basketball, for he shall want revenge and blood.
When he works, he blinks both eyes at the same time, as if he is struggling for focus. Other times, he looks into the camera, or at the scene, and takes a mighty breath that fill both cheeks like a chipmunk, then he exhales. It’s like he’s trying to breath life into this thing, put his life into the film.
After lunch, he asks me to play him in a game of basketball. I have heard that he broke a writer’s arm playing basketball. Since the Ride for the Roses is one week away, I tell him I don’t know how to play basketball. I’d gladly be part of a bicycle race. He declines. How about a sailboat race? He says sailing isn’t a sport, it’s a pastime. Basketball is a skill game and I have no skills so I am obviously a pussy.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at my computer rewriting the script for the one thousandth time when Pytka pulls up on his bicycle and challenges me to a race. He has two large, black, heavy Schwinn Bicycles. Mine is a Schwinn Cruiser Six.They are junk, but they are both junk.
Fair enough. I take the Schwinn from his tattooed assistant. Pytka wants a 100-yard race so we pedal past the production vehicles, past the camera cars, grip truck, and motor homes.
“You want a rolling start or a standing start?”
I reply I want a rolling start.
Even though I haven’t had much time to think, I have a strategy. Go out fast and get the hell away from him. I think he might grab me with his massive arms or knock me over, or attempt to kill me, so I want to go out hard and fast and be done with him.
He says, “Go” and we roll out. Two pedal strokes into the race and I’m sure the bike I’m riding is going to rip to shreds. I can feel it flexing under me, bending. My peak power output is around 950 watts. Tour de France sprinters routinely put out 2500.
My measly 950 watts and 163 pounds is bending the bike, the cranks, and I can feel the chain slipping. The rear derailleur is juking and jiving, clicking and clacking. The handlebars, which are about five feet wide, feel like they could come loose at any second without warning.
Safely ahead of Pytka, I drop the hammer and put him away. While I don’t believe in gifts, I do believe in dignity so I let up for the last bit of the race to offer him some dignity. I do not raise my hands over my head in celebration.
Even in defeat, Pytka is a King. He was born in 1938, he has no cartilage left in his knees, and he outweighs me by at least 100 pounds. But what the hell, how many guys have had a private bicycle race with Joe Pytka? How many have won the Tour de Pytka?
As soon as the race is over, I’m back at my computer, re-writing madly.
Certainly, I’d be a fool to play him in basketball, for he shall want revenge and blood.
posted by joe berkeley at 7:20 AM
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