Keanu Reeves has been everywhere for nearly four decades—quietly shape-shifting from moody indie menace to action icon to meme-proof internet saint. But the deeper you go into his story, the weirder (and wilder) it gets.

He wasn’t born into a neat Hollywood origin story. Reeves entered the world in Beirut, Lebanon (September 2, 1964), then bounced through Australia and the U.S. before landing in Toronto, where much of his childhood formed. Despite becoming one of America’s most recognizable stars, he’s never become an American citizen, keeping his Canadian identity intact—an oddly fitting detail for someone who’s always seemed slightly outside the system, even while dominating it.

As a kid, he wasn’t dreaming of premieres. He was obsessed with ice hockey, playing through school and even co-coaching. At one point he could’ve tried out for the Windsor Spitfires in the Ontario Hockey League—an alternate timeline where “Keanu” becomes a sports name, not a movie legend. He passed, trusting that performance was where he belonged. Ironically, he still ended up playing a hockey pro in Youngblood (1986).

His early years came with a surreal celebrity brush too: Alice Cooper used to hang around his house because Reeves’ mother was a costume designer. Reeves remembered Cooper showing up with fake vomit and dog poop to prank the staff—rockstar chaos, casually unfolding in his living room.

Reeves’ grind started the old-school way: small roles, Canadian TV, stage work… and yes, a Coca-Cola commercial where he drank “so many” Cokes while committing so hard he even shaved his legs to look like a believable cyclist. That’s Reeves in a nutshell: low ego, high commitment.

Then came Hollywood’s weird pressure to “fix” him. When he arrived in L.A., some casting people thought his name was too hard or too “exotic,” and he flirted with aliases like “K.C. Reeves,” “Page Templeton III,” and the legendary almost-name: “Chuck Spadina.” He dropped the act because he’d walk into auditions and reveal his real name anyway—like he couldn’t pretend to be anyone else for long, even when the industry asked.

If there’s one passion that’s followed him like a shadow, it’s motorcycles. He learned to ride while filming in Germany and bought one immediately upon returning to the U.S. His favorite is a 1973 Norton Commando, and he later co-founded Arch Motorcycle Company, turning a personal obsession into a serious business.

But the romance comes with scars—literal ones. Reeves has racked up an alarming list of motorcycle injuries: lost teeth, broken ankle, road rash, even a ruptured spleen. The fact that he’s still upright, still working, still doing stunts, starts to feel less like luck and more like a personal refusal to be fragile.

And he’s not just tough on the road—he’s famously tough on set. Reeves has pushed through serious physical problems while filming: a spinal injury during The Matrix, a neck injury that forced choreographers to redesign fight sequences, an ankle injury before The Matrix Reloaded, and he even completed a grueling John Wick nightclub sequence while running a 103-degree fever. Most actors protect their bodies as assets. Reeves treats his as a tool he’ll burn down to finish the job.

Then there’s the career move that still sounds like a Hollywood curse: turning down Speed 2. Reeves said he believed refusing the sequel put him in “movie jail” for a decade—like the studio world punished him for not playing along. He thought the script was wrong, the vibe was off, and famously joked, essentially, that boats aren’t that fast. Time proved his instincts weren’t crazy: the sequel went forward without him and got slammed.

Reeves also has a reputation for doing something almost unheard of in blockbuster economics: giving up money to make films better. He has deferred salary so productions could afford major co-stars (like Al Pacino and Gene Hackman) and reportedly redirected funds from The Matrix sequels into things like visual effects and costume departments. He even gifted Harley-Davidson motorcycles to stunt teams as a thank-you. In an industry known for ego math, Reeves keeps showing up like someone who understands the whole machine matters.

His friendships have also shaped film history. His bond with River Phoenix helped get My Own Private Idaho made; Reeves was so moved by the script that he rode his motorcycle more than 1,000 miles to hand-deliver it to Phoenix, securing the casting that unlocked the project.

Some of his stories sound like urban legends, except they’re told plainly, like they’re normal. He says he was tricked into appearing in The Watcher after a “friend” allegedly forged his signature on a contract. Instead of dragging it through court, he did the movie to avoid lawsuits—an almost unbelievable mix of betrayal and pragmatism.

And yes, it’s still possible one of the strangest Hollywood “maybes” is true: Reeves and Winona Ryder might have accidentally gotten legally married while filming Bram Stoker’s Dracula because the production used a real priest and they spoke vows. No one seems certain how official it was, which only makes it more Keanu.

He’s also an artist in ways people forget. Reeves has written poetry books with artist Alexandra Grant (Ode to Happiness, Shadows) and helped launch a publishing imprint focused on visually-driven titles. And musically? He played in Dogstar, a band that toured enough that their opener in 1992 was… Weezer, at their first-ever gig. Reeves has even been booed offstage and laughed about it, calling it “beautiful.”

Put it all together and the legend hits differently: Keanu Reeves isn’t famous because he’s flawless. He’s famous because he’s stubbornly human—bad luck, wild stories, private generosity, bruises, and all.