1903_magazine_evel 2

EV EL
HE BROKE THE MOLD.
A N D H I M S E L F.
When was the last time you went for it? Took a
chance? Killed your fear, defied reason, and did
something crazy? No, something not just crazy—
something death-defying, where there’s zero margin for error, where one tiny miscalculation, one
misstep, could result in your instant removal from
planet Earth.
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Chances are it wasn’t when you refused to return
your shopping cart at Kroger. Or when you cut
through that corner gas station to dodge a red
light. No, we mortals don’t tempt fate. We might
bend the rules, splurge on dessert, or let our
adventure-starved hearts pitter-patter with excitement as we double down on a ten-buck blackjack hand, but usually it’s more about bills than
thrills—that and buying 2-ply bulk paper towels
at Costco.
And there’s nothin’ wrong with that. People need
2-ply paper towels. But some people need more
than these trappings of the everyday. More than
Val-Pak coupons and a Cinnabon. They need
adrenaline. Excitement. Thrills, risk, danger.
Above all, they need to feel the raw, hot, molten
joy of existence. These rebellious souls need to go
full throttle...all cares, worries, and concerns left
behind in the dust as they look the Grim Reaper
straight in the eye and growl, “Not today pal.”
And as sure as a sunny day in Daytona, there
was no one who thumbed his nose at Death, or
flipped the bird at The Man, or drained a bottle
of 100-proof bourbon, cursed louder, rode faster,
or lived larger, mightier, and madder than the immortal Evel Knievel. I say “immortal” because his
name, as well as the things that Evel Knievel did,
will live forever. Things like jumping over a 20foot box of rattlesnakes and 2 mountain lions, his
first jump in 1965. Or jumping 13, 14, 15, and up
to 22 cars over the years, until mere cars didn’t
cut it and the obstacles became 141 feet of backbreaking, coma-inducing fountains at Caesars
Palace, 10 Kenworth trucks, 13 Mack trucks, or
14 Greyhound buses, and so on, until it all culminated one infamous morning on September
8th, 1974, when this insane daredevil actually
convinced us he would jump across the mile-long
Snake River Canyon in Twin Falls, Idaho. And
not just on another souped-up dirt tracker, but
on something he called his “skycycle,” a steampowered, glorified bottle rocket that looked like it
was built with Erector set rejects and spare sheet
metal from your shop class. Because at that point,
what he rode had to be as outrageous as he was.
So let us now salute this man—no, showman—
who virtually invented reality TV, giving everyone with a set and a signal the chance to soar
alongside him. Our living rooms and lives were
electrified, decades before the hoarders, faux
swampbillies, and monosyllabic Jersey Shoreans
short-circuited our rewired reality, with their
bland brands dulling and dumbing, day in, day out.
He was an innovator and inspirator, reaching out
across the airwaves to show us all that life is what
you make it.
FR AC TURED SKULL
2 9 D AY S U N C O N S C I O U S
BROKEN NOSE
F R AC T U R ED JAW
BROKEN TEETH
F R AC T U R E D C L AV I C L E
BROKEN UPPER BACK
FR AC TURED STERNUM
BROKEN ARM
FR AC TURED ALL RIBS
BROKEN LOWER BACK
HIP REPL ACEMENT
F R A C T U R E D P E LV I S X 3
BROKEN COCCYX
BROKEN WRIST X 2
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BROKEN FEMUR X 5
BROKEN KNEE
BROKEN SHIN
BROKEN ANKLE
BROKEN ANKLE
I M A G E S P AT T Y R O L O F F
N A R R AT I V E G E O R G E L O G O T H E T I S
BROKEN TOES
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Long before the incessant drone of social media
chatter infiltrated our off-hours, there was Evel
Knievel, right there on the Saturday afternoon
ABC Wide World of Sports or at your local drag
strip, balancing on one wheel, front tire aloft,
gunning it down the raceway or popping another
wheelie while standing on the seat, and generally
performing other stunts that kept our eyeballs
riveted on him until we almost forgot to blink.
Stunts so outlandish, so ill-advised, so absolutely
foolish that they made every person in America—
except your Mom—love him unconditionally.
What wasn’t there to love? He wore white leathers
emblazoned with red and blue stars and stripes,
an exaggerated, Elvis-like collar, and a flashy
belt buckle the size of a dinner plate showcasing
his initials. His pants flared out in bell bottoms,
revealing white, kick-your-head-in boots, and a
long, flowing baronial cape—the kind of thing a
comic book hero would wear (and he definitely
qualified) draped across his shoulders. And as
time wore on, as the bones cracked, the ligaments
snapped, and the stitch-count grew, the man
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eventually walked with a cane. But not just any
cane—a cane encrusted with diamonds, with a
top that unscrewed to reveal a compartment that
held eight shots of what else? Wild Turkey.
Did you think Evel Knievel would roll any other
way? After all, this is a man who, when asked why
he did what he did, said simply, “Life is a bore.
That’s why I jump through the air.” It makes
total sense. Jumping through the air is a lot more
exciting than selling insurance, the job he held at
the Combined Insurance Company for most of
1964, if you can comprehend that. (Career highlights included selling 110 policies to employees,
and residents, of the Montana State Mental Hospital). Shortly thereafter, in addition to being an
arm wrestling champ, elk hunter, amateur hockey
player, brawler, and entertaining people outside a
saloon by riding his motorcycle up a 500-foot slag
heap, he became a salesman for something he was
far more passionate about: motorcycles.
Soon after he began selling them in Spokane, he
got the idea to build a quarter-mile oval racetrack
to promote the bikes and the dirt track scene,
which he’d competed in since he was a teenager.
“
ANYBODY CAN JUMP
A MOTORCYCLE.
THE TROUBLE BEGINS
WHEN YOU TRY
TO LAND IT.
”
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“
IF A GUY HASN’T GOT
ANY GAMBLE IN HIM,
HE ISN’T WORTH A CRAP.
”
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To amp things up further and get even more
attention for the dealership, he convinced a coworker to ride his Harley-Davidson through several walls of flaming particle board. The stunt
was an instant success and the crowds ate it up. A
few weeks later, not wanting to be outdone, Evel
one-upped his co-worker by offering to jump over
a cage of rattlesnakes and two mountain lions, a
distance of nearly 50 feet. Evel didn’t clear the
jump and slammed his back tire on the box of
snakes, sending several hundred of the angry rattlers slithering toward the 300 fans on the sidelines, who then fled in terror. Laughing, Evel was
already plotting more entertaining jumps. A boat.
Two cars. Four cars. Buses. Trucks. Shark tanks.
Canyons. You know the rest.
Evel’s ill-fated Snake River Canyon jump remains
his most well-known stunt. And what an epic
stunt it was, for it captured the imagination of the
entire nation in late 1974. I was a Midwestern boy
of ten years then, with my Evel Knievel lunchbox,
Evel stunt cycle, Evel action figure, posters, stickers, folders, comic books, and of course my red,
white, and blue Free Spirit 20-inch BMX bike
with the chrome fenders and knobby tires. Every
kid in the neighborhood had the same type of bike.
These were used for trail riding, but very often
were also used for a more urgent purpose: to be
jumped into the air, as high as possible, to carry
us away from all earthly bounds, from all cares
and responsibilities and chores, just like they carried our hero.
Of course we lusted after motorcycles, salivating over Evel’s stripped-down Harley XR-750,
the bike he used on his jumps. But we were ten;
and mom hated motorcycles. So after religiously
following every new distance jumped, we began
building our own ramps, much smaller but made
of the same no-nonsense materials: plywood, 2x4s,
cinder blocks, and whatever we could pinch from
dad’s garage and the neighborhood construction
sites. These ramps were built to jump 10-12 garbage cans, and one by one, each of us would pedal
furiously, aiming at the ramp, attain our peak velocity, pull up on the bars, and sail away into that
glorious realm where gravity was suspended, as
we soared on like our hero soared on, if only for
a second. But it was that second—that brief moment—that we, too, had gone for it. Had taken
a chance. Killed our fear. Done something crazy,
ill-advised, mad, irresponsible, foolish, and utterly stupid. Our mothers hated us, but we loved it.
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“
YOU CAN FALL MANY
TIMES IN LIFE,
BUT YOU’RE NEVER
A FAILURE AS LONG AS YOU
TRY TO GET UP.
”
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Because it was fun. Oh, God was it fun. And luckily, unlike Evel, none of us ever paid the price that
the real daredevil paid. Sure, there were skinned
knees, sprains, ripped Sears Toughskin jeans, and
gashes requiring the sting of Bactine. But nothing like what Evel went through: the breaking of
every bone in his body, myth had it; the terrifying
footage of his body rag-dolling down the landing
ramp at Caesars, the prepubescent Zapruder film
that we never tired of marveling at, or the Cow
Palace jump, the Wembley jump, all the horrifying spectacles where Evel crashed, wrecked,
binned it, and went Johnny Shithouse over the
bars into what surely must result in death, and an
agonizing one at that.
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“
”
ONE DAY YOU’RE A HERO,
THE NEXT DAY YOU’RE GONE.
But, miracle of miracles, it never happened. Evel
never died on any of his jumps. His body, zippered
with scars, containing more metal plates than a
Bradley armored vehicle, held up. Only when his
liver crapped out—that poor, defenseless, utterly
abused organ—did he shuffle off this mortal coil
at the ripe old age of 69. A man who sailed into
history. A man who went for it. A man who, quite
simply, didn’t want to sell insurance.
So here’s to kicking it up a gear. Here’s to not
yielding. Here’s to going balls out, screaming
into the wind, to twisting that throttle till it don’t
twist no more. Because as Robert Craig Knievel
said, “If a guy hasn’t got any gamble in him, he
isn’t worth a crap.” Thank you, Evel.
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“
”
EVERYTHING IN MODERATION
IS OKAY, EXCEPT WILD TURKEY.
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THE PHOTOGR APHS
I N T H E AT T I C
Talk about hitting the jackpot. One day, while
exploring his grandparents’ attic, Garrett
Colton found a dusty old box marked “Evel
Knievel Slides & Film.” Inside were shots
owned by his grandfather Jack, who’d invited
Evel to Oklahoma to jump over cars at his
dealership. Of course, Evel agreed. These
shots document one weekend in June, 1972
when the Cooper family hosted Evel, who sat
at the head of the dinner table entertaining
the kids with napkin tricks, before heading
off to jump his Harley-Davidson XR-750 at
the State Fairgrounds.
These Kodachromes are testament to how
Evel appeared in parts of America that were
often ignored, to his grassroots appeal, and
to his genuine rapport with the whole Cooper
family, especially with Garrett’s grandfather
Jack. (That’s Jack, chauffeuring Evel in the
pace car.) Legendary stuff.
A L L I M A G E S C O U R T E S Y G A R R E T T C O LT O N F R O M “ E V E L C O M E S T O C O O P E R V I L L E ”
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