Back when I was about 10 or 11 years old, I was like most boys, my Dad was my larger than life hero. I was lucky… no…I was blessed to have a Dad you should model yourself after. At that young age however, I didn’t model myself after anyone I should have. Rather, I was a complete tater head. I was always doing something so idiotic that it’s a miracle I didn’t end up in a straightjacket, handcuffs, an orange jumpsuit, or a coffin.
Unfortunately, I also had another kind of hero, one that you definitely shouldn’t model yourself after. He was a crazy rebellious daredevil and his name was Evel Knievel. Every few months he would attempt some stunt that would either break a world record, or break every bone in his body. I would never miss the chance to sit down in front of the TV and watch him, an American icon at the time, risk his life for fame and fortune. Most adults tuned in secretly hoping to see him crash, while most kids watched him intently, wanting to be just like him. I myself had collected all the usual Evel hoopla, like the little stunt cycle toy, the posters, the lunchbox, and the underoos. I even had the little white jump suit with the stars and stripes and the big number 1. Although it was about three sizes too small, I still managed to squeeze in to it when the time was right for a stunt, which was almost daily.
Now, every good little daredevil must have a sweet ride. Mine was a bicycle that I had modified specifically to make long jumps over large objects. My very first jump was a hair-raising, terrifying, sky high ride over three matchbox cars. It was maybe a 7 inch jump. But, it was exhilarating and amazing. The crowd went wild.
So, the nickname – Evel D. Knievel – was born. I was the only person that called me that and the only person that knew it was my nickname.
I’m sure you are curious. The ‘D’ stood for ‘Danger’.
But, looking back now, I think it actually stood for ‘Doofus’.
It didn’t take long to get bored of jumping three small toy cars. So, I graduated up to 5 full sized Tonka trucks (and not side-by-side either, they were lined up end-to-end. so there.). My ramp building knowledge developed by trial and error and I began to build nice sturdy ramps out of rocks, scrap lumber, concrete blocks, broken brick, broken glass, crushed aluminum cans, and anything else that was dangerous. Remember, Danger was my middle name. With my skills, I should have been an architect too.
My bike was a Huffie one speed. And before you go getting all in my face with how you were the 3rd grade spelling bee champ… no, I didn’t spell it wrong. That’s exactly how it was spelled on the bike. We were a poor family, ok? It was a basic knock off version, well, extremely basic. It had two wheels, a frame, crooked handlebars, and no brakes. I would actually have to turn the handlebars and face ninety degrees left if I wanted to go straight. I think my parents may have ordered the bike from the back of an Archie & Jughead comic book with four S&H Green stamps and an A&P coupon. But, it was my bike, it was my stunt cycle, and I liked it. I was proud of it and the fame and fortune it was going to bring me. Evel was going to jump the Snake River Canyon Pacific Ocean …with no hands…blindfolded…backwards...with no feet.
I loved to modify my bike and create new and exciting ways to hurt myself. I would spend hours plundering around the neighborhood garbage cans and dumpsters to find old bikes that had been junked. I would then cut the forks off with a hack-saw and hammer them on the end of my front forks creating a chopper-like effect. I had added so many extra forks on the front of my bike, that my front wheel was about 15 feet out in front of my handlebars when I rode. The forks curved and flexed downward so much that they almost touched the ground. I took off the fenders and removed any other un-needed additional weight. This, of course, made my bike the incredible jumping, face-smashing, crotch-racking, spleen-rupturing, death trap that it was.
I would make modifications, take it on some test rides, and determine if the safety features were sufficient (or non-existent). Sometimes, when I would stand up and really get down on the pedals, the chain would pop off, my foot would slip, and one of the handlebar grips would come off in my hand, slamming me into the crossbar, then onto the pavement, thereby crushing mr. chuckles and the marble twins, causing me to vomit, and talk like Theodore the chipmunk for a week.
As time went by, in spite of the minor setbacks, I got braver and braver. I would jump bigger and bigger things and I would make my ramps larger and larger. Each time I didn’t crash and my bike held up, that just made me take more and more chances. After all, I hadn’t had a single serious injury yet. Well, except for the permanent damage of crotchery debauchery that may or may not prevent me from having kids one day, I was good. Really good. A few small mishaps sure, like crashing into a shrubbery, or mailbox, or dog, or barb-wire, or occupied wheelchair, or wall, but really nothing bad at all. As a matter of fact, I never broke a bone until I was 35 years old. Unlike my sister, who by age 6 had suffered so many broken bones, that you could simply walk up behind her and quietly say “boo” and her arm would immediately SNAP in three places.
Yet, I knew, sooner or later, if I kept taking bigger risks and I didn’t protect the ole cranium, I would ultimately suffer some sort of serious dain-bramage wherein I would only be able to drool and repeat some strange phrase like “waffle toe!”.
So, I decided to be safer. I searched in all the usual trash dumping places and eventually found an old football helmet. It was a few sizes too big for me but I made it work…I thought. I then sanded it and painted it red, white, and blue with stars and stripes to match my Evel jumpsuit. After all, I wanted to look the part and I was sure I could jump further while wearing this getup. I also fashioned myself a cape out of an old red beach towel that I found, which had the faded out word “Marlboro” on it. My parents didn’t smoke, so I had no idea what Marlboro was. I thought it was probably some small town way out in the middle of Montana or Utah or in some foreign country like New Mexico
My Mom loves to tell this one particular incident as she saw it. She was in the kitchen performing some housewife duty stuff when she glanced out the window into the back yard. As she looked out, she saw a small, crudely built ramp about 3 feet high, right next to my Dad’s shop. Now, this was no ordinary small shop. It was pretty huge, about 10 feet tall counting the gable roof, and maybe 20 feet long by 14 feet wide. My mom said she could see this small ramp facing the shop only a foot or less away from it. She thought to herself “What in the world is that boy up to? Surely he is pushing Tonka trucks or matchbox cars over that ramp”. All of a sudden, she said a blur of red, white, and blue, and some strange craving for a cigarette, went flying by at about 45 miles an hour and onto the ramp.
Let us pause to examine this closer. Imagine a ramp made of a piece of plywood, a few feet long and a couple of feet wide, held up by a stack of bricks. It’s elevated up about 3 feet off the ground and it is positioned just mere inches away from a wall that is 10 ft tall. What is the plan here? I’m no trigonometry major, (and certainly wasn't back then), but what the heck was I thinking? Was I planning on going through the shop?
My Mom said I hit the ramp at a ridiculous rate of speed, became air born for a millisecond, and SLAMMED face first into the side of the shop only about four feet up the 10 ft wall. The 300 square ft shop actually shifted on it’s foundation about an inch. I slid down the wall like a cartoon character onto the ground in a pile of rubble. My mom said she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or both. Or whether to come outside pick me up and brush me off, or just let me lay there in agony and suffer for being so completely stupid.
That’s how she saw it and this is how I remember it, well what I remember of it. I was building the ramp, thinking to myself that it was a little close to the shop, but with my precise windage calculations, the angle of the ramp, and the speed I would be going, it should take me well over the tallest portion of the shop and safely to the other side, where, unbeknownst to my Mom, I had built a landing ramp. Hey, you have to be prepared. I then put on my daredevil outfit, got on my bike and rode to the top of the driveway which was about 50 yards away from my take off ramp. I turned and faced the ramp, rode down the straight-away gaining speed, then stuck my feet down, dug into concrete and dirt, and stopped at the peak of the ramp for the first of two test runs. With me sitting on top of the ramp staring at the side of the shop, how in the world could the simple thought of “Hmmm…I may not make this” not even cross my mind? Or possibly “Maybe I should raise the ramp a little?” Had I already suffered a substantial brain hematoma in a previous jump and didn’t know it? How were my math grades in school at this time in my life? Did I let some other moron calculate my trajectory and then trust him or her without double checking? Was I on Candid Camera? I went back to the top of the driveway, turned, gave it one last look, and then poured on the speed toward the ramp. I remember bouncing around somewhat from the uneven surfaces of the concrete driveway transitioning to the dirt backyard, which caused my helmet to spin around on my head so that I was now looking out through the ear hole. The wind whistled through my helmet and looking out that ear hole I saw the shop closing in fast like a bad 3-D movie. I hit the ramp at a high rate of speed and….
That’s it. Mom apparently went out, got me up and in the house and on the kitchen floor as not to bleed all over the shag carpet, because that’s where I woke up later. When I came to, I’m lying on the kitchen floor wrapped in gauze from head to toe and Mom is on the phone with the Chief Pilot of the Life-Bird Rescue Helicopter. But, they declined to fly out and get me, so I slept off my concussion, put some windex on my head, and went on with life.
My next stunt would make that one look genius.
We lived on a well traveled paved road but there was also a dirt road that ran next to our house, perpendicular to the paved road, which pretty much went to nowhere. Over time, various members of the community grew tired of teenagers driving recklessly down the dirt road, spinning tires, doing donuts, making a lot of noise, and doing other crazy van rocking stuff that I didn’t quite understand...back then anyhow. So, one day the County maintenance crew showed up with a back-hoe, dug a 4-5 ft deep trench across the dirt road to block the access, and piled the dirt on one side to ensure it couldn’t be driven down anymore, well with a car anyhow.
Yep, they piled up the dirt.
Just like a ramp.
I am now contemplating how I will conquer this new challenge that has been graciously placed before me by the spirits of the almighty king of the mentally insane. I will hold my head high, pound my chest, jump the great canyon ditch, and I will laugh at all the non-daredevils of the world.
One of the teenagers in the neighborhood had a Suzuki dirt bike and would frequently zoom down the paved road in front of my house, pick up speed, turn and zip on to what used to be the dirt road, jump the dirt ramp over the trench, and land a long way on the other side and ride off into the sunset while I stood there breathing in his dust and possibly contracting orange lung disease. Stupid show off.
This really irked my butt. Here I was a 10 or 11 year old trying to literally grow and preserve a set of Cojones so I could get up the nerve to jump it on a bicycle and he just comes along and rather nonchalantly glides over it on his motorbike like it was nothing.
A little girl about my age named Cindy had moved in across the street recently. Every now and then she would drop by ole Danger’s house to chat and ogle his muscles. On this particular day when she dropped by, I had been feverishly working up the nerve to make the jump that would forever live in history books in all the schools throughout the world. I think she was the little extra incentive that would push me to finally take that chance. I asked if she wanted to watch while I made history. She replied “I wouldn’t miss it for anything”. I think there may have been an expletive and the word idiot in there somewhere, but I’m not sure.
I donned my daredevil gear, being very careful not to let her see me accidentally look out of my helmet ear hole. I jumped on my stunt bicycle and rode across the paved road to the other side so as to get the necessary speed to clear the ditch. After I thought I was the required calculated distance away, I made my turn and stopped. I looked over and could see Cindy as she stood next to the ditch so as to have the optimum up-close personal view of all the sights, sounds, and glory of the spectacular demonstration that was about to unfold. For a moment, I sat there and studied the dirt mound about 100 yards straight ahead of me. This was it. I was ready.
There would be no test runs today.
I took off, pedaling as hard as I could. I felt like I was going 65 mph. No turning back now. Give it all you’ve got. History in the making. My heart was pounding so loud I’m sure she could hear it way over there. I reached maximum terminal velocity and across the paved road I went, refusing to even pretend to look both ways for traffic. As if shot out of a cannon, I sped to the ramp. My tires went from asphalt to dirt and then up the dirt ramp I went…
There are but a few times in a man’s life that an opportunity to exude greatness comes along, especially in the presence of a female. If on this day, the stars have properly aligned, your horoscope reads favorably, you pulled the long side of the wishbone from the KFC chicken breast, you were victorious in a game of roshambo, you found a quarter head side up, and all your cootie shots were up to date, then there’s a good chance of you pulling off something absolutely majestic. This is a moment in time that can define the rest of your life, your career, and your dreams. From here, you could go on to be a NASCAR Driver, a Rodeo Cowboy, a Trauma Surgeon, an Olympic Gold Medalist, an Astronaut, a Fireman, or a maybe even a Super Ninja. In this moment, you can succeed and you can make the jump, and you can stick the landing perfectly, a long way on the other side of the ditch, just barely kicking up a slight puff of dust. You can then proudly ride off in to the sunset with the girl. You can face anything that life throws at you.
However, this will not be one of those moments.
I’m sure you have seen the video footage of Evel Knievel’s horrendous crash while jumping the fountains at Caesar’s Palace on New Year’s Eve in 1967. He clears the fountains, hits the landing ramp wrong and goes headfirst over the handle bars smashing down onto the ramp on his head, then shoulder, then continues to tumble for 75 yards breaking every bone in his body (actually he only broke about 40 bones). Well, on this the day of my jump, had you been one of a very few proud owners of a video camera (it would have cost you about $3000 back then) and had you been lucky enough to be standing there next to Cindy, and filming me as I attempted to fly over the infamous ditch, it’s very possible there wouldn’t be a soul on earth today that would even remember the video of Evel, or even remember who Evel was at all.
As my tires hit the dirt ramp, I lifted up on the handlebars to take the bike air born, and to my horror, my right handlebar grip came off in my hand, and my bike never even left the ground. From my perspective everything went in to slow motion. I glance over at Cindy and she is smiling...and picking her nose. At this frozen moment in time, I’m sure I’m not going to make it over the ditch. I may never know there’s even such a thing as fainting goats. I’ve never driven a car, which is probably a good thing considering how I drive a bike.
With tires 100% in contact with dirt, I rode it up and over the dirt mound at 65 mph, and then directly face first into the ditch. My helmet flew off, my cape flew over my head and I smashed the ground with my face so hard that my oldest daughter a few weeks ago grabbed her face and let out a painful scream for no reason.
In the crash I suffered various injuries, mostly a bloody face and lips, scratches, bruises, but nothing major except the major damage to my pride. When I regained consciousness in the ditch, I looked up and around out of the hole like a battered gopher, but Cindy was gone. She didn’t drop by to see and chat with Danger any more. I may have been blacked out an hour, a minute, or a day, I’m not sure. The crash totaled my bike and it was a while before I got a new one. But, I wasn’t in a hurry to climb back on and go jumping anything anytime soon. I also changed my nickname from Evel Danger Knievel to something else stupid, like smelly, or smash mouth, or insane clown posse, or something.
And if you asked me then if I would ever be that stupid again, I would simply have to reply ‘waffle toe’.
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