"Death is the greatest competitor in life.
And I beat it for a long time." -Evel Knievel

Everyone's got their own definition of a hero. It doesn't necessarily mean someone we feel compelled to emulate, or even that we admire; but our need for heroes might lead us to wonder what it would be like to be that person for a few hours just so we could feel what he feels, know what he knows, and be able to do what he does. And if there's any truth to that notion, then Evel Knievel, who exists in our collective memory as one of the ballsiest, craziest, most alive sonsabitches to ever walk among us, took the concept to a whole new level. What other mere mortal could handle the intense rushes of pain, the unimaginable jolts of adrenaline overload, and the fearsome visualizations of bone-shattering wipeouts that must have swirled like infernal whirlpools within Knievel's brain?
Barnstorming through the late '60s and '70s like Elvis and Col. Tom Parker rolled into one badass package of unassailable arrogance and relentless hype, Evel seemed to crash as often, if not more, than he landed safely-which is precisely why he captured the public's imagination like no one before or since. Each of his increasingly outrageous motorcycle jumps was a stilted 50/50 proposition designed to whet the appetite of a bloodthirsty public. He'd either pull off something no one else could even conceive of doing, or he might die attempting it.
That ain't simply showbiz. The stakes were higher for Evel than they have ever been for any ordinary game-playing athlete or sideshow entertainer. When he triumphed, as he did in cleanly jumping 14 Greyhound buses at King's Island, Ohio-the whole planet went wild with adoration. Every kid wanted to be Evel Knievel-diamond-hard, handsome, and bulletproof. Every woman wanted to sneak out in the family Pacer and make a move on the supercool renegade who laughed in the face of death. And every man who wasn't Evel could only open another Schlitz and shake his head in awe, bafflement and envy.
When Evel ate it, however, like he did at Wembley Stadium in London trying to clear 13 double-decker buses, we could commiserate in empathy and horror-but the pain was his alone.
There are, and always have been, a rash of stars, tough guys and entertainers out there. But Evel Knievel is the only true superhero-replete with cape, costume, a lethal looking shillelagh, and a singular skill-that we've ever had in our midst.

Combining considerable athletic prowess, an uncanny flair for self-promotion, a daring innate to the few who are truly inspired, and a public image of the only sort that would make his boasts seem credible, Knievel has few peers among celebrities or sportsmen in this century. Houdini, Babe Ruth, Elvis, Bruce Lee, and Muhammad Ali come to mind. But add to the above qualifications the fact that Knievel was operating within an arena largely of his own invention, comprised of unfathomable risks, and he gains a few inches even on that august company.
It certainly didn't hurt that Evel Knievel was the right guy at the time that the motorcycle's ascendancy as a cultural statement was cresting. The "whad'ya got?" rebellion Marlon Brando initiated in The Wild One, just as rock 'n' roll began its invasion into the Leave it to Beaver communities of America, continued to gain momentum and definition throughout the '60s. Capitalizing on the groundswell of biker-mania, American International Pictures' Roger Corman cranked out a series of films with titles such as The Wild Angels and Satan's Sadists. To the public at large, the laconic intensity Peter Fonda brought to his biker roles established him as the counterculture's successor to the coiled threat that lay beneath Brando's heavy-lidded befuddlement.
Easy Rider followed, which etched in asphalt for all time the image of outlaw bikers as social pariahs, as well as existential cowboys, and spawned a series of increasingly crass imitations. By the dawn of the '70s, even naughty Superbowl hero Joe Namath showed up on a chopped hog, with Ann Margaret in tow, as the star of C.C. and Company.

A considerably heavier and more controversial definition of intensity came to prominence with the media's relentless pursuit of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club, who became counterculture celebrities in their own right following a succession of outlandish newspaper and magazine articles. The Angels found themselves inhabiting ever more elevated plateaus of fame, reaching a pinnacle of sorts as the central figures in Hunter S. Thompson's classic book, Hell's Angels. They starred as themselves in their own Roger Corman bike flick, Hells Angels '69, and were subsequently seen trying to determine what their exact capacity was supposed to be as all hell broke loose during the Rolling Stones' December 1969 free concert at the Altamont Motor Speedway. In the Maysles Brothers' documentary, Gimme Shelter, everyone appears confused and freaked-out in the days leading up to and during the concert, most notably the Stones, the organizational braintrust from the Grateful Dead, and the Stones' advisors like Chip Monck, Woodstock promoter Mike Lang, and the noted palimony attorney, Melvin Belli. Maybe the '60s just proved too difficult an enterprise to maintain. If the Angels came off seeming schizey and out-of-sorts at Altamont, who could blame them? The bummers and bad vibes that the day is remembered for sure didn't emanate exclusively from guys wearing the patch.
For a variety of reasons, Evel Knievel continues to rub many lifestyle bikers the wrong way, playing off his influence as a famous name in motorcycling to display an arrogant outspokenness concerning topics that seem to have little relevance to what Knievel is about. Evel hangs out in Vegas. Evel loves to play golf. Evel glad-hands, signs autographs and acts as a spokesman for his sponsors. Evel says wear a helmet. Evel says consider every aspect of what you're doing; then consider the intangibles. Evel says stay away from drugs and unsavory influences. Evel says a lot of things that seem flat-out contradictory to the life he's reported to have lived. Thus, he's been characterized as a card-carrying asshole, an inveterate bullshitter, insufferably full of himself, a phony, a hypocrite, and a real jerk by racers and outlaw bikers for about as long as he's been in the public eye.

Papa do preach, and after all he's been through, maybe Knievel believes he's earned that right. Playing the geek for a hard-hearted public looking for kicks at the expense of his own hide has made Evel Knievel well-known and wealthy. He's also paid a terrible price for his efforts. Fifty-two broken bones (Knievel claims to have broken every one in his body at least once), perpetually wracked-up joints, the lingering effects of a succession of risky operations, hepatitis C contracted through a blood transfusion, and the pressing need for a liver transplant to replace his worn out one have taken a severe toll on him physically. Death, the only opponent Knievel appears to take seriously, seems eager to hold Evel to one last grudge match, with the odds swinging heavily in the challenger's favor as they always must eventually.
But Evel Knievel has always had the luxury of playing the game by his own rules, primarily since he made up the game and the rules himself. Knowing full well the hazards of believing in your own invincibility, Knievel has gained a certain amount of wisdom in his 59 years. Even so, people find it hard to swallow his message because it often conveys an attitude of, "Do what I say, not what I do."
"Back in the day I had my share, and everybody else's, of beer, Jack and major painkillers, and now it's all catching up to me," Knievel recently told a reporter from Easyriders. There's no hint of self-pity evident when Knievel discusses the life-threatening damage he's inflicted upon himself, yet the concern he expresses for all the little Evels who think that recklessness and daring are virtues in and of themselves seems considered and genuine.
"A kid at 15 or 16, his mind is no more developed than his body," Knievel says, probably remembering the limited options he faced as a youth in Butte, Montana.
"And it takes you a while, as you progress through life, to start thinking with all the wisdom and all the experiences you've had, and all the trouble you've gone through, and all the good things you've gone through, to be able to really make the right decisions for yourself in life.
"Kids are easily persuaded to do things, in gangs and in clubs and so on and so forth. They're intimidated by older people in school-older kids. You can get an older kid who's an idiot and he'll persuade a lot of kids who really don't know what they're doing to take drugs and screw themselves up.
"You've got to put things into your body that make you feel great, that make you think great. Then you can have a good life. You can live and you don't abuse yourself."
Evel Knievel, whose name is synonymous with balls-to-the-wall daredevil lunacy, believes he always tried to consider the pitfalls and play it safe. The harsh truth is that daredevils don't clear every obstacle cleanly, that's all.
Despite the wear and tear on his body, Evel Knievel still exhibits a clear and precise intelligence, as well as a keen eye for and ability to recall details. He exudes a robust confidence (some might say haughtiness) in his manner of speaking that illustrates every true story or tall tale surrounding him with a leathery Western toughness that's unquestionably genuine. Evel's a straight-shooter, and though he might make inconsistent statements occasionally, it's undeniable that from the point in the arc where he's at, hanging at a critical point in his remarkable trajectory, he tells it like it is.

"I did what I did and I do what I do because
I'm Evel Knievel. And I don't question it."

Were you one of those kids who, after watching an Evel Knievel jump before his retirement in 1981, stuck a few Catfish Hunter or Vida Blue cards in the spokes of your Stingray and tried to soar off a piece of plywood tilted against a milkbox? Guess you didn't have the right stuff then, because that's how Evel got started, too, after checking out the Joey Chitwood Circus of Thrills auto daredevil show in Montana.
"I used to go and watch them when they'd come to Butte," Evel recalls. "I was a young kid and I remember seeing a guy jump a motorcycle through a hoop of fire. He just made a little jump. His name was Cliff Major, he was the stunt rider with Joey Chitwood. And I used to watch him do that, then I'd go home and take the fenders off my bicycle, and put the cards in the spokes-pin 'em with a clothespin so it'd make a noise like a motorcycle. And I used to ride around and do little stunts on my bike...jump ramps, and I was doing then what the BMX riders are doing now."