Unlike the other figments of our imaginations, Evel got hurt. So did Roberts and Lackey, but racing against other motorcycles was nobler than launching one over buses. It didn't involve a cape or Roman gladiator music, and the odds of survival looked considerably better.
Whether it was a boxful of live rattlesnakes, 13 Pepsi trucks or the Snake River Canyon, the E.K. Show was sort of like dropping toast on the kitchen floor. Either you got lucky and it landed jelly-side up, or somebody had a mess to clean up. Still, people paid a lot of money to watch someone else's life (and spinal column) compressed into a few seconds. Not me: I watched my friend Joel try to clear Uvas Creek on his Kawasaki G5. When he didn't, a rusty culvert on the other side ended the G5, his knee and the basketball season. That cleared out any residual need to jump over anything that wasn't part of a motocross lap. Riding motorcycles comes with unavoidable risks of its own, and flying through the air on purpose was part of that. But by itself, jumping was just toast without the jelly. Worse, most of the people who paid money to watch were betting jelly-side down.
Evel worked in the copper mines, took a shot at Pro rodeo and hockey, was a selfproclaimed safecracker, card shark, con artist, big-game hunter, insurance salesman, Honda dealer, hockey promoter, ski jumper, pole-vaulter and corporate pitchman extraordinaire. His Elvis-esque leathers are enshrined in the Smithsonian, along with an equally rare pristine XR-750 stunt cycle. He scored a cameo spot with Lindsay Wagner on The Bionic Woman. As much as I have to respect the man, I may never forgive him for that. Evel Knievel really was America's Hero for a while, but he wasn't mine.