He’s a Chip Off the Old Stock Block

It was the first time I had seen Evel Knievel in 12 years. It was almost the first time I had ever seen him when he wasn’t in traction, on crutches, in a coma, a wheelchair or jail.

If you wanted Evel, you followed the sound of the siren. You tried Intensive Care. The emergency room. He was either on a motorcycle or in an ambulance. He was America’s accident. The falling body.

Look for the nearest crumpled heap and underneath was what was left of Robert Craig Knievel. The guy in the white silk suit with all the rhinestones--and blood--all over it. He broke more bones than holiday traffic.

He always overmatched himself. If he could jump 10 cars, he lined up 14. If he could jump 14 cars, he wanted 14 buses. If he could play par golf, he wanted to bet Jack Nicklaus. If he won a barroom fight, he wanted Sugar Ray.

He wasn’t content just to jump over water. He put sharks in it. Other guys could jump through hoops, Evel wanted to jump canyons. Other people could want to climb the Empire State Building, Evel wanted to clear it. People have crossed Wall Street on motorcycles. Evel wanted to do it from 80 stories up. Rooftop to rooftop.

If they’d let him do what he wanted to, they wouldn’t have needed an ambulance. A dust pan would have done.

How he lived to be 50, no one is sure. But the derring-do paid off. George Hamilton played him in the movies. The Evel Knievel toy was the nation’s biggest seller. You wound it up and the next sound you heard was like a window breaking.

Evel had some grandiose ideas. If he had a ramp long enough, he figured he would jump Rhode Island. He settled for the Snake River Canyon which he tried to soar over in a fuel canister off a fighter plane with a booster rocket.

It was a projectile right out of Rube Goldberg. It had been assembled after he had prowled through every Army-Navy surplus store and every plane wreck in the country. The only thing that worked properly on it was the parachute, which saved Evel from hitting the ground as hard as he usually did.

But it was the most-viewed show in the history of the “Wide World of Sports” television series. Some people cried, “Fake!” but most people saluted a guy who would climb into a contraption that couldn’t make up its mind whether it was a dirt bike or a fuel tank and try to jump from one state to another. They figured him for a genuine American eccentric who didn’t live by the rules that bound the rest of the bourgeoisie and he was greeted as a regular red, white and blue folk hero.

Twenty-one years ago this month, this folk hero attempted the second-most famous jump of his career--the fountains in the foyer of Caesars Palace Hotel at Las Vegas. With predictable results.

Evel negotiated the first 149 feet of the 150-foot hurdle like an eagle. He made the last foot like a shot duck. He finished the jump sliding along on his helmet to a chorus of breaking bones. The helmet looked as if it were about to hatch an ostrich. It had cracked in 10 places but didn’t break.

Evel spent the next 31 days in a coma and, legend has it, was brought out of it only when a friend told the doctors to forget the intravenous gadgets and to bring in a motorcycle and a contract and Evel would wake up and start to look around for a pen and his boots.

I went down to Anaheim the other afternoon because I saw where “Evel Knievel II” was going to announce an attempt to duplicate that jump that put Evel the First into life support for a month. I was titillated by the fact that they

were Roman numeraling Evels, nowadays, like Super Bowls and Godfather films. What was Evel II? Protege? Imitator? Plagiarist?

Turned out this sequel was “Son of Evel.” This copy is the youngest son of the original. Robbie Knievel is a chip off the old stock block.

A passion for danger must be the most powerful gene in the whole DNA link. Ministers’ sons sometimes won’t even go to church on Easter. Lincoln’s sons hated politics. Generals’ sons lead peace marches. But race drivers’ and canyon jumpers’ sons follow in their fathers’ bloodstains.

On April 14 of next year, this newest Evel Knievel will attempt to complete the aborted jump his father missed 21 years ago. The family feud with the fountain at Caesars continues.

If he makes it--he has already jumped one more car, 22, than his father ever did--will the Snake River Canyon be next?

Robbie grins. “When I was growing up, my father was, to me, like Superman. A comic book come to life. To be the next Evel Knievel is to be the biggest thing I could be in life. And if anyone can do it, I can do it.”

If you expect from the original Evel any button-bursting, that’s-my-boy! swelling with pride over that, you don’t know Evel.

“He might as well do it,” he growls of Evel II. “I mean, what else is he going to do? He never even finished reform school. Is he going to operate on tumors?”

Will the son of Evel make it?

“Why not?” growls the Evel one. “I’ve tried to punch some sense into him.”

Does his son, 26, let him?

Evel grins again. “Naw. He dropped me once. Sucker-punched me. I wasn’t looking.”

He brightened. “But I got up. Got a draw.”

Adds Evel I: “I get to pick the motorcycle. I see to the drawing up of the ramps. The jump is 10 feet farther now. But the equipment is 20 feet better. The trouble is, the fountain jump, you can’t practice.”

The remark left the question hanging in the air. But nobody wanted to ask it: How do you practice suicide?