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in the family and make things even worse. Knievel’s existence truly was hand-to-mouth in the late 1960s.

      But despite the hardships of a life on the road, the jumps continued and Evel reached another landmark in the spring of 1967 when his performances in between motorcycle races at the Ascot Park Speedway near Los Angeles were filmed for ABC’s Wide World of Sports. This was his first real chance at the big time. So long as he only performed live at small-time race meetings in front of a few thousand people then he could only ever hope to be a local hero. But with the promise of television coverage came the chance to make it as a national star, and, if he could achieve that, the riches he so desperately craved would surely follow.

      The relationship between Knievel and ABC would prove extremely beneficial to both parties in the coming years, and the timing on Knievel’s part couldn’t have been better. ABC’s policy was to offer coverage of lesser-known sports, more often than not with an oddball quality, which is why Knievel’s antics slotted right into place. He was perfect fodder for the network and the link-up would ultimately inspire thousands of American kids to emulate Knievel. In one article describing the relationship between ABC and Knievel, writer Christopher Ross went as far as to say ‘it can be argued that today’s increased popularity of extreme sports can be directly traced to Knievel and Wide World of Sports.’

      ABC certainly helped spread the Evel word to a national audience, and he, in turn, rewarded them with five of their 20 most successful broadcasts ever. His 1975 jump over 14 Greyhound buses at King’s Island still ranks as the highest rating the channel has ever had, with an incredible 52 per cent audience share – better than Muhammad Ali and George Foreman’s rumble in the jungle and every Super Bowl ever held.

      But that was all still in the future; for now, Knievel kicked off his first national television performance by successfully clearing 15 cars, breaking his own record by one. The television coverage did not go out live, however, and American audiences had to wait for another two weeks before getting their first taste of Evel Knievel on 25 March 1967.

      Encouraged by his success, Knievel continued gathering momentum and moved on to clear 16 cars at the Ascot Raceway near Los Angeles before attempting the same number again at the Graham Speedway near Tacoma, Washington. This time things didn’t go quite so smoothly and Knievel lost his balance on landing and parted company with his bike, sustaining a slight concussion in the process. Just under three weeks later he returned to the same venue to see the job through successfully, proving to his audience that he was no quitter and that he would see anything through if he had given his word to do so.

      This was another crucial part of the Evel Knievel phenomenon: to Knievel his word was his bond, and he could offer nothing more to anyone than that. It stemmed from his Butte upbringing where a man could only be seen as a man if he kept his word. If you say you’re going to do something in Butte, you had better do it, and it was a code that Evel lived by. Throughout his career he attempted jumps he felt he couldn’t make, even at the risk of serious injury or death, because he’d given his word he’d try. It was this strongly held belief that led Knievel to try the biggest and most outrageous stunt of his entire career some years later, and, ultimately, to his undoing.

      Evel had by now abandoned his Norton in favour of another British bike, a 650cc Triumph T120 Bonneville, now one of the most revered of all classic British motorcycles. Despite his later association with Harley-Davidson, Knievel never hesitated in naming the Bonneville as his favourite bike of all time for jumping. ‘The Triumph was a much better handling motorcycle than the Harley. The XR-750 Harley had way too much torque. When it got up in the air it wanted to twist because it had so much torque. The Triumph 650 went as straight as a bullet.’ His praise for the 650cc model, however, did not extend to the 750cc version, which he rather amusingly berated as ‘…a piece of crap. It couldn’t pull a sick whore off a piss-pot with Vaseline on her.’

      But, as Evel was finding out, there was more to jumping a motorcycle than simply twisting the throttle and hoping the bike went as straight as a bullet. ‘The big thing about jumping over cars on a motorcycle is to hit the take-off ramp just right. I don’t want the bike’s front wheel to hit the ramp too hard. That might throw me over the handlebars. I have to hang on tight. And then I fly through the air and hope for a safe landing. When I jump I stand or lean forward on the balls of my feet. The motorcycle has a tendency to buck and come over backwards on me so I try and lean forward to hold it down. I want to go off the take-off ramp right at the top of the power curve. If I do, the bike’ll go straight through the air. If I don’t, the motorcycle has a tendency to drift sideways and cross up. It’s just like crouching in a crouch; if you crouch too much you can’t jump very high, if you don’t crouch at all you don’t jump very high. You gotta be on the power curve.’

      It is, as Evel often explained, only when the rider has left the take-off ramp that the real skill of motorcycle jumping comes into play. ‘Anyone can jump a motorcycle, the trouble comes when you try to land it. I never missed a take-off in my life. It’s like I put you in a Learjet and help you take off but then I give you the controls and say “all right, big boy, now you go ahead and land it”. That’s where you’ll have your ass knee deep in crap, boy.’

      The most incredible thing about Knievel’s jumping technique was that it was all based on feel and instinct rather than being scientifically calculated in the way that modern jumpers prepare their jumps. As he openly admitted, ‘I did everything by the seat of my pants. That’s why I got hurt so much.’ One of Knievel’s former friends and helpers, Joe Delaney, recalls being amazed at Knievel’s haphazard approach to jumping. Turning up for the first time to help Knievel set up his ramps he was expecting a much more high-tech approach than what he actually witnessed. ‘He told me, “Step off 40 steps.” I said, “What for?” He said, “That’s how far I’m gonna jump. Just draw a line in the dirt.” So we did and he set his ramps up.’

      Knievel’s Triumph Bonneville was slightly customised to meet his unique demands, but it was still far from being an ideal tool for the job; unlike the modern motocross bikes, which are lightweight, have massive suspension travel and heaps of power. Like the motorcycle racers who have no need for road-going gear, Evel ditched the lights, mudguards and numberplates and fitted a racing engine and racing exhaust to help increase the bike’s standard top speed of around 110mph. Less necessary and more for show was the drogue parachute, which was fitted in the rearseat unit; it was designed to slow him down after big jumps but, as he proved when he had no parachute, this was not a major problem anyway unless his landing area was extremely confined. However, the flurry of the chute as it opened added to the drama and further created the impression that Knievel was pushing motorcycle technology to the limit.

      Throughout 1967 Knievel toured and performed wherever he could secure a booking, and by the year’s end he had pulled off more than eight major jumps. Notable performances included a leap on 24 September over 16 Chevrolets in front of 4,000 demolition-derby race-goers at the Evergreen Speedway in Monroe, Washington. Knievel actually approached the jump too fast and overshot his landing ramp, though he somehow managed to keep the bike upright despite a heavy landing and steered it to safety. He did, however, suffer a compression fracture to his lower spine on landing and had to be administered with painkilling injections.

      As successful as Knievel’s assorted dates were becoming, he was realising by now that it was going to take something extra special to drum up the level of public interest he dreamed of. Jumping rows of cars could only look impressive for so long – there had to be something else, something bigger, better and more spectacular. Knievel had been aware since his first jump when he leaped over snakes and mountain lions that what lay between his ramps was just as important as how far apart they were. ‘Right then,’ he told the press after his 1965 debut, ‘I knew I could pull a big crowd by jumping over weird stuff.’ It was a lesson well learned and one which would stand him in good stead throughout his career. The problem lay in dreaming up novelty obstacles that would be just possible to jump while retaining precisely the right amount of risk and danger, while convincing an audience that they could not be jumped. This balance between the possible and the impossible was another key element in Knievel’s unique brand of entertainment.

      It’s easy to imagine Knievel, wherever he went from 1965

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