He was little more than a human cannonball and the crowd knew it.
But by his own admission, the young Knievel had ‘balls like a rhinoceros’ and a whole heap of faith in himself. He wasn’t about to back out, even if his nerves were on edge; on the contrary, the feeling of raw fear and excitement was just like the feeling he got when robbing a bank, but this time the source of his excitement was legal and it felt good. Better than the gloomy prospect of being lowered into a mineshaft, better than the drudgery of doing the rounds as an insurance salesman and better than being told what to do in the Army. Knievel was finally alone and calling the shots; he would quite literally stand or fall by his own decisions and his own skills. He felt more alive than at any other time in his life. It was time to go.
Knievel twisted the throttle on his Honda and kicked his way up through the gearbox, gaining crucial speed before shooting up the ramp that would launch him into the void. As he left the end of the ramp, the Honda’s revs dropped away as the rear wheel continued to spin, seeking a purchase on anything solid. Knievel tried to hold the handlebars up high, sensing he must bring the motorcycle down rear wheel first for a stable landing. He was now little more than a passenger; while he could control the angle the bike would descend at, he could no longer increase or decrease his speed, and it looked, even to his inexperienced eyes, that he was not going to clear the gap. He needed just a few more miles per hour to bridge the last few feet clearly. With a resounding ‘thud’ the Honda smashed back down to earth amid the noise of splintering wood. Knievel had in fact come down short and smashed open the far end of the wooden box containing the rattlesnakes. But he had made it. He had landed his bike safely and was still in one piece.
The crowd, having never seen anything like it in their lives, yelled and cheered their approval. They had looked at the 40-foot gap and thought Knievel would never make it, but he had. And as he hauled on the brakes and scrubbed off speed, the crowd started to notice that the rattlesnakes were making a break for freedom – right in the crowd’s direction. ‘This guy started running around trying to catch them,’ laughed Knievel, ‘and I rode back by those mountain lions because I was so excited I didn’t know what I was doing. There wasn’t any grandstands and these snakes started crawling up there in the crowd. It was funnier than hell. I just buzzed on out and watched it from up on a hill somewhere. People were runnin’ every which way. It was a real crowd-pleaser you might say.’
Despite the success and novelty of his first ever motorcycle jump, Knievel’s business did not benefit enough from after-show publicity to make it worthwhile persevering. He sold the store and relocated to Orange County in Southern California where he continued racing bikes as the only means of getting a thrill in an otherwise bleak existence. But it wasn’t long before he started thinking about trying to make a career out of motorcycle stunt-shows. His first attempt had been a fantastic success and he had totally loved the adrenalin rush that jumping had provided. He was beginning to think that people all over the US might just pay to see him jump on a regular basis. ‘I thought that if the auto industry could support an auto-daredevil show like Joey Chitwood or Daredevil Lynch, maybe the time had come that the motorcycle industry could also support a stunt thing.’ It wasn’t a sure-fire bet by any means but, optimistic as ever, Knievel decided to give it a go. After all, what did he have to lose? If he didn’t make any money he’d still get a rush.
But rather than perform alone again, Knievel decided he needed to model his new act on Joey Chitwood’s well-established set-up. To put on a whole show he would have to keep a crowd entertained for more than a few minutes and that would require a
But by his own admission, the young Knievel had ‘balls like a rhinoceros’ and a whole heap of faith in himself. He wasn’t about to back out, even if his nerves were on edge; on the contrary, the feeling of raw fear and excitement was just like the feeling he got when robbing a bank, but this time the source of his excitement was legal and it felt good. Better than the gloomy prospect of being lowered into a mineshaft, better than the drudgery of doing the rounds as an insurance salesman and better than being told what to do in the Army. Knievel was finally alone and calling the shots; he would quite literally stand or fall by his own decisions and his own skills. He felt more alive than at any other time in his life. It was time to go.
Knievel twisted the throttle on his Honda and kicked his way up through the gearbox, gaining crucial speed before shooting up the ramp that would launch him into the void. As he left the end of the ramp, the Honda’s revs dropped away as the rear wheel continued to spin, seeking a purchase on anything solid. Knievel tried to hold the handlebars up high, sensing he must bring the motorcycle down rear wheel first for a stable landing. He was now little more than a passenger; while he could control the angle the bike would descend at, he could no longer increase or decrease his speed, and it looked, even to his inexperienced eyes, that he was not going to clear the gap. He needed just a few more miles per hour to bridge the last few feet clearly. With a resounding ‘thud’ the Honda smashed back down to earth amid the noise of splintering wood. Knievel had in fact come down short and smashed open the far end of the wooden box containing the rattlesnakes. But he had made it. He had landed his bike safely and was still in one piece.
The crowd, having never seen anything like it in their lives, yelled and cheered their approval. They had looked at the 40-foot gap and thought Knievel would never make it, but he had. And as he hauled on the brakes and scrubbed off speed, the crowd started to notice that the rattlesnakes were making a break for freedom – right in the crowd’s direction. ‘This guy started running around trying to catch them,’ laughed Knievel, ‘and I rode back by those mountain lions because I was so excited I didn’t know what I was doing. There wasn’t any grandstands and these snakes started crawling up there in the crowd. It was funnier than hell. I just buzzed on out and watched it from up on a hill somewhere. People were runnin’ every which way. It was a real crowd-pleaser you might say.’
Despite the success and novelty of his first ever motorcycle jump, Knievel’s business did not benefit enough from after-show publicity to make it worthwhile persevering. He sold the store and relocated to Orange County in Southern California where he continued racing bikes as the only means of getting a thrill in an otherwise bleak existence. But it wasn’t long before he started thinking about trying to make a career out of motorcycle stunt-shows. His first attempt had been a fantastic success and he had totally loved the adrenalin rush that jumping had provided. He was beginning to think that people all over the US might just pay to see him jump on a regular basis. ‘I thought that if the auto industry could support an auto-daredevil show like Joey Chitwood or Daredevil Lynch, maybe the time had come that the motorcycle industry could also support a stunt thing.’ It wasn’t a sure-fire bet by any means but, optimistic as ever, Knievel decided to give it a go. After all, what did he have to lose? If he didn’t make any money he’d still get a rush.
But rather than perform alone again, Knievel decided he needed to model his new act on Joey Chitwood’s well-established set-up. To put on a whole show he would have to keep a crowd entertained for more than a few minutes and that would require a
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