Life of Evel: Evel Knievel

by Stuart Barker

  Earlier in the year, the huge organisational effort required for the canyon jump meant that, for the first time in his career, Knievel had been forced to bring in some outside help to promote the event. It’s not that he lacked the ability to deal with such a task (he once claimed, quite accurately, that he was better than P.T. Barnum and Colonel Parker put together), he simply didn’t have the time. Evel brought in Bob Arum, who owned 75 per cent of the biggest boxing promotions company in the world, Top Rank Inc. Arum also acted as Muhammad Ali’s attorney and manager and was the recognised king of closed-circuit television promotions. Arum in turn brought in a certain Sheldon ‘Shelly’ Saltman to help with promotional duties. It was a move that would have grave consequences for Knievel some years later.

  The trio arranged an exhausting, non-jumping, promotional tour during the summer of 1974, which would see Evel take in 62 cities in just 15 days at a cost of $350,000. It was rather sensationally billed as the ‘Evel Knievel says Goodbye Tour’, and Knievel, Arum, Saltman and a select band of others flew by Learjet to all the venues, starting with the Rockefeller Center in New York on 24 June.

  It was during this tour that Knievel released more detailed plans of the upcoming event to hundreds of journalists all over the United States, as well as revealing how much money he expected to make from it. In New York, Arum presented Knievel with a cheque for $6 million – supposedly his guaranteed advance on royalties for the closed-circuit television rights alone. It was later revealed that the cheque was simply a publicity stunt and Knievel’s actual advance was more in the region of $250,000. Arum was still expecting to gross $32 million all-in from the deals relating to the jump, with Evel claiming a $10 million share, though, as optimism gave way to reality, that figure was eventually downsized to $20 million.

  Arum boasted that there had been a demand for 200,000 tickets to watch the jump live but that he’d been forced to limit sales to 50,000 by Idaho state officials. On the final day of the promotional tour on 14 July, Knievel claimed all 50,000 tickets had been snapped up the first day they went on sale, though his boast quickly proved hollow when it was revealed that the $25 tickets hadn’t even gone on sale yet.

  But the real big audience figures were expected to come through closed-circuit ticket sales. Knievel and Arum expected around two million people would pay $10 apiece to watch the show live in a two-hour broadcast to be shown in cinemas and theatres around the world – and Knievel expected a 60 per cent share of the profits, netting him $1,200,000.

  And there were so many more ways of cashing in on the jump, and Evel always made sure he never missed out on his cut of the profits. He would receive 60 per cent of camping charges (ranging from $2 to $7.50 per head); 30 per cent of the profits from the sale of T-shirts, burgers, popcorn, hot dogs and beer; and a slice of all the action going on in Twin Falls itself, where everything from Evel Knievel posters, albums, toys and baseball caps, to EK underwear and radios were being sold. If it said Evel Knievel on it, the man himself demanded a piece of the action.

  On 31 July, Knievel flew to the jump site to unveil his completed X-2 Sky Cycle to the press. He hadn’t done himself any favours by using the word ‘cycle’ to describe his bizarre creation, as many people were disappointed when they saw it bore no resemblance to a motorcycle. It could have saved a lot of criticism if Knievel had just called it what it was – a rocket.

  Bizarrely, he had become increasingly paranoid about anyone discovering the ‘secrets’ of the X-2. He employed security guards to stop anyone getting too close to the craft and told one reporter, ‘There are hundreds of guys who want to know how this Sky Cycle works, and if they found out, everyone will be into the canyonjumping game.’

  While Knievel had sat in the extremely confined cockpit of the X-2 before, he hadn’t done so with the craft in its launch position, a position of 56 degrees, which made his entry infinitely more difficult. It took the assistance of three workmen to hoist him into the machine, which would, he prayed, successfully carry him over the canyon. Sitting exactly as he would on launch day, Evel’s nerves seemed to start getting the better of him. He was probably only half-joking when he shouted to Arum from the cockpit, ‘Hey Bob. I don’t wanna do it!’, but he was deadly serious when a sponsor asked him to smile for a photograph, replying, ‘Can you think of anything funny enough for me to smile about being up here?’

  Following the press call, Bob Truax and his team performed a static firing of the X-2’s power-up system. The engine fired on the third attempt and a massive burst of steam spewed from the tailpipe, so powerful that it blasted rocks and rubble for yards in all directions, forcing Evel to take cover behind a tree. He was reported to have emerged looking pale and saying, ‘And I’m going to ride that thing? Over there?’

  The next logical step was to fire the test model X-2 over the canyon in order to assess the chances of Knievel surviving the leap. For reasons never adequately explained, the press were not informed of the test and it was carried out in secret on 25 August, just two weeks before the jump date. Like the X-1 before it, the X-2 plummeted straight down into the canyon, but there was at least a reason for this: it was only fired at half power using around 2,500 lb of thrust. Truax claimed he was more interested in testing the parachute recovery system which would help the craft glide down to a gentle landing. Had the team already decided it was mission impossible? Were they testing the chute because they suspected the craft had no chance of making it across the gap and that Knievel would inevitably drift into the canyon? It seems odd that out of two tests with two different craft, neither one was given its full head of steam to see how far it would go. Rather, with Knievel’s budget already spent and no more test rockets to fire, the team concentrated on the get-out clause – the parachute system.

  Significantly, the parachute whipped out before the X-2 had even cleared the launch ramp. There were still two weeks in which to make modifications but there could be no more test shots. Knievel had already spent his allocated budget and was unwilling to commit any more money to the project, so the next craft to be fired over the Snake River Canyon would be the last remaining X-2 – and Knievel would have to be in it.

  Bob Truax insisted that, while both craft may have plummeted into the depths of the Snake River, neither test had been a failure. ‘Well, those two didn’t really fail. We fired the first one at one-third power in order to discover if the ramp could take the punishment. The second one was fired over the rim and into the canyon on purpose. One-half power was used and we were looking to test two things – how the drag chutes would function and to see how efficient our recovery team was.’

  Successful or not, Truax admitted the jump was still a huge risk. Knievel himself obviously thought that if he was going to die in the attempt he might as well go out with a bang. During his promotional tour he had revealed his plans for a ‘last supper’ in the week leading up to the canyon jump. ‘You know what? I’m gonna try and spend a million dollars in Butte, Montana and Twin Falls, Idaho the week before I jump the canyon. A million-dollar drunk. I’m going to have the biggest party you ever saw at the Freeway Tavern in Butte. I’m going to drop one million dollars. I’m inviting Liz Taylor, the Pope, whatever the Greek husband of Jackie Kennedy calls himself, and the entire city of San Francisco. If you think Jesus had a Last Supper, wait until you see mine. I plan a party that will leave mankind breathless. I want the Pope to come. In fact, I’d pay for His Holiness to bless me before take-off time.’

  As well as inviting the Pope, Knievel extended the invite to anyone else who wanted to come along. ‘The Governor of Montana is already planning on calling in the California National Guard just to help him. The big party’s going to start at a tavern in Butte, Montana called the Freeway, and that’s where it’s gonna go – right down the freeway. I spent 25 or 30 thousand dollars in Butte when my motion picture was made there. Partying and fighting. I left town because I broke both hands. Got in lots of fights, lots of ’em. You know, come back, do a pict
ure, some guy’s jealous, says something to you. Anybody say anything to me, I’ll knock their goddamn head off. I knocked the heads off the Hell’s Angels. I’ll knock the head off any son of a bitch who opens his mouth to me.’

  But Knievel’s most outrageous promise was that he would bring along an armoured Brinks truck filled with $250,000 in cash and tip it out among his fans and fellow revellers outside the Freeway tavern. Those who were familiar with Knievel’s often idle boasts knew better than to believe him, but the more gullible were taken in and many turned up in Butte for Knievel’s last supper hoping to make it rich. Naturally, the truck never did turn up – a fact which makes a mockery of Knievel’s code of living, which was always, ‘if you say you’re gonna do something, you do it’. That was, after all, the reason he kept giving when asked why he was going to risk his life jumping the canyon; not for the money, but because he’d said he was going to do it. Knievel once claimed that the thing he was most proud of in his entire life was that he’d kept his word in attempting to jump the canyon. His word about throwing $250,000 in cash to his fans was obviously less important.

  Nevertheless, the party did go ahead, though on a much smaller scale than Evel had promised. Instead of throwing out cash, Knievel tossed out cans of beer from behind the bar in the Freeway Tavern to a few hundred revellers; spirits and wines were not on the house. The party moved on to the Acoma Lounge and Supper Club, Knievel and his entourage being driven in a police car to the venue, leaving everyone else to follow by whatever means were at their disposal. Again, Evel climbed on top of the bar and tossed out free beers, but there was still no sign of any free money and disappointment was beginning to show on the faces of more than a few who had turned out. The last supper then moved on to the Met Tavern and finally the Elmar, just a few blocks from Evel’s house. By three in the morning he had slipped off home and the party to end all parties was over. It was far from being a million-dollar blow-out, as Evel admitted years later. While he says he ‘tried’ to get through a million, he’d actually only managed to blow a few thousand dollars. It was to be the first of many disappointments surrounding the canyon jump.

  Knievel continued to promote his big moment right up until the day of the event itself. As well as his jumping tour and his promotional tour, he had appeared on every television chat show that would invite him (and most did) and had spoken to every reporter who was prepared to spread the word about what Knievel was calling the sporting event of the century.

  Finally, after seven years of dreaming and planning, boasting and bragging, people began turning up at the Idaho jump site in the days leading up to the event. But it was no family fairground audience that began to converge upon the canyon; the first arrivals were a motley band of bikers, and the locals began to fear the worst. The quiet town of Twin Falls (population 21,914 at the time) was situated just three miles from the jump site, and while some locals appreciated the boost for local business the event would surely provide, others were wary about reports of 50,000 wild motorcycle fans descending on their town. Situated 132 miles east of Boise, Twin Falls was founded in 1904 and by 1974 was a peaceful and relatively prosperous little town where the main concern that year had been the damage to local potato crops following a bout of frost in August. Agriculture had always been the chief source of income for those living in the fertile ‘Magic Valley’ and potatoes were generally of much more interest to the inhabitants of Twin Falls than Evel Knievel. But by jump week that had all begun to change as wild rumours began to circulate about the influx of people into the town. Hell’s Angels would be arriving in their thousands; it would be like Woodstock but without the atmosphere of peace and love; it would just be full of drugged-up, long-haired beatniks out to cause trouble. And what was even worse for some residents was that jump week clashed with the Magic Valley Fair and Rodeo.

  Despite the fact that no more than 50,000 were to be permitted at the jump site, rumours persisted that more than 200,000 people would turn up anyway, and who was going to stop them if they did? Twin Falls County Sheriff, Paul Corder, tried his best to play down the rumours and denied that huge numbers of biker gangs were camping just out of town, that two young girls had been raped and that hippies had been walking around town naked. He was, however, forced to admit that there had been some incidents of petty theft, although there was no proof that these had been committed by out-of-towners.

  It must have been some consolation for the residents of Twin Falls to hear that joining the hordes of rowdies would be some of the biggest celebrities in the world – at least, they would if Knievel was to be believed. He boasted that he had invited scores of celebrities along, including Elvis Presley, John Wayne, Steve McQueen, Burt Reynolds, Dustin Hoffman, Ali McGraw and Andy Williams; and that was on top of his invite to the Pope. Unsurprisingly, none of the above-mentioned were spotted cruising the streets of Twin Falls in the week leading up to the jump, or on the jump day itself for that matter. It was simply more P. T. Barnum bravado from Knievel, the ultimate shyster.

  Knievel himself was flying between Butte and the canyon site daily in the lead-up to 8 September, checking out the organisation, making last-minute refinements to the Sky Cycle, and attending to a multitude of problems which were thrown up by the scale of the project and the lack of funds which he had invested in it. It was bad enough that 50,000 people might turn up, but Knievel was still boasting of 200,000 and yet there were only 200 portable toilets built on-site and a laughable 15 public payphones. Even worse, only 65 policemen were to be brought in to keep the peace among a crowd which many feared would turn nasty. If 200,000 people did turn up, it would mean just one toilet for every thousand people, one payphone for every 13,333 people and one policeman per 3,076 people.

  Sheriff Corder seemed unconcerned, however, claiming he had 600 National Guardsmen on alert as a back-up force, 250 of which would have full riot gear should things turn nasty. Knievel himself had organised his own security crew, but his overheard description of them as his ‘goon squad’ seemed more apt than the term ‘security’, given their credentials. The squad was made up of ordinary people who had arrived at the site early, had little else to do, and wanted to get closer to Knievel. Several more were hired through an advertisement in the local press. They were paid $2.50 an hour and many carried guns until Sheriff Corder stepped in and pointed out it was illegal.

  Knievel was ultimately responsible for everything that happened on-site, from security to fencing and from TV rights to fast-food stalls. He had never found it easy to delegate responsibility, and, while he should have been concentrating on what was to be the most important jump of his career, he was on-site daily trying to deal with what seemed like a thousand things at once. Rock promoter Don Branker, who was involved in promoting the event, explained the situation. ‘Top Rank aren’t exactly running the show. Evel is. All of it. Every single detail. He doesn’t trust anybody about anything. He wants to do everything himself and his response to everything is money. That’s his only concern – money. How many dollars will it cost? And how many dollars will it bring in?’

  One particular problem Knievel had to face was the growing fear that thousands of people straining for a better glimpse of the event could end up being pushed over the canyon rim to plummet to their deaths. A fence had been built to counter such an event but it was woefully inadequate. The six-foot-high chain-link fence stood some 40 feet back from the canyon rim and ran for 1,500 feet along it, but as its posts were not anchored in concrete it would have been all too easy to push over, despite the planned presence of security guards to protect it. Branker soon became horrified by Knievel’s tightfisted approach to security. ‘I tried to talk him into putting another fence along the rim for Sunday but he won’t go for that. “One fence is enough,” he says, and he keeps talking about the security men who’ll be up here. “The fence costs too much,” he says. I tried to argue with him, told him that it should be carte blanche for security, but he just said, “It’s my show, not yours.”�
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  There were other aspects of Knievel’s character that Branker objected to, and he wasn’t shy in admitting it. ‘After I’d worked with him a while, though, I started noticing certain things. He has a real tendency to exaggerate, more than any person I’ve ever met. In addition to that, he himself believes everything he says. Where I come from, that’s a pathological liar.’

  Knievel was even responsible for hiring people to pick up rubbish and pulled off one particularly humiliating stroke to humble one of his motorcycle-jumping imitators. Bob ‘Wicked’ Ward idolised Knievel and had stood in for him at a jump in Georgia two years previously when Knievel was injured. Knievel had always despised any form of competition, believing that since he had practically invented the ‘sport’ of motorcycle jumping it was his domain and his domain alone. When Ward approached his hero wide-eyed, asking for a job at the site, Knievel obliged – by paying him $2 an hour to pick up litter.

  Gleefully, Ward took up the post, and in between bouts of litter-picking wasted no opportunity to tell people he was Evel Knievel’s understudy; that he was ready to take over from the master should the master be killed. These boasts seemed to have escaped Knievel’s ears for a time, but when Ward went one step further and painted ‘Wicked Ward: Evel Knievel’s Understudy’ on the side of his car and cruised up to the jump site basking in his imagined glory, Knievel went crazy. Spotting him in the crowd, Knievel stormed up to Ward waving his cane and yelling, ‘You sonofabitch! I want your ass out of this town by sundown. Don’t ever let me see your face in a town where I’m working again!’ Ward reportedly left town in tears.