“When you die,” Evel Knievel told me in a 1998 interview, “I think your spirit goes on.”
The infamous stuntman’s body gave up the ghost today, but somewhere, I think, his spirit has gone on. Probably to a golf course.
When I met Knievel that summer day in 1998, at a country club in his native Butte, Mont., he was gasping, choking, spitting and stumbling around — until he got a golf club in his gnarled hands. Then his body would quiet down, he would draw the club silently back, and stroke gently forward. The ball would rocket away and invariably drop mere feet from the hole. Gobbling pain pills like after dinner mints, he shot an 81 — and fleeced three playing partners out of $1,500.
“I was in a wheelchair for several months, until yesterday,” he chortled.
The problem that took the old daredevil was liver failure. Somewhere along his rocky road of failed jumps, crashed motorcycles and barroom brawls, he had contracted hepatitis C. The disease nearly killed him that summer. But he somehow finagled a liver transplant soon after that. “At best,” he said at the time, “the transplant is a 10-year reprieve.” He wasn’t far off in his guesstimate.
He just turned 69 on October 17, but he looked closer to 100. He claimed to have broken every bone in his body, several times. I don’t know if that was true, but his body and every limb on it was crooked, twisted and bumpy as a motocross track.
Knievel stopped riding motorcycles years ago, after one, embarrassingly, fell on him in the parking lot of his Clearwater, Fla., apartment. He was trapped under it for hours, until a passersby heard his weakening cries for help.
But he still kept a couple of his fancy show bikes. One, he let me ride once. It was a custom chopper finished in gold chrome and a “Captain America” style red-white-and-blue paint job. He even gave me his helmet to wear. Riding around Butte, everyone must have thought I was him, because people waved, honked horns, came out of stores and gawked.
Knievel and I stayed in touch over the years after that interview. Once, he and his girlfriend Krystal Kennedy showed up at my house in southern California in a motor coach, hoping to camp out in my driveway for a few weeks. He said he was running from “the government” who he claimed was still trying to collect an old tax lien. He dealt in cash only, he said, and insisted any of his many endorsement deals be paid out in non-sequential bills. He told me once he had $3 million in cash with him. Since I never saw any of it — and I questioned whether he really had much money at all — I guess it would have been stashed in his motorhome. He didn’t seem to own a car then.
A few years earlier when he still did own a few fancy cars, he had been picked up a couple of times for traffic violations — and was found to have dozens of unregistered firearms in his trunk and under the driver’s seat. He was sentenced to 200 hours of community service for all that. He claimed to have robbed a bank and had never been caught. He’d gone to prison once for beating up his former publicist with a baseball bat. Asked upon his release from the penitentiary if he was sorry, Knievel said, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t kill the guy.”
Knievel had plenty of enemies. Some of the people who hated him most were probably those closest to him. Ms. Kennedy, 31 years his junior, once got a restraining order against him, then married him. Then divorced him. Got another restraining order. And then took care of him for years as his health deteriorated. One of his golf partners that day I followed him claimed that he’d once caught Knievel with his wife. “I hate the guy for that,” he said, “but I still can’t pass up a round of golf with him.” Knievel was estranged from his four children most of the 10 years I knew him, and off and on, from the love of his life, his first wife Linda.
Most people will remember Knievel for his storied jumps: crashing at the Caesars Palace fountain in 1968, the disastrous attempt to fly across the Snake River in a Skycycle in 1974, or nearly killing himself at London’s Wembley Stadium after clearing 13 buses in 1975. He’d show up drunk for many jumps — and ride like a champion.
He was like a ticking bomb. You never knew what was going to happen next with him. In between blowups, however, he was a natural athlete who had mastered many sports, an accomplished oil painter and watercolorist. He had a love-hate relationship with religion. He loved women, children and guns, “not necessarily in that order.” He had acted as himself in a couple of successful films (one, “Viva Knievel,” is still a late-night cable fave) and he had been the subject of a few others.
Knievel was the most complex man I’ve ever known — although I don’t claim to have known him. He was someone you hoped you would never cross. But a blood brother unless and until you did. He always told me I should call him by his real name, Bobby.
Beyond the intriguingly gifted, private man that I remember, how should the world remember this larger-than-life daredevil? He was seemingly fearless, driven to try stunts that were — admit it — astonishingly stupid and pointless. But as a P.T. Barnum-caliber showman, he made the outcome seem somehow relevant and made millions care about what happened to him. He had an amazing, unfathomable need to be a real-life superhero.
But what a price he paid, only to be proven a mere mortal, time and time again. Perhaps his mortality is what made his fans adore him so. He failed so many times, so spectacularly and so publicly, that he ended up instead the ultimate antihero.