I learned how to ride a bicycle in 1977 when I was six years old. Mine was a Western Flyer model with metallic-flake purple paint, gooseneck handlebars (with purple and white tassels), a banana seat, and a racing slick on the back. It was a gorgeous street bike built for cruising down the boulevard while looking good doing it. Although it was called a Western Flyer, it was never meant to fly. Yet fly it did.
Like most young boys in the 1970s, I idolized Evel Knievel, the legendary daredevil from Butte, Montana, who became a global sensation after spectacularly crashing his motorcycle while jumping the fountains at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas in 1967. Evel’s bikes, heavy street motorcycles including Nortons, Triumphs, and his iconic Harley-Davidsons, were not meant to fly either, yet fly they did.
Though Evel’s injury-riddled body caused him to stop jumping by the time I had my own “stunt bike”, footage of Knievel’s jumps re-aired regularly on television during my formative years, which gave me and kids across the United States plenty of inspiration for performing our own feats of daring. The fact that Evel broke dozens of bones in his body and nearly died several times did nothing to deter us from trying to emulate our hero. In fact, it only encouraged us. If Evel could survive plummeting into the Snake River Canyon, then surely, we could survive smashing into a parked car.
Last weekend, three of my childhood friends and I embarked upon a pilgrimage to Topeka, Kansas, to visit the Evel Knievel Museum. For my entire life, I operated under the assumption that the state of Kansas had nothing going for it. Until 2017, when the museum opened, I would have been right. But now I am reluctantly forced to admit that the Sunflower State has one destination that is indeed worth visiting.
Wearing a 1970s vintage red and white checked western ensemble, complete with a butterfly collar and a white cowboy hat, belt, and boots, I strutted into the museum dressed as if I were a contemporary of Evel’s. (I had also trimmed my facial hair into a Fu Manchu mustache with mutton chop sideburns.) I was a vision I tell you. A vision! The museum staff agreed that Evel himself would have approved of my flair.
My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed reading about Evel’s life and watching clips of his horrifying wipe outs. Seeing Evel’sbikes, leathers, helmets, and hauler, as well as tons of assorted memorabilia brought back fond memories of our youth. A huge display of classic toys gave us a megadose of nostalgia, and a virtual reality ride and jump on a vintage Harley brought equally huge smiles to all of our faces.
In the gift shop, I bought the toy I always wanted but never owned as a kid, an Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle. It is an exact reproduction of the original unit that many people regard as the greatest action toy of all time. Yes, I am 49 years old. Yes, I did build a cardboard ramp as soon as I got home. And yes, I did launch Toy Evel and his Harley off of it successfully. Many times.
It was totally awesome. And it was worth the 40-year wait.
My friends and I first started talking about taking a road trip to the museum in March of 2020—just exactly when the museum and the rest of the world shut down. We were disappointed to have to postpone our trip, but we knew that as soon as conditions allowed, we would make it happen. With two doses of Covid vaccine in our arms and the worst of the pandemic behind us, John, Doug, Eric, and I finally made it to the museum.
It was totally awesome. And it was worth the 14-month wait.
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