I wasn’t the only kid there — the stands were full of kids.  Kids and their dads.  And I was sitting there right next to mine, waiting impatiently.  We really didn’t care much about the race.  We didn’t care about the monster trucks.  We came for a motorcycle.

One motorcycle.  One rider. 

And I forget how many school buses.

Finally the time came.  The announcer spent five minutes building it up.  A dark haired rider in wild red-white-and-blue revved his motorcycle to an insane pitch, sent it flying across the grounds, hurtling up an impossibly high ramp…

…and flew…  …flew…  ……FLEW…….

…above the top of all those big yellow school buses!  He landed perfectly on the other side, choreographed with fireworks and the hysterical screams of adulation.  I remember we left right after that, my ears ringing and my throat sore.

Evil Knievel was one crazy rebel, and in so many ways, a very pure American.

Amazing he lasted to 69 years old, after all the abuse that body took.  Simply amazing. 

RIP Evil.  Jump those wide, weird canyons on your winged mount on the Other Side.

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