Part 3: Jumping Into History!

Back in the early seventies, Evel Knievel ruled. He was the ultimate testosterone rush before I even knew what the hell testosterone was.

Of course, everyone wanted to mimic the crazy sonofabitch, including some adults. We heard a story of a guy somewhere that got completely wasted and tried to jump his Harley over his wife’s car using a piece of plywood propped up against the car. Needless to say, when the weight of the Harley hit the plywood, it snapped, sending him into the car, then into the hospital. Some people have no business drinking.

Hopefully he turned his testicles into gravel so he couldn’t breed the “The spawn of Stupid”.

Anyway, the Evel Knievel craze had hit the young and impressionable kids on Thrall Court. This was an unfortunate turn of events for the parents there, and across the nation I imagine…But a boon in business for the hospitals and companies that supplied cast plaster and sutures.

Before long we were jumping homemade ramps made out of, well, plywood and two by fours. At first we just jumped into the air with no objects underneath. Then, we worked our way up from air to a couple of kids to a few garbage cans.

Another kid on the street, Brian, decided he wanted to go first when we built the “Big Ramp” to jump two cans. As he raced toward the ramp from the top of the hill he must have had second thoughts because at the last minute he slammed on the brakes. He was way too close to the ramp and subsequently just kinda rolled off the top of the ramp and into the garbage can. He wasn’t hurt too bad, except for the fact he racked his balls on the bike. Besides banging the twins up and bruising his pride, he really dented the crap out of the galvanized can. I can’t remember whose can it was but I bet they weren’t amused.

I decided I wanted to try taking on the two cans. I went to the top of the hill near Hanger Street, turned around and stopped. The ramp looked like it was about the size of a matchbox. I was thinking there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to be able to make that jump, but I had to try. At six years old two trash cans may as well have been two cars. After going head to head with the ‘68 Catalina, though, I had a reputation to keep.

I then thought about Evel Knievel and remembered him talking about one of his jumps where he had crashed and broke a few bones. He told the sportscaster that he didn’t have enough speed when he hit the ramp, which caused him to come up short. I knew that I had to have speed…and lots of it.

I started off and cranked that bike with all I had. I was hoping that the combination of my immense leg power and the grade of the hill would propel me to victory. I was cranking like hell, white skinny legs just a blur, and focused my attention completely on the ramp. I could see nothing else because of tunnel vision.

As I got about three-quarters of the way to my destination, I hit a rock that was in the middle of the street, causing my bike to start wobbling out of control. Everything went into slow motion at that moment. I thought, “Man, I’m in some really deep shit here”, followed by, “Man, this was really a stupid idea”.

You know how they say your life passes before your eyes right before you die? My life was on a wide screen, in stereo and in Technicolor.

As I hit the pavement, I went over the bike face first into the pavement. The only thing I remembered was the wobbling of the bike, BIG blank space, and getting up off the ground, dazed and bleeding like shit. That was my first taste of being really hurt. Man, I was screwed!

I immediately went into the house, with all the dipshits who concocted the crazy idea in tow, and told my mom I needed a band-aid. When she looked up, all she could say was “oh, shit…SHIT!”. She rushed me into the bathroom and proceeded to clean me up with a wash cloth, then Merthiolate. I looked in the mirror and saw that I had ripped my top lip open, as well as having road rash to the rest of my face.

We went to Dr. Austins office at John Peter Smith Hospital in Fort Worth, our family doctor. When Dr. Austin saw me, he asked my mom what the hell happened. She told him what had happened, adding that we were copying some crazy guy on TV who rode a motorcycle was trying to kill himself. He looked at me and said, “Evel Knievel fan, huh?”. Anyway, he looked me over, stitched my lip up and told my mom that I would live to fight another day.

I would, indeed, fight another day.

About two months later, I was ready to try the jump again. During my healing time, Albert Dunlap invented the Redneck Chopper. Any of you who are old enough to remember them, the bikes back in the seventies had banana seats with sissy-bars, butterfly handlebars, and curved forks on the front. Albert, who obviously by now was following in his dad’s footprints in tinkering with everything he owned, had figured out that if you cut the forks off of one bike, they would fit right over another bike’s forks, making a copper bike – redneck style. He had cut the forks from an old bike, removed the front wheel off his bike and hammered the cut forks over top of his. He now had a Redneck Chopper.

I decided to try it out, by jumping a ramp of course. Albert didn’t think it was a good idea. He thought the forks would scrape the ramp and bend them. I convinced him I wouldn’t tear up his bike and if I did I would fix it. Apprehensively, he consented.

Once again I went to the top of the hill, but as I went this time I made sure there were no rocks impeding my success. I got to the top and made my turn. I knew ol’ Evel always said a prayer right before he jumped, asking God to deliver him safely through the jump.

I prayed that Albert wouldn’t beat my ass if I wrecked his chopper.

I started cranking (Not quite as fast as the last time) and as I hit the ramp, the forks snapped in half right where they were hammered together. There was no bending whatsoever, just SNAP!

Off the bike I went again, this time over the freakin’ handlebars. Now, if the first time nearly killing myself got me into trouble, I was dead for sure this time, either from the crash or from my mom beating my ass to a bloody pulp. The last thing she had told me from the previous wreck was, “I don’t want you doin’ that shit anymore, your gonna kill yourself”.

The crash resulted in almost the same injuries as the last, with one exception: The left handlebar, which had a worn grip exposing the end, went into my arm just below the inside of the elbow.

Once again I made the journey into the house to tell mom. Same reaction, same trip to the hospital, ass-beating as an added bonus…

After that, I decided that although getting hurt wasn’t that bad since I had beaten the Grim Reaper three times now, I was retiring due to the fact that my mom brought me pretty close to death with that ass-whoopin’. Besides, I didn’t want her to take my bike away permanently and lock me in my room until I was eighteen.

As they say, pain goes away but defeat always stays. In time I healed and, after much contemplation, I decided to resume jumping. I just made sure in the future that I was more realistic about my limitations and that of the bike. I also did my homework before trying any jump.

Besides, there were other things on the horizon, more tempting and exciting, that would beckon me…