An interview with Robert “Evel” Knievel, the adrenaline junkie, stunt performer, and daredevil who became a motorcycle cowboy and inspired generations of children to leave the earth and use their bicycles to fly. His groundbreaking, record-breaking, and bone-breaking career paved the way for today’s X Games and Freestyle motocross.
In this episode, I’ll be interviewing Evel Knievel, the ultimate stuntman and crazy psycho who defied death on a daily basis. Over and over, he zoomed his motorcycle at great speed up ramps and flew through the air, over rows of cars and even school buses, often crashing and breaking multiple bones in the process… yet somehow, he never died from his wounds.
In this interview, we’re both sitting in an empty arena right after he completed yet another wild motorcycle stunt. In this case, no cigars are needed: there’s plenty of smoke still lingering from the air from all the pyrotechnics that exploded when he hit the air and from his motorcycle’s tailpipe.
Let’s see what he has to say about what he does, what drives him to do it, and why he never stopped his crazy stunts despite all the pain and suffering.
Ladies and gentlemen… Evel Knievel!
Ron Stauffer: Alright, let's get started. First of all, what is your real name, and how did you get this crazy nickname, Evil Knievel?
Well, my real name’s Robert Craig Knievel, but the nickname “Evel” came from a night I spent in jail back in Butte, Montana. They threw me in the same cell as a guy named “Awful Knofel.” The jailer thought it was funny to call me “Evil Knievel” to match him. It stuck, and the rest is history.
Ron Stauffer: Wait, what? Hold on, you were in jail? For what?
Oh yeah, that story always gets a reaction. I did spend a night in jail back in Butte, Montana, when I was a young guy. It wasn’t for anything too serious—just a little mischief. I got picked up for reckless driving, which shouldn’t surprise you, given who I am. I was always a bit of a wild one, even before the stunts.
The jailer that night stuck me in a cell with a guy named “Awful Knofel,” and he thought it’d be funny to call me “Evil Knievel” to match the rhyme. It stuck, but I changed the spelling to “Evel” later because I didn’t want to sound like a full-blown villain. It’s kind of fitting, though—I’ve always been a little on the edge of what’s right and wrong, daring the world to keep up with me.
Ron Stauffer: Did you have any other scrapes with the law throughout your lifetime?
Oh, I had my fair share of run-ins with the law over the years, no doubt about it. Most of them were tied to my wild streak and larger-than-life personality. There were a few arrests for things like reckless driving and disturbing the peace when I was younger—nothing too serious. But later in life, I got into some bigger trouble.
One of the most infamous incidents was in 1977 when I got into a fight with my former publicist, Sheldon Saltman. He wrote a book about me that I didn’t like, and, well, I let my temper get the better of me. I ended up attacking him with a baseball bat, which landed me in legal hot water and actually got me sentenced to six months in jail, though I didn’t serve the full time.
That said, most of my scrapes with the law were tied to my fiery personality, not anything malicious. I lived life with the throttle wide open, and sometimes, that meant stepping over the line. But I owned up to it and kept moving forward, just like I did with everything else in life.
Ron Stauffer: Where are you from, and how did you first get your start riding motorcycles? Were you a normal kid like me who grew up jumping off of bicycle ramps out in the front yard?
I'm from Butte, Montana, a mining town, tough as nails, just like me. As a kid and from a young age, I was always pulling stunts. I started out like any kid, on a bicycle, jumping over crates, rocks, whatever I could find. Once I got my first motorcycle, though, that's when everything clicked.
I started popping wheelies, riding fast, and trying jumps with no real plan. It was all guts and instinct. Eventually, I figured out I could turn this wild streak into a show. That's when I started dreaming of bigger jumps, ones that would leave people breathless. It wasn't just writing anymore. It was about making history.
Ron Stauffer: Who were some of your influences? I grew up in the 1980s, if we were jumping our bicycles in the front yard off of plywood ramps, and we were, and saying, hey, look at me, I'm Evel Knievel, who were you looking at as inspiration when you were a child?
Well, when I was a kid, I didn’t have anyone doing what I ended up doing—no big motorcycle stunt guys to look up to. My influences were more rugged types, like daredevils from the circus or the rodeo cowboys I saw growing up. I admired anyone who pushed themselves to the edge, who had guts. Guys like Joie Chitwood, who did car stunt shows, were big for me later on. But really, I just wanted to be the guy people would look up to. I didn’t just want to jump off ramps—I wanted to fly further than anyone thought possible.
Ron Stauffer: What did your parents think about that? You must have absolutely given them a heart attack.
Oh, my parents were beside themselves half the time. My mom worried constantly. She hated seeing me come home scraped up and bruised, and she knew I wasn't going to stop. My dad, he was tougher about it, probably figured I was either going to make it big or wipe out trying.
I think I gave them more heartburn than they'd care to admit. But in the end, they couldn't hold me back. I had a fire in me to push limits, and I think deep down they understood that. I wasn't going to live a quiet, safe life.
I think they saw that I had this drive to do something bigger than myself, even if it scared them. They might not have agreed with all my choices, but I think they were proud that I was chasing something no one else dared to do. It wasn't just stunts, it was about proving that anything was possible if you had the guts to go for it.
Ron Stauffer: What were some of the first big stunts that you did, and at what age did you actually get a motorcycle? Were you doing big, crazy, dangerous stunts before you got a motorcycle, or only afterwards?
I got my first motorcycle when I was about thirteen. But even before that, I was already pulling stunts on my bicycle—jumping over crates, barrels, anything I could stack up. The danger didn’t start with the motorcycle; it just got bigger. My first real stunt on a motorcycle was jumping over a twenty-foot box of rattlesnakes and two mountain lions—I was in my twenties then. Crazy, right? But that’s what hooked me. It wasn’t about the size of the jump; it was the thrill of surviving it.
Ron Stauffer: That sounds ridiculous. You're saying you literally had live animals, like inside crates? Did you borrow them from a zoo or something?
No, no crates—these animals were live and out in the open! I borrowed them from a local animal trainer. The rattlesnakes were in a clear box, but the mountain lions were standing right there, tethered on chains. It was part of the spectacle—who’s crazy enough to jump over wild animals on a motorcycle? Me, of course. People thought I was nuts, but that’s what sold tickets. It wasn’t just a stunt; it was pure showmanship.
Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's fascinating. So, this bizarre obsession you had with spectacle, was it mostly about bragging rights and being just a tough guy, or was it about making money?
It was both, no question. I mean, yeah, I wanted to be the toughest, the guy nobody could outdo. But let’s be real—showmanship doesn’t pay the bills unless you know how to sell it. I wasn’t just jumping for bragging rights; I was building a career. The bigger the spectacle, the bigger the crowd, and the more money I made. But at the heart of it, it wasn’t just about the money—it was about proving I could pull off the impossible and making sure everyone remembered my name.
Ron Stauffer: At what point did you start charging? Did you say you were 13 when you started doing these crazy jumps on your motorcycle? Were you charging people money for that?
No, I wasn’t charging people at thirteen—that was just me being a wild kid, trying to impress anyone who’d watch. But by the time I hit my twenties, I started realizing I could turn this into something bigger. My first real paid stunt was in 1966, in Moses Lake, Washington. I put together my own show, rented a venue, and started charging admission. That’s when it all clicked—I could take my crazy ideas, package them as entertainment, and make money doing what I loved.
Ron Stauffer: It's hard to imagine that something like that could even happen today. We live in such a risk-averse culture here in America with so much liability and legal issues and it's a litigious society. Was there a point where people started telling you, you can't do that because you might hurt yourself or other people? In other words, was the liability always something that you could accept and the venues you booked were okay with that or did they ever say, no way, that's way too crazy?
You’re absolutely right—what I did would be nearly impossible today with all the lawyers, insurance, and red tape. Back then, liability wasn’t the monster it is now. Sure, people told me I was crazy—friends, family, even venue owners—but that never stopped me. Venues weren’t always thrilled about the risks, but I convinced them the crowds and ticket sales were worth it. I carried the liability on my own shoulders. If I wiped out, it was on me. I accepted the danger as part of the job. I think that’s what made it so exciting for the audience—knowing it was real, raw, and anything could happen. No safety nets.
Ron Stauffer: You literally never had any sort of safety measures at all? Was it always literally just you jumping over crazy things and if you fell you had the potential to die every single time?
That’s right—no safety nets, no harnesses, no “Plan B.” It was just me, my bike, and the ramp. Every time I went up, I knew I was risking my life. That was the whole point. The danger made it real, and people came to see if I’d make it—or not. Of course, I had a good understanding of physics, speed, and angles, but let’s face it, no amount of planning could guarantee I’d walk away. I crashed plenty, broke more bones than I can count, but I kept going. If you take away the risk, you take away the magic.
Ron Stauffer: Well, let's talk about that. How many broken bones do you think you had in your entire lifetime? And at some point, did you have doctors or medical professionals telling you, look, you got to stop doing this or you're going to die or your bones aren't going to heal anymore?
I hold the record for most broken bones—over four hundred in my lifetime. That’s not an exaggeration; it’s a fact. I’ve fractured my skull, ribs, arms, legs—you name it. I had doctors telling me to stop all the time. But I didn’t listen. Every cast, every surgery, every hospital stay—it was all just part of the price I paid to do what I loved. I figured, if I stopped, I’d be giving up on who I was. I’d rather limp through life doing what I was born to do than sit on the sidelines, safe and sound.
Ron Stauffer: That's crazy. What was the average amount of recovery time you needed each time you fell down and broke your bones? And how many bones did you typically break when you did crash?
The recovery time really depended on the crash. Sometimes I’d be back at it in a few weeks; other times, it took months. One of my worst crashes was at Caesars Palace in nineteen sixty-seven—I was in a coma for twenty-nine days, and it took months to recover fully. As for the number of broken bones in a single crash? It could be anywhere from a couple to over a dozen, depending on how bad I landed. Each jump was a gamble, and when I lost, my body paid the price. But I never let it keep me down for long—I had to get back on the bike. Always.
Ron Stauffer: That sounds incredibly painful. What was your relationship to pain? Were you impervious to pain or did you somehow in a strange way enjoy it?
Oh, I felt every ounce of the pain—don’t let anyone tell you I didn’t. I wasn’t impervious, and I sure as hell didn’t enjoy it. But I learned to live with it. Pain was just the price of doing what I did. I think I had a higher tolerance for it than most people, but more than that, I refused to let it control me. The adrenaline of performing, the roar of the crowd—that was stronger than any pain. And honestly, every time I got hurt and got back up, it proved I was tougher than the pain. That’s what kept me going.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, so again, talking about pain, is there any time that you thought to yourself, this particular jump isn't worth it? For example, did you ever book something and then cancel because you decided to back out of it at the end or right before it began?
No, I never backed out of a jump once it was booked. That just wasn’t in my DNA. Even if I was hurt, even if the conditions weren’t perfect, I went through with it. There were times I thought, This one might be too much, but I always told myself, If I don’t do it, I’m not Evel Knievel. The closest I ever came to calling it off was Snake River Canyon in nineteen seventy-four. I knew the odds of making it were slim, but I still went for it. That’s what people came to see—a man willing to risk it all. If I backed out, the legend would’ve died right there.
Ron Stauffer: Did you seriously think before every jump, this could be my last one, and I could die, and I'm okay with it?
Absolutely, every single time. I knew the risks better than anyone. Before every jump, I’d think, This could be it. But I was okay with that. I accepted it. I didn’t want to die, of course—who does?—but I knew if it happened, I’d go out doing what I was born to do. I wasn’t reckless; I calculated every jump. But I also knew no amount of planning could guarantee I’d land safely. That’s what made it thrilling—not just for me, but for the crowd. The possibility of death gave it meaning. If I was going to live, I wanted to live all in.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, so let's talk about panning your jumps. Did you ever consult with mathematicians or physicists or people like that who were quote-unquote experts to help you calculate speeds and trajectory and all that? Or did you just simply eyeball it and say, That looks good enough.
It was a mix of both, honestly. I didn’t have physicists or mathematicians on my payroll, but I did talk to experts now and then to get an idea of things like trajectory and speed. For the most part, though, I trusted my gut and my experience. I’d measure the distance, size up the ramp angles, and figure out how fast I needed to go. A lot of it came down to feel—years of riding and knowing what my bike could handle. It wasn’t all guesswork, but it sure as hell wasn’t a science lab. It was me, my instincts, and a hell of a lot of nerve.
Ron Stauffer: What about practicing? If you do an unbelievably ambitious jump, is that something that you practice completely beforehand, once or twice or more times? Or did you just say, you know what, I'm just going to do this all live without any practice at all and see if I can land it in front of all these people?
Oh, I almost never practiced the big jumps. What you saw was what you got—live, first attempt, no do-overs. If I was going to risk my neck, it had to be in front of the crowd. That’s what they came for. I mean, sure, I’d ride the bike around to get a feel for the ramp and check the speed I needed, but full-on rehearsals? Never. Practicing a jump meant risking the same danger without the payoff of an audience. I wanted that energy, that adrenaline from the crowd, to push me through. It was all or nothing every time.
Ron Stauffer: Going back to the concept of risk and that sort of thing, I know at one point you used to say things like, hey kids, don't try this at home, right? And I think, wasn't that something that took off all over the place, meaning all kinds of television shows that had crazy, wild action would have some sort of disclaimer at the front that said, kids, don't try this at home? Are you the one who started that?
Yeah, that’s right—I was one of the first to say, Hey kids, don’t try this at home. It wasn’t just a catchphrase; it was a real warning. I knew kids were out there jumping off ramps on their bikes, pretending to be me. Hell, I probably inspired half the broken bones in the country! But I didn’t want anyone getting seriously hurt thinking they could pull off what I was doing. My stunts weren’t just crazy—they were dangerous, and I was a professional who accepted the risks. That phrase caught on, and now you see it everywhere. But yeah, I started it. Evel Knievel, keeping kids a little safer, one warning at a time.
Ron Stauffer: Was that an idea that you came up with or was that something that maybe a sponsor or a television station required you to say before you did your jump?
That was my idea, straight from me. No one told me to say it; no sponsor or TV station pushed it on me. I saw how many kids were idolizing me, trying to copy my stunts, and it worried me. I didn’t want them to get themselves killed or seriously hurt thinking they could do what I did without the experience—or the scars—to back it up. So I started saying, “Don’t try this at home” because I wanted to inspire kids, not endanger them. It came from a place of responsibility, believe it or not.
Ron Stauffer: That's interesting, though, because if you look at yourself as a sort of role model, wouldn't the natural reaction of children who looked up to you say— let me rephrase. Wouldn't the natural reaction of children who see you on TV be to do exactly that and say, hey, let me ride my bicycle off the roof or something like that? Is that what you wanted? How could someone be inspired by you without endangering themselves?
You’re right—it’s a fine line. I knew kids were going to try to copy me, no matter what I said. That’s just human nature, especially for kids who see someone like me and think, I want to be fearless too. I didn’t want to stop kids from dreaming big or pushing their limits, but I wanted them to understand the difference between being inspired and being reckless. What I wanted was for them to take that daredevil spirit and apply it to something meaningful—something they were passionate about. You can take risks in life without risking your neck, you know? It’s about channeling that energy the right way.
Ron Stauffer: You were kind of a, weirdly, a proponent of motorcycle riders and bicycle riders wearing helmets, right? I mean, it seems kind of weird that you were apparently so obsessive about, quote-unquote, being safe, even though you were probably one of the most dangerous men who ever rode on a bike or a motorcycle, right?
Yeah, it does seem a little ironic, doesn’t it? Here I was, risking my life every time I got on my bike, but I was a big believer in helmets and safety gear. I learned early on how important a helmet was—without one, I wouldn’t have survived some of those crashes. I’d seen what could happen to riders who didn’t wear helmets, and it wasn’t pretty. So, I made a point of always wearing mine, and I wanted to set that example for kids and anyone else watching.
It wasn’t about pretending what I did was safe—it wasn’t—but even in the midst of all the danger, there were ways to give yourself a fighting chance. I used to tell kids, “If you’re going to ride, wear your helmet.” It didn’t matter if you were Evel Knievel jumping buses or just a kid riding down the street—your head’s too important to lose. I think that message resonated because, yeah, I was dangerous, but I wasn’t stupid. Wearing a helmet was the one thing I wouldn’t gamble on.
Ron Stauffer: What about adrenaline? People use the term adrenaline junkie sometimes. Do you think you were addicted to adrenaline?
Oh, absolutely, I was an adrenaline junkie, no doubt about it. That rush you get right before the jump—that moment when the world narrows down to you, your bike, and the ramp—it’s like nothing else. It’s pure, raw, electric. I craved it. But it wasn’t just the adrenaline; it was the whole experience. The roar of the crowd, the danger, the feeling of defying the odds—it all fed into it. Adrenaline was part of the high, but it was also about proving to myself and the world that I could do the impossible. That’s a powerful addiction.
Ron Stauffer: Would you call what you did gambling in a certain sense? And if so, would you say that you had a personality that was vulnerable to gambling? Meaning, did you also gamble financially in other ways? Because you were certainly gambling with your life to a certain extent, right?
Yeah, you could definitely call what I did a form of gambling—every jump was a roll of the dice. I gambled with my life, my body, and my reputation every time I got on that bike. But I wasn’t reckless about it. I calculated the risks, even if the odds weren’t always in my favor. It was a gamble, but it wasn’t blind luck—I bet on my skills and my guts.
As for financial gambling, yeah, I dabbled in it. I bet on myself in business, took risks with sponsorships and shows. I even spent some time at the tables in Vegas. But my biggest gamble was always the jumps, and I guess you could say my personality thrived on that thrill, whether it was in the air or at the bank. It’s just who I was—always pushing my chips all in.
Ron Stauffer: So talking of sponsors, who were some of your sponsors and did you struggle to find sponsors? I'm trying to imagine a company sponsoring you and then a crowd watching you fall to your death. How often did that come up and was it a struggle for you to find sponsors?
Finding sponsors wasn’t always easy, especially early on. I mean, who wants their name tied to a guy who might not walk away from his next stunt? But once I proved I could draw a crowd and get people talking, sponsors started lining up. Some of the big names included Harley-Davidson and Ideal Toys—they made that Evel Knievel stunt cycle that every kid had in the seventies. That thing was a goldmine.
Still, some sponsors were nervous about the risks. They didn’t want their brand associated with a fatal accident. I had to sell them on the spectacle, the excitement, and the fact that people couldn’t look away. They weren’t just backing a guy on a motorcycle; they were backing a legend in the making. But yeah, every jump carried that risk, and not every sponsor had the stomach for it.
Ron Stauffer: Were there any things that you tried to do but sponsors said we're not going to support you in or were there any venues that said we're not going to allow you to do that here on our you know on our property?
Oh, definitely. There were times when sponsors or venues flat-out refused to get involved. Some jumps were just too risky or too wild for them to want their name attached. For example, a few sponsors backed out of the Snake River Canyon jump—I mean, strapping myself into a rocket-powered bike to leap a canyon? That was too much for some folks. They didn’t want to deal with the potential fallout, literally and figuratively, if I didn’t make it.
As for venues, yeah, I had a few turn me down, especially early on. Some were worried about liability or didn’t believe I could pull off the stunts. Others thought the spectacle was too crazy or dangerous for their crowd. But for every no, I found someone willing to take the gamble with me. If a venue or sponsor didn’t believe in the dream, I kept moving until I found one that did. That’s how I kept the show rolling.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's go into your mind a little bit. If you would, put me inside your brain. Give me two scenarios. Let's say you've just landed a jump, and you succeeded, and you're feeling good. What did that feel like for you? And then, conversely, let's take me there to that moment when you failed as well. What did that feel like?
Alright, let’s start with the success. Picture this: I’ve just landed the jump, the bike hits the ground perfectly, and I keep it upright. The roar of the crowd is deafening, and every ounce of fear and doubt melts away. It feels like I’ve just conquered the impossible. My heart’s pounding, my body’s electric, and there’s this rush—this overwhelming pride that I did what no one else dared to do. It’s like flying and landing safely on the edge of a cliff. Nothing in the world compares to that moment.
Now, for the failures. Imagine the opposite. I’m mid-air, and I already know I’m not going to make it. There’s this split second of dread, knowing the landing’s going to hurt like hell. When I crash, it’s instant pain—bones breaking, the bike slamming down, the crowd gasping. Lying there, I’d feel the weight of failure—not just the physical agony, but knowing I let down the people who believed in me. But even in that pain, part of me would think, I’ll get up. I’ll heal. And I’ll do it better next time. The failures hurt, but they fueled me just as much as the successes.
Ron Stauffer: I saw a video of you one time where you crashed at some county fair or something like that. And then you were helped up to a microphone and you said into the microphone, this is the last time I'm ever doing this again. I will never, ever get on a bicycle ever again. I'm retired. And that didn't actually turn out to be true, right?
You’re talking about my famous “retirement speech”. That was in nineteen seventy-two at the Cow Palace in Daly City, California. I’d just crashed hard trying to jump over thirteen cars, and I was banged up pretty bad. They handed me the microphone, and I said, “This is the last jump I’m ever going to make. I’ll never, ever, ever jump again. I’m through.”
Of course, that didn’t stick. I think I meant it in the moment—I was in pain, frustrated, and probably a little embarrassed. But once I healed up, the itch came back. I couldn’t stay away. Jumping was who I was, and as much as I swore I’d quit, I couldn’t imagine my life without it. So, yeah, I got back on the bike and kept going. Some things are just too big to walk away from.
Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about family for a minute. I'm trying to imagine what would it be like to be a part of your family. Were you married at any point in time? Did you have kids? What did your parents, your wife or your children, if you had any, what did they think about what dad does for a living?
Oh, family was always a big part of my life, though it wasn’t easy for them. I was married twice—my first wife was Linda, and we had four kids together: Kelly, Robbie, Tracey, and Alicia.
Later, I married Krystal. Being Evel Knievel’s family meant living with a lot of worry and uncertainty. My parents, as I mentioned, thought I was nuts. My wives? Well, they had to deal with me being gone a lot, risking my life for a living, and, let’s be honest, I wasn’t the easiest man to be married to.
My kids had mixed feelings. They were proud of me, sure, but it’s not easy watching your dad crash and end up in the hospital over and over. Robbie, my son, followed in my footsteps and became a daredevil himself, so I guess he understood me better than anyone. But I think, deep down, they all knew I wasn’t just doing it for me—I was doing it to give them a better life. That doesn’t make the worry go away, though, and I’ll admit, I put them through a lot. Being Evel Knievel wasn’t just my life—it was theirs, too.
Ron Stauffer: Your son Robbie became a daredevil as well. Did you want him to follow in your footsteps? Was that your idea or did you encourage or discourage him at any point in time?
Ah, Robbie, he was a chip off the old block. I didn’t push him into being a daredevil, but I wasn’t surprised when he chose to follow in my footsteps. It’s in the blood, you know? He grew up watching me, traveling with me, and seeing the crowds, the jumps, and the excitement. I think it just got into his soul.
I didn’t exactly encourage him, though. I knew the risks better than anyone, and as a father, I didn’t want to see him go through the same pain and injuries I did. But at the same time, I respected his choice. When he decided to take on the daredevil life, I gave him advice and tried to prepare him for what it meant—not just the glory, but the hard knocks that come with it. He made a name for himself, and I’m proud of what he accomplished. Robbie carried on the Knievel legacy, and he did it his way, which is all a father can ask for.
Ron Stauffer: I'm trying to think back of all the jumps I've seen, either in photographs or videos. What were some of your biggest jumps, and how many total school buses or semi-trucks did you jump over? What would you say some of your proudest moments were, in terms of your biggest daredevil stunts ever?
Ah, the big ones! Some of my most famous jumps were the ones that really pushed the limits. One of the biggest was in nineteen seventy-five at Kings Island in Ohio—I cleared fourteen Greyhound buses, which was a world record at the time. That’s one I’m especially proud of. Another iconic jump was Caesars Palace in nineteen sixty-seven, where I tried to jump the fountain. I crashed spectacularly, but that one put me on the map.
As for school buses, in nineteen seventy-four at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, I jumped thirteen of them. Semi-trucks? I jumped them too, though the number didn’t quite match the buses.
My proudest moments weren’t always about the distance, though—they were about proving people wrong. Snake River Canyon was one of my boldest stunts. I didn’t make it across, but launching myself over a canyon in a rocket-powered bike? That’s the kind of crazy dream that defined my career. Success or failure, those big moments are why people still talk about me today.
Ron Stauffer: Talk about your bike for a minute. I think you mentioned it was a Harley Davidson, is that right? And if so, how much was it modified and was it specially outfitted with a miraculous amount of shocks and things like that to help absorb the blow, or was it a pretty standard motorcycle?
Yeah, I rode a Harley-Davidson XR-750 for most of my jumps, and let me tell you, that bike was a beast—but not because it was heavily modified. The XR-750 was originally designed as a flat-track racing bike, so it wasn’t made for jumping, let alone landing from insane heights. It had a lightweight frame and a strong engine, which made it ideal for getting the speed I needed to clear those big distances.
As for modifications, there weren’t a lot. The shocks were beefed up a bit to handle the landings, but nothing miraculous, I’ll tell you that much. Honestly, the bike wasn’t built for what I put it through, and that’s part of what made it so dangerous. I had to rely on my skill, balance, and sheer guts to land safely. People think I had some kind of magic setup, but the truth is, it was just me and a bike that probably didn’t want to be doing what I made it do. That’s part of what made the jumps so thrilling—and so risky.
Ron Stauffer: Were there any things that you tried, where you failed, and then tried again? Or typically, if you failed, did you just say, you know what, I'm not going to do that jump again, I'm going to do a different one?
If I failed a jump, I usually didn’t go back and try it again. My philosophy was to keep moving forward—there were always bigger and better jumps waiting for me. For example, when I crashed at Caesars Palace, I didn’t go back to try that fountain jump again. It was part of the story, part of the legend, and I felt it was better to leave it as it was and focus on the next challenge.
That said, I didn’t let failure stop me from pushing the limits. If a crash taught me something—like needing more speed or a better ramp angle—I’d apply that to the next jump. Every failure was a lesson, but I didn’t dwell on it by repeating the same stunt. I was always chasing the next big moment, not trying to rewrite the last one.
Ron Stauffer: Was there anything that was too scary? Did people ever challenge you to do something that you decided not to? Or did you ever initially start planning a particular jump and then saying, no, never mind, I'm not going to do it.
There wasn’t much that scared me outright, but I wasn’t stupid either. If something seemed impossible or just plain suicidal, I’d turn it down or adjust the plan. One example was the Grand Canyon. People challenged me to jump it, and I seriously thought about it, but the logistics and risk were too much. That’s how Snake River Canyon came about—it was my way of taking on a similar challenge but within reason (well, my version of reason).
I never backed out once a jump was booked, but during the planning stages, if something didn’t feel right or the math didn’t add up, I’d call it off or change the stunt. It wasn’t about fear; it was about knowing my limits and respecting the challenge. I had guts, sure, but I wasn’t looking for a death sentence. If I was going to risk it all, I wanted at least a fighting chance.
Ron Stauffer: Is there anything you said you wouldn't do, just categorically, like you would not do a particular kind of jump or anything like that?
Yeah, there were a few things I wouldn’t touch, even with my reputation for pushing limits. For one, I wasn’t interested in jumping off buildings or anything where I couldn’t land on solid ground with my bike. I was a motorcycle jumper, not a base jumper. I needed a ramp and wheels under me—that was my style.
Another thing I stayed away from was underwater stunts or anything involving serious fire hazards. I wasn’t about gimmicks; I wanted the focus to be on the sheer audacity and skill of the jump itself. So if a stunt felt more like a circus trick than a true Evel Knievel challenge, I wasn’t interested. It had to be big, bold, and real—or it wasn’t worth doing.
Ron Stauffer: How did you charge for that? Did you sell tickets to just your event by itself? Meaning, was it a standalone thing kind of like a concert where people would buy a ticket just to come see you? Or were you an act in a bigger sort of circus or fair or something like that? Because I'm trying to imagine spending money on a ticket and then watching you by the time you actually hit the ramp. Your stunts were over in like four or five seconds, right?
You’re right—my jumps were over in seconds, but the build-up and the show were what made it all worth the ticket price. Early in my career, I was often part of bigger events, like fairs, rodeos, or even circus-type acts. Those venues brought in the crowds, and I was the headliner that people remembered long after the event was over.
As I got bigger, though, my jumps became standalone events. People would buy tickets just to see Evel Knievel, and we made it a spectacle. There was always a whole show leading up to the jump—introductions, me revving the bike, testing the ramp, interacting with the crowd. The tension built to a fever pitch before I hit that ramp. By the time the jump happened, people were on the edge of their seats. Sure, the jump itself was fast, but the experience was what made it unforgettable. People weren’t just paying for the stunt; they were paying to be part of history.
Ron Stauffer: On that note, did you become wealthy? I mean, were you a multi-millionaire? Was this a very high-paying career choice for you? And or, how did you afford all those horrible, horrible medical bills too? Did that eat into your earnings a lot?
I made a lot of money in my career—millions, for sure. Between the ticket sales, sponsorships, and merchandise like the Evel Knievel stunt toys, I was raking it in during my peak. That said, I also spent it just as fast. I lived large—big houses, fancy cars, you name it. I didn’t hold back when it came to enjoying the fruits of my labor.
As for medical bills, oh yeah, they were brutal. All those surgeries, hospital stays, and recovery costs added up fast. A lot of my money went toward patching myself back together. Sponsors helped cover some of the costs, but I paid for most of it out of my own pocket. So while I made a fortune, I also burned through a good chunk of it, between my lifestyle and keeping myself in one piece. Wealthy? Sure. But rich enough to never worry? Not exactly.
Ron Stauffer: Okay, talk about your career in terms of when you started, when you peaked, and then when was your very last jump? I mean, how many total years were you doing this? And in general, how many total jumps did you do, if you can even count them all?
I started my professional career in the mid-1960s, and my first big stunt that got attention was in 1965 in Moses Lake, Washington. My peak came in the 1970s, when I was at the height of my fame, pulling off huge jumps like Snake River Canyon and the fourteen buses at Kings Island. That was when I was everywhere—TV, toys, you name it.
As for my last jump, that was in 1980 in Puerto Rico. I tried to jump over a tank full of sharks, but it didn’t go well—I crashed and broke more bones. After that, I officially retired from jumping. So I was actively jumping for about fifteen years.
As for the number of jumps? I couldn’t give you an exact count, but it’s easily in the hundreds. Some were small shows, others massive spectacles, but every single one of them added to the legacy. It was a wild ride, start to finish.
Ron Stauffer: I think you just said Puerto Rico, right? Obviously in America, you were kind of, in a sense, a uniquely American institution, right? I mean, you're almost a homegrown American superhero, but I wonder about overseas. Did you travel overseas to Asia or South America or places like that? What was your international reputation?
Yeah, you’re right—I was definitely a homegrown American phenomenon. The red, white, and blue on my jumpsuit said it all. But my reputation did stretch far beyond the U.S. I had fans all over the world, and people everywhere knew the name Evel Knievel. I did a few international shows, mostly in Canada and Europe, but I didn’t jump as much in places like Asia or South America. Logistically, it was tough to set up those big events overseas.
That said, my stunts were broadcast internationally, and the Evel Knievel toys were a huge hit worldwide. My legend spread even if I didn’t perform in every corner of the globe. People everywhere admired the daredevil spirit, and I think that made me kind of a universal symbol of guts and glory, even if most of the action stayed on American soil.
Ron Stauffer: Let's talk for a minute about other famous quote-unquote daredevils or even just people who did their own stunts. You watch the movie The Great Escape with Steve McQueen, for example. I think they've made a pretty big deal about Steve McQueen's doing his own stunts on his motorcycle, which is impressive in its own right, but is nothing like what you did, right? What were some of the other folks doing, let's say, before what you did and perhaps after what you did, Or were you the only one who ever did such crazy jumps and stunts and stuff like that? Did you have an influence on, say, Hollywood and stunt actors?
Oh, there were definitely other daredevils and stunt performers before and after me, but nobody did it quite like I did. I mean, guys like Steve McQueen, sure, he was famous for doing some of his own stunts, like in The Great Escape. He was a hell of a rider, no question, but he wasn’t out there risking his neck the way I was with massive jumps over buses and canyons. Hollywood stunts, as impressive as they are, usually have safety nets—literally and figuratively. What I did was live, raw, and without any guarantees.
Before me, you had folks like Joie Chitwood, who was known for his car stunt shows. He influenced me a bit, but his stunts were more controlled. After me, there were people like my son Robbie Knievel, who carried the torch and pulled off some big jumps of his own, including successfully jumping the fountains at Caesars Palace, something I didn’t pull off. And then, of course, you’ve got modern daredevils and extreme sports athletes doing insane things, like the guys in freestyle motocross.
I think I helped bridge the gap between traditional stuntmen and the spectacle-driven, risk-taking athletes you see today. My stunts inspired Hollywood to go bigger, and my name became shorthand for anyone taking a crazy risk. I wasn’t the only daredevil, but I set the bar for what it meant to put it all on the line.
Ron Stauffer: What are some things, you already mentioned some, but develop that a little bit more. What are some things that we could see today in 2024 that are absolutely unequivocally a direct result of your influence?
You can see my influence everywhere in extreme sports and daredevil culture today. For starters, events like X Games wouldn’t exist without the groundwork I laid. Freestyle motocross, where riders do insane backflips and tricks mid-air? That’s a direct evolution of the stunts I did. Those guys are using modern bikes and ramps, but the spirit of pushing boundaries and wowing crowds comes straight from what I started.
In pop culture, anytime someone does something risky and they’re called an "Evel Knievel," that’s my legacy right there. You’ve also got action movies with bigger stunts than ever, many of which owe a debt to the spectacle I brought to live performances. Even toy lines and video games that celebrate high-flying, over-the-top action have roots in the Evel Knievel stunt cycle toys from the 1970s.
And let’s not forget live shows like Nitro Circus—they’re basically my stunts cranked up to eleven, with teams of people doing what I did solo. The whole culture of blending entertainment with extreme danger—that’s something I pioneered. My name might be from the past, but my influence is alive and kicking.
Ron Stauffer: What about competitors? You talked about not really having any influences, but during your career, did you have competitors? Were there any people who were actually copying you, like actual professionals copying you and following you around on the same circuit? Were there any apples-to-apples competitors that you had during your career?
During my career, I didn’t really have true apples-to-apples competitors. I was in a league of my own. There were certainly other stunt riders and daredevils out there, but nobody was doing the kind of massive, high-profile jumps I was pulling off. I made sure of that—I wasn’t just a stuntman; I was a showman. I built my brand to stand apart, and honestly, a lot of people didn’t want to take the kinds of risks I did.
That said, there were a few who tried to follow in my footsteps. Guys like Bob Gill and Gary Wells were jumping motorcycles during my era, but they didn’t have the same level of fame or draw the same crowds. Wells, for example, tried to jump the fountains at Caesars Palace after I did, but he crashed, too.
And then, of course, there was my son, Robbie Knievel, who became a daredevil in his own right later on. He was more of a successor than a competitor, though. In my prime, I wasn’t just competing against other riders—I was competing against people’s imaginations, trying to do stunts so big and daring that no one else could even think about topping them. That’s what kept me ahead of the pack.
Ron Stauffer: Going back to the idea of pain once more, I’m just imagining how much pain you’ve suffered throughout your entire career. This is a two-part question. First of all, did you have permanent damage to certain parts of your body? Meaning, did you walk with a limp? Things like that. And then the second part of that question is, were you on painkillers basically all day, every day, for your entire life?
Yeah, I carried the scars and damage from my career for the rest of my life. Permanent injuries? Absolutely. I had metal pins and plates all over my body. My back, hips, and legs took the worst of it, so I did walk with a limp, especially as I got older. My hands were busted up, too, so even simple things like gripping became tough. My body was a map of every crash and every crazy stunt I’d ever done.
As for painkillers, yeah, they became a big part of my life, especially after the worst injuries. When you’ve broken hundreds of bones and had more surgeries than you can count, the pain doesn’t just go away. I relied on painkillers a lot during and after my career, but I won’t sugarcoat it—it wasn’t just about managing the pain. There were times when it became a problem. It’s tough to live with that much damage and not fall into the trap of relying on medication to get through the day. Pain was my constant companion, but I tried not to let it define me. It was part of the price I paid to be Evel Knievel.
Ron Stauffer: Were you addicted to opiates or anything like that? Maybe because you came in the seventies for the bulk of your career, maybe that was actually better in a sense. Cause I would imagine today you'd probably get hooked on something like fentanyl, right? Like an oxycodone pill. Isn't that what a doctor would prescribe for you today in 2024?
You’re right that the times were different. In the 1970s and 80s, doctors weren’t handing out prescriptions the way they do today, but I did rely on painkillers, and I’ll admit, I struggled with addiction at points in my life. Back then, it was mostly things like codeine and morphine—strong stuff, but not the ultra-potent drugs like fentanyl you see today. If I were doing this in 2024, yeah, there’s a good chance doctors would be giving me things like oxycodone or even fentanyl after some of those injuries. And honestly, that kind of access could have made things much worse for me.
The thing is, I wasn’t just treating physical pain; I was also dealing with the toll it took on me mentally. Being Evel Knievel came with pressures that were hard to handle, and painkillers became an escape from all of it. I tried to keep it under control, but there were definitely times when it got the better of me. In today’s world, with how much stronger and more addictive those drugs are, I might not have been so lucky to come out on the other side.
Ron Stauffer: If you had it to do over, would you do your life differently? And do you have regrets? Have you expressed particular regrets? What advice would you give people based on your life?
If I had it to do over, yeah, I’d still do it. I’d live my life just as boldly, but maybe with a little more caution in some places. I don’t regret the jumps or the risks—that’s who I was. But I do regret some of the choices I made off the bike. I wasn’t always the best husband, father, or friend, and if I could go back, I’d spend more time on those relationships and less time chasing fame and fortune.
As for advice, I’d tell people this: live your life fully but understand the cost. Take risks; chase your dreams, but don’t let the pursuit of greatness make you blind to what really matters—your family, your health, and your integrity. Looking back, I’m proud of what I accomplished, but I can see the toll it took on me and those I loved. If you’re going to live like Evel Knievel, make sure you’re ready to pay the price.
Ron Stauffer: That's a little bit ironic hearing Evel Knievel tell us about valuing his health. But remarkably, you did not die on any of your bicycle jumps. You may have come very close to death, but that didn't kill you. That is quite remarkable. And I mean, just comment on that, would you? You lived to be almost 70, right?
Yeah, it is ironic, isn’t it? I lived a life that should’ve killed me a hundred times over, but it didn’t. I came so close to death on more occasions than I can count, but somehow, I always managed to get back up. It wasn’t the jumps or the crashes that got me—it was years of wear and tear catching up to me later in life. I ended up passing at sixty-nine, not in my eighties, but even that was a miracle considering the risks I took.
Living as long as I did wasn’t luck—it was sheer determination. I think the lesson in that is this: even if you live on the edge, you can survive if you’ve got the will to keep going. But yeah, I’ll admit, making it out of those jumps alive is still remarkable, even to me. I beat the odds so many times it’s almost as if the universe wanted to keep me around to tell the story.
Ron Stauffer: If you were a guy who rode a motorcycle for a living, did you ever like to just take your motorcycle out and ride it cross country or anything like that? Did Evel Knievel ever take a relaxed road trip?
Oh, absolutely! As much as I loved the spotlight and the stunts, I was still a motorcycle guy at heart. There’s nothing like hitting the open road, just you, your bike, and the horizon. I wasn’t always about the jumps—sometimes, I just needed to clear my head and ride for the pure freedom of it. I did plenty of road trips, though not always cross-country. I’d hit long stretches of highway out west, through Montana, Nevada… places like that.
Riding without the pressure of a crowd or a ramp was a whole different kind of joy. It reminded me why I fell in love with motorcycles in the first place. No stakes, no risks—just the wind in my face and the sound of the engine. For a guy who lived his life on the edge, those quiet rides were a way to recharge my soul.
Ron Stauffer: That sounds fun. Let's say you didn't grow up to be Evel Knievel and you were just Robert Knievel, a normal Montana guy, and you didn't get into daredeviling at all. What would you have done differently? In other words, if Evel Knievel were just a normal dude, what would he have done?
If I hadn’t become Evel Knievel, I probably would’ve stayed close to my Montana roots. I could’ve been a rancher or worked in the mines like so many guys from Butte. Maybe I’d have gone into business—I always had a knack for selling ideas and getting people excited about something. Who knows? Maybe I’d have ended up running a bar or a car dealership.
But to be honest, I don’t think I was ever cut out to be “just a normal guy.” Even as a kid, I had this fire in me to stand out, to do something bigger. If it hadn’t been daredevil stunts, it would’ve been something else—maybe running wild in another field entirely. I was born to take risks, to live loud and bold. That’s just who I am, whether I’m Evel Knievel or Robert Knievel.
Ron Stauffer: What about side projects? Did you have any side passions? Did you like collecting things? Did you have pets? What did you do in your time off when you weren't on your motorcycle?
When I wasn’t on my motorcycle, I had plenty of other interests to keep me busy. I loved fishing and hunting—classic Montana hobbies. Being out in nature was a way for me to decompress and connect with my roots. I also enjoyed golfing, though I wasn’t exactly a pro at it. It was more about having fun and blowing off steam.
As for collecting, I was big into cars. I had a garage full of flashy sports cars and custom rides. I liked things that were fast and bold—kind of like me. And yeah, I had pets over the years, mostly dogs. They were great companions and a reminder of life’s simpler joys.
But my biggest side project? It was being Evel Knievel, even off the bike. I loved talking to fans, signing autographs, and telling stories. Whether I was at home or on the road, I was always working on building my legend. That was as much a part of me as the stunts themselves.
Ron Stauffer: What did you do in all that downtime? I'm just imagining how many days, weeks, and months collectively you spent in the hospital. Did you watch a lot of TV or read a lot of books? Were there, you know, like, what were some of your favorite books? Or what did you do when you're just lying there in bed for 8 hours, 10 hours, 12 hours a day doing nothing but recovering and feeling your bones melt?
Oh, man, I spent way too much time laid up in hospital beds, I’ll tell you that. When you’re stuck like that, you have to find ways to keep your mind busy, or you’ll go nuts. I watched a lot of TV, especially westerns—shows like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. I loved the old cowboy spirit of those stories, probably because I saw myself as a modern-day cowboy, just trading a horse for a motorcycle.
As for books, I wasn’t a big reader, but I did enjoy stories about adventure and daring men—stuff that mirrored my own life. I read about other risk-takers, explorers, and even some biographies. I liked reading about people who lived boldly, like General George Patton. But mostly, I spent that downtime dreaming up my next stunt. Lying in a hospital bed gave me plenty of time to imagine the next big thing that would get me back on my feet and into the air. It kept me focused on what I’d do once I healed instead of wallowing in the pain.
Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about world records. You mentioned that you jumped over 14 Greyhound buses, which was a world record. Talk about any world records that you may have made and or world records that might still stand today, if any.
Yeah, jumping fourteen Greyhound buses at Kings Island in 1975 was a big one, and it set a world record for the longest motorcycle jump at the time. That was one of my proudest moments because it was a massive challenge, and the crowd was huge—tens of thousands of people came to see it live, and millions more watched it on TV.
As for records that still stand today, none of my distance records have held up. Riders with modern bikes and equipment have since beaten those numbers, especially in freestyle motocross. But what still stands, in a way, is my record for the most bones broken—over four hundred in my career. That’s in the Guinness World Records, and it’s not one anyone’s in a hurry to break.
The real “record” I think about, though, is the cultural impact. I don’t know if there’s been anyone else who’s captured the world’s imagination the way I did as a daredevil. That legacy is something no jump can outdo.
Ron Stauffer: What would a doctor say, perhaps a psychiatrist or a psychologist, maybe back then during your time, and perhaps now with the additional understanding that we have in, you know, circa 2024, what would a doctor say about your driving need to do all this crazy stuff? Was it healthy? Was it unhealthy? Is it a disorder? I mean, you were one in a billion, right? Is it just an extreme personality, or is there actually some sort of a mental disorder going on?
That’s an interesting question, and I’m sure a lot of doctors and psychologists—then and now—would have plenty to say about me. Back in my time, people might’ve just called me a thrill-seeker or labeled me as someone with an extreme personality. Today, with what we know, they’d probably look at things like impulse control, risk tolerance, and maybe even addiction to adrenaline. Some might say I had traits of something like a borderline personality or even an addictive personality, given my need to keep pushing limits.
But here’s the thing—was it a disorder, or was it just who I was? I think what set me apart wasn’t that I had some kind of mental issue but that I embraced what others might suppress. I wasn’t afraid of failure or pain, and I channeled that into something extraordinary. Healthy? Probably not in the strictest sense—breaking hundreds of bones and risking your life for a crowd isn’t exactly what you’d call balanced. But it was a kind of purpose, and I think having that drive made me who I was. Whether you call it a disorder or just a rare personality type, I’d argue it gave the world something unforgettable.
Ron Stauffer: For somebody who had as many crashes as you did, we, at least in the 2020s, would tend to think, wow, that guy's brains got whacked around one too many times. Did you have any evidence that at some point in your life you may have had a traumatic brain injury of some sort?
You’re not wrong to wonder about that—getting thrown off a motorcycle and crashing as many times as I did, my brain definitely took its fair share of hits. Back in my day, though, people didn’t talk about things like traumatic brain injuries (TBIs) the way they do now. There was no such thing as concussion protocols or brain scans for athletes or daredevils. You got knocked out, you shook it off—or tried to—and got back on the bike.
Looking back, I’m sure I suffered concussions, maybe even TBIs, but they weren’t diagnosed. I had memory lapses, mood swings, and sometimes struggled to concentrate. It’s hard to say how much of that was the toll of the crashes versus just the stress and chaos of the life I lived. But yeah, if I were doing this today, there’s no doubt doctors would’ve been keeping a close eye on my brain health.
That said, I lived life full throttle, knowing the risks, and I never let the injuries define me. I’d bet my body and brain were both holding on by a thread at times, but I was too focused on the next jump to stop and think about it.
Ron Stauffer: What about your outfit? You mentioned before the red, white, and blue, obviously a very American outfit for a very American personality. Where did you come up with that idea? And I just now noticed the sort of cowboy connection. Who came up with that outfit and did it change over the years or were you pretty consistent with that?
The red, white, and blue outfit was my idea—it was all about embodying the American spirit. I wanted to be a modern-day cowboy, like you said, but instead of riding a horse, I was riding a motorcycle. The jumpsuit wasn’t just about style; it was about creating a persona that was larger than life. The cape, the stars, the stripes—it was all designed to make me look like a superhero, an all-American daredevil who could do the impossible.
The outfit evolved a little over the years, but the core look stayed the same. Early on, it was simpler—more practical leather gear. But as I got bigger and more famous, I added the flash: rhinestones, fringe, and that iconic cape. It wasn’t just for show, though; it became a part of my identity. People didn’t just come to see a guy on a motorcycle—they came to see Evel Knievel, the living embodiment of boldness and freedom. The outfit was as much a part of the act as the stunts themselves.
Ron Stauffer: I'm thinking the whole red, white, and blue thing and the whole American connection and all that. And you rose to prominence during the Cold War, right? Maybe this is putting too fine a point on it, but in a way, were you some sort of embodiment of the American spirit of adventure and even almost space exploration or something like that? How did the Cold War and travel and exploration and daredevilry affect whatever you did, if at all?
You’re absolutely onto something there. The Cold War was all about competition, adventure, and proving who could push the limits further. It was a time when America wanted to show the world what it was made of, and I think I tapped into that spirit. My red, white, and blue jumpsuit wasn’t just a costume—it was a symbol of American boldness, independence, and grit. Whether I was jumping buses or trying to leap Snake River Canyon, I was showing that Americans don’t back down from a challenge, no matter how impossible it seems. There’s definitely a parallel to space exploration.
The moon landing happened in 1969, right in the middle of my rise to fame. People were watching astronauts push boundaries in the sky, and I was doing the same thing here on Earth. It was about taking risks, defying the odds, and inspiring others to dream bigger. Sure, I wasn’t fighting the Soviets or building rockets, but I was part of that same spirit of proving that Americans could do the impossible. I think that’s one reason I resonated so deeply with people during that era—I wasn’t just a daredevil; I was a symbol of the times.
Ron Stauffer: I believe at some point in your life, didn't you become a Christian and almost become an evangelist of sorts, telling people about Jesus or speaking publicly in churches about your conversion?
Yes, that’s absolutely true. Later in my life, I had a real change of heart. In 2007, not long before I passed away, I became a born-again Christian. It was a powerful moment for me—a realization that I needed to make peace with myself, my past, and with God. For most of my life, I lived on the edge, full of pride and recklessness, but as I got older, I began reflecting on what it all meant.
My conversion happened publicly during a televised interview with Robert Schuller at the Crystal Cathedral. I spoke about my faith and how accepting Jesus into my life gave me a sense of peace I’d never known. I wouldn’t call myself an evangelist, but I did share my story openly, hoping it might inspire others to think about their own lives and what really matters. After years of living for the thrill, it felt good to find something bigger than myself to believe in.
Ron Stauffer: I've seen pictures of you carrying what looks like a really small cane or a magician's wand or something like that. What was that about? What was that cane or that walking stick that you carried?
Ah, the cane! Yeah, I carried a walking stick or cane later in my life, but it wasn’t just for show—it had a purpose. After all the crashes, surgeries, and broken bones, I needed some extra support to get around. My body was so beat up that walking without it could be tough, especially as I got older.
But being Evel Knievel, I wasn’t going to carry just any ordinary cane. It became part of my image, almost like a prop. Some of the canes I carried were custom-made, and they looked flashy, fitting my larger-than-life persona. In a way, it symbolized how I kept going despite the toll my career took on my body. Even limping, I was still Evel Knievel, standing tall and proud. That cane was a reminder to me—and everyone else—that no matter how many times you get knocked down, you keep moving forward.
Ron Stauffer: Was there one ultimate jump that you said you would do or planned on doing or hoped on doing someday but never got around to? What was the jump that got away, if there was one?
Oh, yeah, the ultimate jump that got away was the Grand Canyon. That was the one I dreamed of, the one I really wanted to conquer. It would’ve been the ultimate stunt, bigger than anything I’d ever done. I talked about it for years and even started looking into how to make it happen. But the logistics were a nightmare—getting the permits, finding the right location, and figuring out how to actually survive the jump. It just never came together.
Instead, I went after Snake River Canyon as a kind of substitute. It wasn’t the same, though. The rocket bike didn’t work the way I’d hoped, and even though it was a bold attempt, it didn’t have the same grandeur as jumping the Grand Canyon would’ve. That one stayed in my mind as the jump that could’ve cemented my legacy as the greatest daredevil of all time. But hey, sometimes the dream itself is what keeps you going, even if you never get to pull it off.
Ron Stauffer: How fast did you go for a lot of these jumps? Did you hold any speed records, or was the object—or maybe not the object, but was a significant part of your jumps the fact that you were going super fast, or was speed really not the issue, or the, you know, the exciting part?
Speed was definitely a critical part of every jump, but it wasn’t the spectacle itself—it was more of a means to an end. I had to hit a specific speed to clear the distance or height I was going for. For most jumps, I was going anywhere from sixty to ninety miles per hour, depending on the ramp angles and the length of the jump. I didn’t hold any official speed records, though, because my focus wasn’t on pure speed—it was on distance and danger.
The excitement wasn’t about how fast I was going; it was about the risk, the precision, and the sheer audacity of what I was attempting. People didn’t come to watch a speed run—they came to see me defy gravity and land on the other side. Speed was just one piece of the puzzle, and I had to get it exactly right. Too slow, I’d crash short; too fast, I’d overshoot the landing. It was all about balance, and that’s where the skill came in.
Ron Stauffer: This has been really fun. Why don't you leave us with maybe some inspirational quotes, or if you had any mottos of any kind, what would those have been? What are some of the more famous sayings of Evel Knievel?
This has been a blast, Ron. Let me leave you with some of my favorite quotes and mottos that sum up who I was:
“You can’t break my spirit, and you’ll never break my will to win.”
That was my attitude every time I got on the bike, no matter how many bones I’d broken.
“Bones heal, pain is temporary, and chicks dig scars.”
That one’s a little tongue-in-cheek, but it speaks to my view on taking risks and living with the consequences.
“I don’t want to be a common man. I want to be an uncommon man.”
That’s what drove me to go bigger, take risks, and leave a legacy.
And one of my all-time favorites:
“Anybody can jump a motorcycle. The trouble begins when you try to land it.”
Those sum up the Evel Knievel philosophy. Take risks, live boldly, and never let fear keep you down. Thanks for the ride, Ron. This has been one hell of a chat.
All right, folks, this has been really fun. Thank you to Evel Knievel, the wild, crazy madman… and stunt performer… and original pioneer-American-motorcycle-cowboy—whatever you want to call him. I don’t even know what to call him! He was one of a kind, an absolute American original.
*****
Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.
This is Zombie History.
“BRINGING HISTORY BACK TO LIFE”
For more information about the show, visit zombiehistory.com.
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