Why is he still a star? ‘I earned it’

‘You ask the questions, I’ll answer ‘em,” he says gruffly to a TV cameraman. “I don’t want to give my whole life story.”

He doesn’t mean it. Evel Knievel – the greatest motorcycle daredevil of all time – has spent most of his adult life telling his life story to people with cameras, microphones and notepads.

He’s not about to deny the media, especially now that he’s back in the limelight.

Behind the cranky exterior lurks one of the savviest self-promoters since P.T. Barnum. This is, after all, the guy who transformed himself from a Butte nobody into a pop icon whose name is still instantly recognizable throughout much of the world.

“I created this character Evel Knievel,” he tells me later. “And I know just how to handle him.”

Evel was in Spokane Valley this weekend doing what he does best: being a living legend to a still-fascinated public who turned out to gawk at the man and his memorabilia.

I meet him just after he pulls into the parking area in the back of Shumate Harley-Davidson in a motor home and matching trailer slightly less imposing than an oil tanker.

“These things start at $700,000,” he says of his mansion on wheels.

It’s been a lucrative comeback for the man who wrote the book on cheating death.

A soft drink commercial. A cross-country appearance tour. Evel Knievel Days in Butte. An Evel Knievel miniseries on TNT. Evel says a $70 million Evel Knievel major motion picture is in the works.

America, with its addiction to nostalgia, has rediscovered Evel Knievel.

It will be 30 years ago in September when he attempted to jump the Snake River Canyon in a rocket-powered Sky-Cycle. Evel is now 65 years old. It’s even money whether or not he could hop over an open manhole. These days, father leaves all the daredevilry to son Robbie, who has established his own reputation in this crazy business.

The former hell-raiser walks gingerly, taking each step with a measured stiffness.

Anti-rejection medication Evel has taken since his 1999 liver transplant has softened his bones, he says. That condition led to an operation not long ago to fuse part of his back.

Add to his physical travails the lingering aftermath from the catalog of injuries he suffered thanks to gravity-defying stunts gone awry. Evel made the Guinness Book of World Records for breaking 35 bones. His stays in assorted hospitals totaled years.

It’s nothing short of amazing that he’s able to walk at all.

“I’m the toughest S.O.B. on the face of the Earth,” he says when I ask how he keeps going.

Maybe it’s the mystique. Maybe it’s the bluster. But despite his frailty and advancing years, Evel still exudes an aura of danger, as if he just might haul off and pop the next person who gets under his skin.

I’m not worried. After some initial wariness, Evel has taken a shine to me.

“Take off your shoes,” he says. He invites me into his motor palace for a grand tour.

“Wow, that’s a king-sized bed,” I say, staring into his expansive sleeping quarters.

“A California king,” he answers. “Bigger than a king.”

Talk about rock star digs, with mirrored ceilings and luxurious cabinetry. Little custom touches tell who the owner is: a chunk of cut glass on a wall is etched with his trademark silhouette of Evel on motorcycle. A bronze statue of Evel stands on a counter.

My favorite touch is the inexpensive Evel Knievel bobble-head doll stuck to his dash.

You know you’re the cock of the walk when you’ve got your own bobble-head.

It’s easy to forget how big this guy once was.

Sales of Evel Knievel toys were credited for rescuing the toy industry back in the 1970s. And that attempted canyon jump? It was the most-watched episode of “Wide World of Sports.” More than half of America’s TV viewers that afternoon were tuned to that telecast.

Evel has a three-word explanation for his enduring celebrity:

“I earned it.”

No argument. When it comes to paying dues, this guy wrote the checks.

Say what you will about Evel Knievel. He’s ornery. He’s self-absorbed. He wears flashy diamond-encrusted jewelry. He’s lived a life that would make a Baptist blush.

But guts? This guy has more spine than 10 men.

Leaning back in his leather burgundy recliner, he explains that you can teach anyone how to become a motorcycle daredevil. There are straightforward physical laws involved. Speed, for example. And rpms. But in the end, adds Evel Knievel, “the only thing keeping him from making that jump is that big hole in the middle.”