From Evel with love.

I met Evel. It only took twenty-something years and a leisurely drive to Murfreesboro. I had to meet him. He was the reason why I broke, scraped, scarred and maimed myself right after saying the words, "Just like Evel Knievel" came out of my ignorant and impressionable mouth, over and over again. You would think you would learn. It's not like he's known for sticking the landings.

First I had to hang around a Harley Davidson shop for a few hours. I could easily say I have spent a total of a few hours my entire life combined in a motorcycle shop. I would walk in and think to myself, "That's cool. I can't afford it." And that's it. But cycle stores are much different now. They look like the glass and chrome, spit-and-shine car showrooms. You don't see the real one-percenters here these days. How many crankhead gangmembers can afford a thirty-grand motorcycle? But you do get to see the clowns. You know the wannabees. So waiting in line was a freakfest. Halitosis, B.O., bad, I mean real bad tattoos, and the occasional nutcase. One nutcase was a woman who wanted Evel to sign a photocopied picture of herself and G. Gordon Liddy. Go figure. I did enjoy Evel's response: "How do you spell Gordon"?

Time has seemed to take a little Evil out of the man. Slow and walking with a limp, he barely raised his voice above a whisper. And he couldn't smile. I guess he broke something in there too, through the years. But while you don't hear doctors suggesting breaking your back six times as a means of longevity, there was still enough Evel for me. Viva Knievel!