Knievel?’ There were countless more examples on television.
To become a byword for anything crazy, daring, risky or down-right mad; to become the name that most people the world over associate with motorcycle riding was probably Evel Knievel’s single most enduring achievement, and it all started with his Caesar’s Palace wipe-out.
Ironically, the fact that he had failed in his attempt to clear the fountains had made him way more famous than he would have been if he had completed the challenge successfully. It was a valuable lesson to Knievel, which taught him to always seek advantage in an apparently disadvantageous situation. He even managed to turn the fact that he had a limp to his advantage by obtaining one of the most instantly recognisable Knievel props – his famous jewelled cane.
While he did have a genuine physical need for such a device, it was typical of Evel to seek out something different, something which would uniquely identify him as well as adding a touch of glitz, and for that the cane was perfect. But just like his name, the origins of the cane are shrouded in the contradictions and myths of Knievel folklore. He often claimed the cane dated back to 1883 when it had belonged to the mayor of Philadelphia, but he would then contradict this by admitting it was custom-made for him by his jeweller friend, G. Darrell Olson. It certainly seems odd that the mayor of Philadelphia would have owned a cane featuring a motorcycle engraved into its gold top, since motorcycles hadn’t even been invented then! In another version of the story, Evel said he picked the cane up from a pawnshop in Spokane, Washington for $35 and was later offered $35,000 for it by legendary pianist and entertainer Liberace. Knievel refused the offer.
What was never in doubt, however, was that his cane (or at least one of them, for there appears to have been several incarnations) opened up to reveal six shots of Wild Turkey. Knievel even demonstrated this novelty on national television, explaining how the top of the cane screwed off to allow access to six test-tube-style vials of booze. The true origins of the prop are ultimately irrelevant; what matters is that instead of appearing like a crippled old man after his operation, Knievel emerged with even more swagger and lordliness, his cane becoming as much a recognisable part of him as a Stetson was to John Wayne.
After leaving the Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas, Knievel was lauded as a celebrity and he milked it for all it was worth. After all, this was what he had been striving to achieve for so many years. Having attempted numerous scams and successive oddball professions, each seeming doomed to failure, he had finally hit upon a formula that the public seemed to love and he was going to make the most of it. He could hardly fail to be aware that such a novelty act carried with it the risk of being a mere flash in the pan; a sideshow with a sell-by date. If this was to be Knievel’s 15 minutes of Warholian fame, he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it.
In today’s climate of manufactured fame, Knievel would have been sucked in by stylists, PR people, marketing companies and spin doctors, but in 1968 he had the intuition to do it all by himself and quickly set about growing into the role of a celebrity. He started hanging out in the glitziest bars, clubs and casinos in Vegas, began to wear increasingly loud and ostentatious clothes, rode around in flash cars and dated beautiful women, ignoring the fact that he was a married father of three.
He felt he had been given a second chance at life and was selfishly determined to enjoy it in every way he could. If his public increasingly built his image up as that of a fearless gladiator, a swaggering, gunslinging cowboy who stared death in the face and laughed at its inability to claim him, then so much the better – it was all good for business. In fact, Knievel was quite happy to add fuel to the fire by telling wild tales about his
To become a byword for anything crazy, daring, risky or down-right mad; to become the name that most people the world over associate with motorcycle riding was probably Evel Knievel’s single most enduring achievement, and it all started with his Caesar’s Palace wipe-out.
Ironically, the fact that he had failed in his attempt to clear the fountains had made him way more famous than he would have been if he had completed the challenge successfully. It was a valuable lesson to Knievel, which taught him to always seek advantage in an apparently disadvantageous situation. He even managed to turn the fact that he had a limp to his advantage by obtaining one of the most instantly recognisable Knievel props – his famous jewelled cane.
While he did have a genuine physical need for such a device, it was typical of Evel to seek out something different, something which would uniquely identify him as well as adding a touch of glitz, and for that the cane was perfect. But just like his name, the origins of the cane are shrouded in the contradictions and myths of Knievel folklore. He often claimed the cane dated back to 1883 when it had belonged to the mayor of Philadelphia, but he would then contradict this by admitting it was custom-made for him by his jeweller friend, G. Darrell Olson. It certainly seems odd that the mayor of Philadelphia would have owned a cane featuring a motorcycle engraved into its gold top, since motorcycles hadn’t even been invented then! In another version of the story, Evel said he picked the cane up from a pawnshop in Spokane, Washington for $35 and was later offered $35,000 for it by legendary pianist and entertainer Liberace. Knievel refused the offer.
What was never in doubt, however, was that his cane (or at least one of them, for there appears to have been several incarnations) opened up to reveal six shots of Wild Turkey. Knievel even demonstrated this novelty on national television, explaining how the top of the cane screwed off to allow access to six test-tube-style vials of booze. The true origins of the prop are ultimately irrelevant; what matters is that instead of appearing like a crippled old man after his operation, Knievel emerged with even more swagger and lordliness, his cane becoming as much a recognisable part of him as a Stetson was to John Wayne.
After leaving the Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas, Knievel was lauded as a celebrity and he milked it for all it was worth. After all, this was what he had been striving to achieve for so many years. Having attempted numerous scams and successive oddball professions, each seeming doomed to failure, he had finally hit upon a formula that the public seemed to love and he was going to make the most of it. He could hardly fail to be aware that such a novelty act carried with it the risk of being a mere flash in the pan; a sideshow with a sell-by date. If this was to be Knievel’s 15 minutes of Warholian fame, he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it.
In today’s climate of manufactured fame, Knievel would have been sucked in by stylists, PR people, marketing companies and spin doctors, but in 1968 he had the intuition to do it all by himself and quickly set about growing into the role of a celebrity. He started hanging out in the glitziest bars, clubs and casinos in Vegas, began to wear increasingly loud and ostentatious clothes, rode around in flash cars and dated beautiful women, ignoring the fact that he was a married father of three.
He felt he had been given a second chance at life and was selfishly determined to enjoy it in every way he could. If his public increasingly built his image up as that of a fearless gladiator, a swaggering, gunslinging cowboy who stared death in the face and laughed at its inability to claim him, then so much the better – it was all good for business. In fact, Knievel was quite happy to add fuel to the fire by telling wild tales about his
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