This happened around 1976—back when helmets were optional and bad ideas were not.
I was 11. My little brother was 6. Thanks to our grandpa, we had already graduated from bicycles to motorcycles, which, in hindsight, feels like giving chainsaws to toddlers but to us it was normal.
But the real influence in our lives was Evel Knievel.
We had the stunt cycle, the ramp, the whole setup and somewhere along the way, we decided that what Evel was doing on TV… we should probably try in real life.
Across from our house was a berm that came off a big circular driveway. Two curved entrances, maybe 50 or 60 feet apart. Or 20. I was 11—it felt like the Grand Canyon.
Naturally, we decided to jump it.
Not ride over it—jump it. Completely clear it.
Land like heroes.
Possibly get interviewed by Sports Illustrated.
We never made it across. Not once. But we got enough hang time to believe we were always one run away from greatness.
And we loved it.
The speed.
The hang time.
The wind in our hair.
The feeling that we were basically inventing freestyle motocross 20 years early‚ while wearing only Converse, Wranglers and Pamida T-shirts.
Then came the day.
It had rained just enough to make the dirt slick in that sneaky way that looks harmless but absolutely isn’t.
I lined up, hit the ramp clean, and launched.
For one perfect second, I knew I was going to make it—just like Evel Knievel.
I didn’t.
I landed short, right into a slick patch. The front tire slid sideways, the back kicked the other way, and suddenly I was no longer in charge of anything, including my future.
Then I hit dry ground.
The bike stopped.
I did not.
We flipped over and came to rest in a pile of poor decisions.
I lay there for a second, taking inventory. Everything hurt.
First thought: My bike is toast.
Second thought: Why can’t I feel my leg… and why does it hurt so much?
That seemed like a bad combination.
I stood up, questionable decision, saw my torn jeans, and noticed a hole in my thigh that, in my memory, was enormous. My mom would later disagree, but she wasn’t there.
The bike wouldn’t start, and my leg wasn’t about to cooperate. So my little brother, the smartest man on the property that day, rode up beside me and instantly got promoted to emergency transport.
I climbed on the back of his bike, dignity left somewhere in the dirt, and he drove me home.
Mom cleaned me up, patched me up, and then delivered the real punishment: my keys went on top of the refrigerator.
No riding for a week.
Longest week of my life.
And when it was over?
I got right back on.
Because Evel Knievel never quit… and at 11 years old, neither did I.
The funny thing is, that jump taught me something I didn’t understand until years later.
When you’re young, you think every jump is about courage. More speed. More height. More hang time.
But growing older teaches you it was never just about the jump.
It’s the landing.
The hidden muddy spots.
The people who help carry you home.
The fact that pain fades, but the story stays.
Maybe that’s the real lesson:
you don’t stop taking chances in life… you just learn to respect the landing.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
