A fabulous book, but, or and, also a very sad one. Near the end, Montville compares Evel to an old pair of platform shoes dug up in the late 90s as 70s kids slouched toward middle age--a piece of old crap, but our crap. (Maybe the pet rock is the best analogy?) When I was nearly 8, Evel Knievel was a toy you wanted your parents to buy you, this jumpsuited guy on a rocket who was going to jump something, and obviously the coolest thing in existence. In real life...hoo boy. He was a liar, thief, drunk, racist, anti-Semite; he abused his wife and children and slept with every woman he could; he ripped off everyone who ever worked with him and beat up a publicist who wrote a book that, it's not entirely clear, maybe mentioned his mother once, which he took amiss. Oh, and he kept preaching to kids on the virtues of the all-American way. And he didn't make it across Snake River Canyon, a jump that went wrong from the start. He's in the great American lineage of P.T. Barnum, the Yellow Kid, Hulk Hogan, Donald Trump, and, I'd argue, Bigfoot, who popped in a similar demographic and geographical area at the same time--a hype, a cheat, a hypocrite who looked worse the closer you got. I don't know how Mountville kept his energy up for 390pp of text, but wow, does he. Some of my favorite sentences: "the more the actor [George Hamilton] saw Knievel in action...the more he became convinced that Knievel himself was the movie. Motorcycles. America. Insanity. Hamilton loved the package." Later: "Women treated him as if he were a rock star. He treated them as if they had damn good judgment." Before the clanked Snake River Canyon attempt: "Frost seemed nonplussed to be asking questions of a man who might be dead in the next five or ten minutes. Knievel talked in solemn tones, which befit a man who might be dead in the next five or ten minutes. It was not the greatest interview in interview history." Not to mention the plan to drop Evel parachuteless out of a B52, with his spleen removed and a targeting device installed to make sure he would land in a haystack instead of splattering on the ground. Whee. Eight-year-old me is sad. Adult me is...kind of relieved?