Evel Comes Down To Earth

Lane DeGregory: The old daredevil tips back in his recliner, nursing a blue lollipop. His small white dog, Rocket, slumbers in his lap.

On the Food Network, a chef is shouting. Evel Knievel grabs the remote, fumbles with the buttons.

"Blasted thing," he growls. "I can't turn it down." He slams the clicker on the table beside him. Buries his face in his hands.

"I spend my days right here, mostly," he says, without lifting his head. It's been three weeks since his second stroke. He is always tired, sometimes addled. Knievel is 68 but has the body of - well, of a man held together with pins and plates.

"I used to go all over the world," he grumbles. "I used to travel eight months a year. Now I can't even drive."

He takes 11 pills in the morning, a dozen at night. They keep his blood flowing and his transplanted liver working. They ease the arthritis that burns his back, arms and legs. It hurts like hell, being mortal.

It's a hot morning in July. In two weeks he is supposed to fly to his hometown of Butte, Mont., for the annual festival in his honor: Evel Knievel Days. He'll wave from the passenger seat of a pickup, sign some autographs, try to impersonate the man he used to be.

"This is my last performance," he says. "If I make it."