I've told the story before about the time back in high school when I jumped the family Buick, going around 115MPH on Brookwood Road. I mentioned that not one, but two other people had died trying it before I did it, and John Holland was one of them. RIP man. I can't remember the other guy's name without going through my old annual, but John made two.
This may sound a bit gruesome, but John's death actually confirmed a theory about why he and the other guy had died trying it, and actually gave me the final push to do it, as crazy as that sounds. It let me know that I could overcome the mistake I was sure they'd made.
I'll get the gruesome part out of the way. I drove by the scene in time to see them washing his blood down the gutter, and sweeping up the last of the glass. It may sound cold, but by then I was pretty certain I was going to do it, and I had to get a look at the scene to see if my theory on why they didn't make it was correct. Make no mistake...his death hit us hard, but he and I weren't close at all. I set aside my feelings to have a look.
One thing's for sure...out of all the crazy-ass stunts I pulled, this was probably the craziest. It was definitely the most dangerous. Two guys had already died trying it, which would deter most people, but from what I knew about Physics (no kidding), how the car handled, watching other jumps and such, I really felt like I could make it without a scratch. If I didn't, I'd have never thought about doing it.
It wasn't for the faint-of-heart, to say the least, and it wasn't like I could practice and work up to it gradually, like everyone from Evel Knievel to anybody who's ever jumped, by starting out with slower speeds and shorter ramps. I knew that if I was going to do it, I'd only get one try.
It may sound like I was some sort of ne'erdowell, or a just-plain dumbass, which has been debated, but even though I did some seriously crazy things, I didn't exactly fit the profile of a future criminal or anything. I made good grades and the teachers liked me, plus I was in several clubs and did a lot of extracurricular stuff for the school. I figured I earned the right to raise a little Hell.
By the same token I obviously didn't mind taking chances, but I wasn't reckless. Lots of things came up out of the blue, when an opportunity presented itself, but for things like jumping a car, I planned as carefully as I possibly could, if only mentally. You can bet I stayed up a few nights, running through an imaginary jump again and again. I was a Type-A, but I had no wish to even have to use a Bandaid if I could help it.
Back in the day everybody would drive over it fast, maybe 50-55 tops, and for half a second you'd be almost weightless, and your stomach would go up into your throat. It was a fun way to scare the girls, but I knew I'd have to be going a hell of a lot faster to pull it off. The cops also knew how fun it was, so they'd often hide in the parking lot of a church that sat past the jump, and you couldn't see them until it was too late. If they'd been sitting there the night I jumped, I'd have been put under the jail.
They've since redone that section of the road several times, and reduced the rise and dip a bit, but back then it was a pretty serious natural launch. The drop was fairly steep, and there was a little rise just before the brink, which gave some extra air, like the lip at the end of a ski-jump. From the far-end to the jump, Brookwood Road went more or less straight for maybe ten blocks, so you could build up a good head of steam.
I knew I'd need every bit of that distance to get up to speed. It was a perfect distance. The Buick wasn't a racecar, but it was the "sport" model, and it wouldn't do 0-60 in 3.7 seconds or whatever, but it'd get going pretty fast, and it handled very well at high speeds, which obviously made it possible. I did go over the jump several times at maybe 65 or so, and get a tiny bit of air, and a little bit of a feel for the jump, but I couldn't go any faster. If I did, I'd get too much air, but not enough to make the jump, if that makes sense.
There was another issue that made it a good bit more dangerous. Just past the jump, the road veered to the left at maybe a 5-degree angle, so when (and if) you landed at the proper distance, you'd be at a different angle to the road, and headed for a yard. With a proper jump, the car would land mostly in the road, but immediately go into the yard. Luckily the yard was really long and fairly flat, but there was a huge Fir tree directly in the path of the projected landing. It was 10' across at the bottom, and the branches went all the way to the ground.
It was maybe 150' past the jump, and I knew that once I'd confirmed I had control of the steering, with about half a second to decide, I'd have to brake hard, turn slightly to the left to get more tire-drag, and I'd end up trenching the everloving fuck out of the yard, which luckily for me happened. Running into the tree at highway speed wouldn't have been good, but I figured I could stop in plenty of time if I really worked the brakes. Another thing was the gutter between the road and yard. It was wide and gently-curved, but landing the right wheel in it just right could delay getting control of the steering.
Speaking of steering-control, if you jump a motorcycle, you want to land with the rear wheel slightly before the front wheel, to absorb the initial shock of landing before the front wheel touches down. Same with an airplane. In a car though, you ideally want to land with all four wheels at the same time. Whichever you jump, or fly, you definitely don't want to land front-wheel(s) first. If the front wheel or wheels absorb the shock, it can wrench the turnin' wheel, or handlebars or yoke, right out of your hands, and steering is lost. A Wipeout is a strong possibility.
I'd estimated that I'd have to keep the accelerator down from the far end to the jump, and I'd get however many feet of air it was, 3-4 carlengths I think. I guessed the right wheel would land pretty close to the gutter, and I'd be headed straight for a big-ass tree, if I made the jump that is. I knew to use a seatbelt. Safety first. I figured either it'd be a glorious and perfect jump, thrilling as Hell, and I'd be immortalized, or possibly I'd be the third death in one year. Hero...or "In Memorium." Quite a spread there. I also knew that once I committed, that was it. If I changed my mind before I hit the jump and backed-off, I wouldn't have enough speed to make the proper distance, which would be way more dangerous than just the jump itself.
It wasn't about bragging rights...I wanted to see what it'd feel like...purely for the thrill. I wasn't about to literally risk my life just to be a badass. I also knew that while a drink or two might give me the final push to actually do it, and a bowl would be fine, there was no way in Hell I'd be drunk, even a little. Besides not wanting to be drunk if I got pulled-over by the police, it was literally a matter of life and death. A tiny loss of coordination is greatly-magnified at speeds of over 100MPH, not to mention jumping a family Buick at that speed. You don't fuck-around when you're going that fast.
In school there were some artist-types and such, and one guy from the former-USSR, who hardly spoke a word, and literally spent most of the day holding the door for everyone else, it was basically divided into two groups. On the "left" was the "army-jacket" crowd, who dressed differently, mostly kept to themselves, and smoked more pot than I did, and which John belonged to, and to the "right" were the jock/egghead students, who all had a 98-average, and/or played sports and fucked the cheerleaders. I split the difference, and had friends in both groups.
Even though John and I weren't close, I did feel really bad at the scene, but I had to go. I had errands to do that day, and I'd probably have driven by there anyway. When I got a call that Saturday morning, I waited a few minutes and headed that way. I had to see the skidmarks while they were still fresh. I was, and am still, good friends with a cop, and I figured he'd be there.
When I arrived they'd taken John away, I made sure of that, and they'd towed the car. The road was still blocked-off, but I saw my buddy and he let me in before they took the barricades away. I told him I wanted to look at how it landed, and he was totally cool with it. He knew I was into speed and stuff. Just for fun he'd park his car along South Brookwood Road, which ran between Brookwood and Overton Road, which was heavily-sloped at that part, and clock me on my Schwinn Continental.
We walked over to have a look. I saw the skid marks, and got my answer. There were only two marks instead of four, and that told the tale. They were short...no more than a foot long, and there was a bulge at the start, indicating serious tire-deformation. He'd landed front-wheels-first, and had lost control. "What do you see?" asked my buddy. "Front wheels first" I said. "He lost it." "Yep" he said. "He never had a chance." I didn't see how his car had landed, but he said it rolled a few times. I'm sure it did.
I said goodbye to my friend and drove off, knowing that at least I wouldn't be making the same mistake. So, what happened? In both cases, they were possibly too wasted to drive to begin with, or they greatly-underestimated the speed they'd need to nail the jump, but I think that they chickened-out at the last minute, and eased-off on the speed. They didn't get nearly enough air, and when the front wheels hit, the turnin' wheel was yanked out of their hands. I don't know how much it mattered anyway, because a car going that fast and landing front-wheels-first is almost guaranteed to flip.
I may be a lunatic, but that gave me the final push to do it myself. At least I knew what not to do. One night the perfect opportunity arose. My buddy Paul, who now owns a super-high-end auto shop, called The Auto Shop, in fact, had been working on my VW Squareback, and wanted to test-drive it, so I went over to his house in my mom's Buick Le Sabre, and he followed me home in the Vee-Dub. It hit me that it was now or never, and I'd have a witness. It was on.
We were on the long, flat part of Brookwood Road. Paul was putting the car through its paces, so I was following from a good distance behind. I decided to go for it, and there was no turning back. I eased-down on the accelerator, and when I got up to around 50, I put the pedal to the floor, and kept it there until I was in the air. About 4 or 5 blocks in, I blew through a stop sign and passed Paul, going about 65 by then. I can still see the look on his face as I passed him and gave him a thumbs-up. He was grinning and his eyes were huge, and he had an "Oh, shit...you're really going to do it" look on his face. I laughed.
This was around the "oil crisis" of the 70s. In a weird move to try to keep people from driving too fast, car-makers put a little peg on the speedometer at 90MPH, which kept the needle from going any further and indicating the true speed, although the car could go much faster. So I'm not sure exactly how fast I was going when I hit the jump, but the speedo had been pegged at 90 for at least three blocks, so I'm guessing I was going at least 115 when I hit the jump. Paul pushed my VW as fast as it would go, to get a closer look at the jump.
About a block or so short of the jump, I was feeling good about things, but I did say a little prayer...mostly for the Buick and not me. I hit the ramp and I was airborne. They say that time slows down with stuff like this, and it really did. When I left the road, everything got quiet. The speedo started to fall back to zero, although I was hauling-ass. I thought that was funny. I held the steering wheel with a light grip, knowing that when I landed, it would probably jerk around a bit.
I hit the jump, and WHOOOOOSSSSH...I was flying. I was floating above my seat, weightless. That was an amazing experience. Midway through I knew I was on course, and I expected to land perfectly, which I did. All four wheels hit the pavement together. There were two "barks," one when I landed, and one when I made a steering-correction to the left. The car had actually bounced a few feet after it landed. I went into the yard, turned the wheel to the left and applied the brakes. The car went sideways, trenching the fuck out of the yard and sending up rooster tails of grass and dirt. Perfect.
I stopped well-short of the Fir tree, aimed for the road and hit the gas, all in one motion and without ever stopping. I'll have to say that it couldn't have been executed any better, and I was proud of myself. Word quickly spread that I'd nailed the jump, and several people went by there just to see the massive trenches I'd left in the yard. I drove by the next day, and I cracked-up when I saw the trenches. They could've planted an apple orchard or whatever, without doing any plowing. I plowed it for them. I felt bad, but whomever lived there is probably dead by now I reckon, so c'est la vie.
Although I'd achieved cult-status overnight, it was so late in the school-year that I didn't get to enjoy my newfound fame for very long before we graduated, but that wasn't why I did it. People would come up and say things like "Way to go, Evel! Glad you didn't die." It was great. There wasn't a scratch on me or the Buick. I ran into my cop-buddy a few weeks later, and he'd figured out it was I who'd jumped, because of my interest in John's crash.
He said "I see where somebody made the jump on Brookwood. Do you know anything about it?" "Officer, I stand on the Fifth" I said. We cracked-up. "Well," he said, "I'm glad you made it." "Me too." "That was a professional jump, man. Have you done this before?" he asked. "Only on my bike" I replied. "You nailed it" he said. "I went over it again and again in my head" I told him. "I see" he said. "Here's to the guys who didn't make it." "Amen" he said. What a night. RIP, John and other guy.
