This happened a lot.
My boyhood friends and I would sit in front of a basement television the way kids sit in front of fucking video games today. Someone's mom would make sure our nutrition needs were met with cookies and kool-aid. On the television the hosts got us ready for the event by showing us action clips and interviews with the Daredevil we all dreamed to out-daredevil when we grew up: Evel Knievel.
Evel was so fucking cool. Yet as much as we admired him, his motorcycles and his broken bones, we did not want to be him like we wanted to be our other heroes like Coco Laboy and Spaceman Lee. That is because deep down in our detached suburban Canadian souls we knew we would die if we tried jumping shit at 90 mph like Evel.
Some do have a go at being just like Evel. In the great wild world of punk rock this would come to be known as Sid Vicious syndrome. Lots of punks, me included for a time, wanted to be just like Sid. There are graveyards full of those motherfuckers.
Our heroes in this century are rolled from a different bag of weed than Evel and Sid. That said, if Barack Obama, a rare man with Evel's, if not Sid's, heroic ambition, can steer, mid-jump, Great Motorcycle America away from the splattery crash that has been its manifest destiny for centuries, I will sew the motherfucker a cape.