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DENNY WANTED TO MAKE A LIVING
ON THE MOTORCYCLE CIRCUIT.
HE INITIALLY ASSUMED THERE
WOULD BE GROUND BENEATH HIS
TIRES. BUT WHEN THAT
DIDN’T WORK, HE AIMED HIGHER.
“IN THE RACING BUSINESS, YOU NEED TO
PLACE FIRST, SECOND OR THIRD TO GET A
PAYCHECK,” HE SAID WITH A GRIN. “BUT IF YOU
JUMP? YOU CAN SCREW IT UP REALLY BAD
AND STILL GET PAID.”
Denny grew up in Grand Ronde in a logging family. He
made his first jump in 1972 in Brookings on the southern
Oregon coast, trying to emulate his idol Evel Knievel. Kids
came to watch.
“It turns out that jumping doesn’t take a whole lot of
motorcycle skill,” he said, pronouncing it “motor-sickle.” “It’s
just the big hole in the middle that keeps most people from
doing it.”
He started to perform at fairs and other events—promoters
said he was a “poor’s man’s Evel Knievel” because he jumped
for much less money. In an era before YouTube, folks would
pour into grandstands to see a daredevil in real life.
He would set up his ramps, soar in the air on his thisheavy-bike-was-not-made-for-jumping
motorcycle, and then
conclude his act by smashing through a gasoline-soaked,
flaming wooden wall.
“It happens so fast you don’t feel anything,” he said.
Needing a nickname, he chose “The Flying Irishman.” He has
some Irish in his gene pool, after all, but no Dutch. He wore a
white leather jumpsuit to protect him if he went down, and a
sparkly green belt.
For thirteen years, which included a few marriages, a litany
of injuries and a cracked vertebra or two, he estimates he
completed some 100 jumps. He even got a chance to meet
Evel Knievel.
His last jump came in 1985 in Prineville. On the landing, he
almost completely overshot the ramp, and his rear tire broke
through. He put his boots down and the ground ripped the
soles off. He lost all his toenails. He put the bike on its side, and
broke a few ribs.
But he still rode through the flaming wall, to cheers.
“This business is kind of like landing an airplane,” Denny
said. “If you can walk away from it, it’s a good day. You can’t
get too picky.”
The episode wasn’t just hard on his ribs. It strained his family,
so he decided to call it a career. He drove his Peterbilt log truck
to pay the bills. And no, he laughed, he didn’t try to take any
jumps in his truck.
Today, he lives with his girlfriend on a grass seed farm
outside Sheridan, just down the road from where he grew up.
Meanwhile, his motorcycles were on display at the World of
Speed museum in Wilsonville.
But he never lost the itch. Besides, the jumpsuit still fit.
A singer always loves the microphone, he said—it’s kind of
like that. And, he reckoned, he wasn’t getting any younger. Life
will throw a lot of things at you, but it won’t give you extra time.
“The golden years? That’s when you piss the bed. That’s the
only golden part of it,” he said. “Young or old, if you want to do
something, you need to go do it. If you want to go jump out of
an airplane, I don’t care if you are 80 years old, go do it. If you
want to go scuba diving with sharks or climb mountains or
whatever you want to do, you need to go do it because this is
really a short ride.”
He started fixing his ramps.
94 1859 OREGON’S MAGAZINE NOVEMBER | DECEMBER 2017