At the end of each year, the TV stations run a list of notable people who died during the previous 12 months.

For me, one name stood out on the 2007 list.

The man who inspired the greatest toy I ever had as child died last year. He was 69.

Robert Craig Knievel was the ballsiest sonofabitch to ever ride a motorcycle. Evel. My man! At the age of 10, I was proud owner of the plastic windup toy that whirred off a ramp and was perfect for jumping things like the bushes at the end of my parents' concrete front porch.

I remember early on, seeing some of his jumps on ABC's "Wide World of Sports." The hype. The buildup. The booming voice of HOW-ard CO-sell. What more could a kid want to see?

If you could line it up -- side-by-side or end-to-end -- Evel would probably jump it. Cars, buses, trucks, dumpsters -- or, most famously, the Caesars Palace fountains -- Evel was ready to show ‘em his red white and blue sequined ass flying high over the top.

Daredevils with the self-promoting hucksterism of Knievel are a thing of the past. These young punks on super lightweight motocross bikes can do stunts that make Evel's jumps look like ... well, your father's motorcycle stunts.

And they don't need to set up fictional corporations, pose as TV executives and otherwise trick networks into showing their stunts, as Knievel did to get the Caesars jump green lighted.

These X-Gamers have their own video games, posses, posters, and PR people, all before they turn 18! And while their skill is impressive, the tricksters are essentially a dime a dozen. If you've seen one trick, you've seen them all. And when did you see one of them nearly die doing a stunt?

Not that I'm wishing for that. But, Evel was a pioneer. He was NUTS! He did what nobody else was doing. His American Eagle motorcycle was heavy and ill suited for jumping. Today's jumpers wouldn't line up for the jumps Evel performed if you put a seven-figure payday at the end of the landing ramp.

Who else would try to take the whole stunt genre to a new level by daring to jump the Snake River Canyon? With a homemade rocket! Think about it. "Homemade" and "cookies" work well together. Not "homemade" and "rocket."

When you read Knievel's biography, it's like a Hollywood script. A tough kid from Butte, Mont., Evel changed his name, was arrested as a petty crook, tried to get and stick with work anywhere he could find it. After dropping out of high school to go work in local copper mines, Evel gravitated to ski jumping and rodeo riding. He was a decent hunting guide for a while, and even tried selling insurance.

Yeah. Evel Knievel Insurance. "Can I tell you about our term life policy, ma'am?"

Nothing resonated with such a free spirit, until he saw a Joie Chitwood car stunt show, and thought: "Why not motorcycles?"

His ability and passion for self-promotion was unreal. He sold tickets, served as the PA announcer and coordinated all the stunts at events.

In sum, Evel was the ultimate American stud. A self-made man who took no crap, had balls of titanium, and became a nationwide icon. In today's overexposed sports and entertainment world, you couldn't have an Evel Knievel. The conditions just don't exist to allow it.

That stupid little windup plastic bike was the best toy I ever owned. Today, if I gave it to a 10-year-old he might look at me like I'm crazy. Maybe he'd play with it for 20 minutes and then retreat to his Xbox. Oh well. I guess I would, too. But plastic Evel Knievel and sporadic events on "Wide World of Sports" was the best we could do.

May Robert Craig Knievel rest in peace. For my generation, he will never be forgotten, and always held in awe.