by Nik Wallenda
We check into a midtown hotel and go for dinner at the Olive Garden in Times Square. Endless breadsticks. Endless shop talk.
Here comes the pasta and the veal, the calamari and the chicken cacciatore. As we start eating, our shop talk intensifies. In between bites of scampi, Bello grabs a napkin and starts drawing.
“What do you think?” he asks, showing me his sketch.
“Looks like the Wheel of Death,” I say, referring to the huge revolving structure, usually thirty-nine feet tall, that looks like two giant hamster wheels connected by an axle.
“It is,” he says. “But the world has already seen this.”
“Many times. People still love it.”
“I know, but I think people live for surprise. They want to see something different. So let’s give them something different. Instead of two wheels, let’s double it. Let’s give them four.”
“That would be amazing. How would it work?”
“You would start out in one wheel…”
“Me?” I ask. “You want me to do this with you?”
“That’s the whole point,” says Bello. “We’ve been wanting to work together for years. Well, this is the perfect opportunity. You start out in one wheel, I’m in the other, we do our usual tricks and then—boom!—fireworks go off and suddenly the wheels split apart and there are four!”
“Incredible!”
“I think so.”
“Who’s going to design all this?”
“You are,” says Bello. “You’re Mr. Mechanics.”
“I’d need help.”
“You have help. You have your father and his brothers. You have a whole family of genius engineers behind you.”
“It wouldn’t be easy.”
“Nothing this innovative is ever easy.”
“I’m sure we could do it,” I say.
“Now you’re talking. How long would it take you to figure it out?”
“No more than a few months,” I say with my usual optimism.
“Might be more than a few.”
“And you’d try to sell to Ringling Brothers?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure Ringling would go for it. How do you feel about working for them?”
“John Ringling was the reason my great-grandfather left Europe. Ringling invited him to America in 1928. Ringling sounds right.”
“Done right, I think this concept of a quadruple wheel can make headlines.”
“Shouldn’t there be a story attached to the act?” asks Erendira.
“What kind of story?” I wonder.
“Bello is in one of the wheels and you, Nik, are in the other, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what if the two of you are fighting over a girl? To gain her attention and prove your valor, you two make all sorts of moves—back flips, somersaults, rope tricks. Who will win over her heart?”
“And you, Erendira, could play the part,” says Bello.
“Perfect,” I say. “It’ll be sensational.”
For the rest of the dinner we plot and plan. One Wheel of Death becoming two becoming four is the most exciting idea I’ve heard in years. And that the stunt will include Erendira makes it that much better.
I’m over the moon.
David Blaine is underwater.
He’s sitting in this sphere of water. He’s wearing handcuffs and his feet are chained. An enormous crowd surrounds him in the plaza at Lincoln Center. Some are cheering, some are jeering, but overall the mood is upbeat. He’s been “drowning alive” for five days and five nights with two more to go. Bello, Jenny, Erendira, and I stand in front of the sphere, look David in the eye, and give him a big thumbs-up. He breaks into a big smile. We hang out for a while, letting him know that he has our full support and admiration. He seems pleased.
“He seems a little crazy,” says Erendira.
“Not crazier than me,” I say.
My wife doesn’t disagree.
“Guys like David keep us going,” says Bello. “They reaffirm the fact that the impossible isn’t impossible at all.”
A few minutes later I’m introduced to Shelley Ross, a woman who serves as the executive producer of Blaine’s television special.
“I know who you are, Nik Wallenda,” she says. “You’re a supertalented guy and I think you need a television special of your own.”
Naturally, her words are music to my ears.
“I would love it,” I say. “But how do I make it happen?”
“You might start by talking to my husband, David Simone. He’s a manager.”
I call David. We have a great talk but don’t yet forge a plan. A couple of things have to happen first.
“Do you think it’s possible that this new scheme of yours won’t work?” asks my dad when I get back from New York. “The mechanics may be unworkable or, at the very least, undependable. Are you really sure that you and Bello can stand balanced on top of twin circles thirty-nine feet in the air?”
“I am sure.”
So is Bello. We get to work in his backyard workshop. The idea we pursue is this: When we first come out on the wheels we want the audience to think they’re connected. Then a blast of fireworks and suddenly the wheels split and go off in opposite directions.
Much of the drama comes from the self-perpetuating nature of our stance on the wheels. There are no motors or engines. Our footwork and footwork alone will set the wheels in motion. To remain vertical, we have to run in place at twenty miles an hour. And before the wheels split off, we must run in perfect synchronicity. If I run faster or slower than Bello, the wheel loses its balance. There are no safety nets beneath and we choose not to wear harnesses. Harnesses and nets are distractions.
It’s a tricky business, especially since the wheels have to be custom-constructed. The first problem is that the axle, around which the wheels rotate, continues to bend. Ultimately this means the axle will break. If this happens during the act itself, the result will be fatal. If we can’t find a nonbendable axle, my father will be right. All in vain.
“I’m afraid this whole thing, while a magnificent and bold idea, just may not be doable,” says Dad.
I turn to Dad’s brother-in-law, Timothy Stephenson, an engineer and the chief metallurgist for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I explain the problem to him. Intrigued by the challenge, Uncle Tim goes right to work. In his lab, he begins to experiment with hardened steel alloys.
“Is that going to work?” I ask.
“It’s worth testing,” he says.
After a couple of weeks of intense experimentation, Uncle Tim has custom-blended several hard steel alloys and finally found the one mix that he’s certain will not bend or break.
I tell Bello that we have the axle we need.
Bello tells Ringling Brothers, which is underwriting our efforts and will feature the stunt in its Greatest Show on Earth, that we’re ready to go into production. They want to know the cost. We put paper to pencil and come up with a big number—well over one hundred thousand dollars.
Bello lets them know. Worried that the high price tag might blow the project out of the water, we hold our breath.
A few days later, Bello calls.
“Production costs approved,” he says, “but something else has not been approved.”
“What’s that?”
“They don’t want to call it the Wheel of Death.”
“Why not?”
“They think it’s too negative, too scary.”
“Circuses have been calling it the Wheel of Death for decades. Fans know it by that name. It’s a great name. It implies danger and daring.”
“Ringling doesn’t want to imply death,” says Bello. “Remember Neville Campbell, the Englishman who performed on the wheel in 1994?”
“I do. He was a young guy, only twenty. He lost control during the act and fell some fifteen feet…”
“And died. Ringling doesn’t want to conjure up memories of death.”
“So what do th
ey want to call it? The Wheel of Life?”
“The Wheel of Steel.”
“The Wheel of Steel is cool,” I say, “as long as we still have a deal.”
“We do,” says Bello. “They also want to name the entire show after me.”
“Wow! Has Ringling ever done that before?”
“Never in their history. They want to call it Bellobration. What do you think?”
“I think you deserve it, and I’m happy to be along for the ride.”
“I just want to keep testing out that metal and make sure it does what your uncle says it will.”
The metal passes the test, holds firm, and, doing our hijinks inside the wheel, we’re feeling steadier with every passing day.
With a new name for the stunt and a new name for the entire show, Bello and I are ready to roll. After months of arduous practice in his backyard, here comes Bellobration.
Bellobration debuts in Tampa. The press has been primed and pumped. The public has expressed curiosity. Ringling has gone all out. There are Bellobration ads and posters everywhere you look.
The opening is spectacular. There’s an original song celebrating Bellobration. There are elephants and dozens of Bellolike clowns who, with their sky-high flaming-red crew cuts, are dressed to mirror the man himself.
The man himself is introduced with great fanfare. It’s Bello—Mr. Exuberance, Mr. Upbeat, Mr. Fun, a fabulous character who combines the floppy charm of a clown with the sleek audacity of a daredevil. Everyone, from grandparents to grandkids, loves Bello.
Bello and Erendira perform on two sway poles, some seventy-three feet tall. The poles sway twenty feet in every direction. They expand the repertoire, doing more elaborate tricks as they leap from one pole to the other. All this happens in the first half of the show.
In the second half, after a variety of other circus acts, it’s time for the main attraction, the Wheel of Steel. Even in its traditional guise—a double wheel revolving thirty-nine feet off the ground—the act is nothing less than spectacular. The crowd is amazed at our dexterity inside our individual wheels. We run, jump, flip, and twist ourselves in every position imaginable. But then comes the moment: The lights go dim and, after a thunderous boom, fireworks explode and suddenly the double wheel duplicates itself and there are four spinning cylinders. The crowd gasps. The crowd loves it. The press loves it. The reviews are off the chart. The crowds grow. In its first-time-ever package named for a single performer, the Greatest Show on Earth has refurbished its image. We tour for over two years, playing before 5 million people in eighty cities. Any way you look at it, Bellobration is a hit show.
14
Raw Ego
It’s 2007 and I’m twenty-eight years old. We’re on a brief break from Bellobration. I’m back home in Sarasota. It’s early morning. Erendira and the kids are still asleep.
I’m up early. I make a pot of coffee, a couple pieces of toast, and sit down for my morning devotion. Every morning is a good morning to talk to God.
I open the Bible to John. I love John’s unbridled enthusiasm and great love for the Lord. John never fails to move me. I especially cherish John 3:16, one of my favorite of all passages, which says, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” My eyes go down the page to John 3:21: “But he who does the truth comes to the Light, so that his deeds may be clearly seen, that they have been done in God.”
I want to live in the light. I want my deeds to reflect that light. I want to be seen as a man whose accomplishments are the result of faith. I want the glory to go to God.
But I also want to amplify those accomplishments. And, if I am to be honest, I want a degree of glory for myself. My love of the Lord and my raw ego exist together.
“Your ego comes on like he’s your best friend,” says a Christian elder whose spiritual wisdom I seek, “but he also wants to kill you.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Your ego seeks praise. Your ego seeks the world’s attention and the world’s validation. Your ego gives you the idea that he’s protecting you from starvation or neglect. But your ego can’t get enough attention. He can’t get enough praise. Your ego needs to grab all the glory. Your ego will sap your spirit with its insatiable need for adulation. Your raw ego sees itself, and not God, as the center of your world.”
“But no one can cut himself off from his ego,” I say. “Isn’t it your ego that gives you the motivation to get out there and do the impossible?”
“Your ego is part of you,” says the elder. “And yes, your ego is part of your motivation—to be seen, recognized, and appreciated.”
“I grew up in a world of big-time egos,” I say. “You can’t be a circus performer and not have a big ego. It goes with the territory. My forebears all had giant-sized egos. Each of them yearned for greater fame and immortality.”
“In your business egomania may be an occupational hazard.”
“It is,” I say.
“That won’t change. But what can change is your conscious recognition of your ego. If the ego’s compulsive appetite is recognized, we have a chance to curb it. We need to step out of our ego and look back at it. We need distance from our ego. Yes, it’s powerful; yes, it’s always going to be there. But does it have to control us?”
“I keep hearing that word ‘control,’ ” I say. “My wife is convinced I want to control her and every last detail of her life.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t think so. I just don’t like the feeling of being out of control. I’ve always thought being in control is a good thing.”
“It is—in certain areas. In others, it’s not. I guess the paradox is feeling that we must be in control while, at the same time, knowing that it’s God who’s in control.”
“And does that mean,” I ask, “giving up all control?”
“No. It means being thoughtful and reflective about when your raw ego, and not God, is ruling your spirit.”
Conversations like this are helpful. I’m always in close touch with my spiritual mentors. Guys like Chris Ripo and Joseph Mascitto help me manage the thoughts running through my mind. But managing my ego is another challenge altogether.
As a part of Bellobration, I see the wondrous benefits of a show that features a single artist. I’m glad to contribute to Bello’s celebrity. With my red-haired crew cut piled high like his, I’m happy to be a Bello disciple. He’s a generous mentor of mine, plus he’s an incredible artist. But I also can’t see myself continuing to work in his shadow. I have too high an opinion of my own skills not to pursue greater stardom for myself.
Is that ego?
Yes.
But is that attitude necessary to get where I want to go?
Yes.
Bello is the first guy to encourage me to step out on my own again, and in his encouragement I detect a note of hesitancy. We are two highly competitive men. Were we not, we couldn’t be leaders in our field. We both see ourselves as champions. I have certainly championed his cause and I feel that he wants to champion mine. But that is difficult for him. I certainly understand. Were I the ruling king I might also be hesitant about encouraging a young upstart. Being brothers in Christ doesn’t mean that our raw egos are not overactive. We are two overdriven men.
Friendship among men—especially ambitious men competing in the same field—is tricky business. Even when such friendships are based on mutual respect, they aren’t easy to maintain. I try. And I believe Bello tries, but I also know that both of us realize that I have to go my own way. I suspect that the thought—that I might come up with the next big thing—might make Bello a little uneasy.
No matter, as Bellobration winds down, I realize I need to wind up the Nik Wallenda brand. This is when my conversations with David Simone become more frequent. He and partner Winston Simone—they share a last name but are not related—run a top-flight management firm. They’re seasoned professionals with great co
ntacts in the entertainment world of big-time media. They sense my ambition, I sense theirs, and I’m eager to work with them.
“We like you, Nik,” says Winston. “You’ve got a good personality. You’ve got the All-American look, and you do all these mind-bending feats. But before we sign you up, we need something tangible to show a promoter. Give us a call when you have an idea for a big project—something, for instance, that can turn into a TV special.”
I love the idea of a TV special, but, in truth, I don’t have an idea. I tell Winston and David that I’ll be in touch as soon as I do.
My mind starts reeling. I need to come up with something big. Meanwhile, family first. I have a short winter vacation planned in Orlando.
I’m happy to go, happy to take a short break from Ringling, happy to be with Erendira and the kids. We do Disney World, exploring everything from Epcot to Magic Kingdom Park to Typhoon Lagoon. The kids have a blast. Erendira is relaxed, but I’m not. My mind can’t stop searching for the idea that could enlist the Simones as my managers.
“It needs to be something never done before,” I tell Erendira.
“That’s what you always say, Nik. And you always manage to come up with something.”
“But this can’t be just another pyramid or a trick on the wire.”
“I understand,” says Erendira. “It has to be grand enough to merit its own TV special.”
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me, Nik. I said it has to be grand enough to merit a television special.”
“Grand. You used the word ‘grand.’ Something grand. Well, isn’t the Grand Canyon grand?”
“You mean walk across the Grand Canyon?”
“Why not?”
“At what point?”
“There’s probably any number of feasible points. I’m sure that could be figured out. But can you imagine it, Erendira, can you envision the drama of such a walk?”
“I can. I think it’s the idea you’ve been looking for.”
“That’s the kind of idea we can sell,” says Winston Simone when I call him the next day. “Let me see if I can set the wheels in motion.”
