Human cannonball lands a place in circus history

HOUSTON — The tigers have been tamed, the clowns have poured out of the Volkswagen, the acrobats have returned to Earth.

But the circus ain't over until Jon Weiss flies out of the cannon.

"It's a tradition," says Weiss. "If you think of the circus, what do you think of? Clowns, elephants, trapeze artists and the human cannonball."

Weiss, 41, has more than a century of history to back him up. Different sources disagree on details, but the entertainment value of watching a person get hurled into the air goes back to the 1870s.

For the 132nd edition of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, the human cannonball closes the show.

Can it really be that dangerous? As Weiss zips around Houston's Compaq Center on a motorcycle, ringmaster Kevin Venardos warns of the perils in apocalyptic tones.

"... A HUMONGOUS, HAIR-RAISING, HUMAN-SHOOTING CANNON OF CHAOS ... "

On one hand, Weiss has done this about 5,500 times since 1987, three times a day on many weekends. With a big smile and arms outstretched to the crowd, he doesn't seem particularly nervous.

His resilience and good humor are currently being displayed on "The Amazing Race," a CBS reality show where daring duos dash around the world performing feats of skill and savvy. Weiss and Al Rios, a former circus clown, are among four teams remaining on the show.

A profession of pain

The proud history of human cannonballs includes a lot of pain. Circus reference works quote A.H. Coxe, a late British historian, as documenting 30 deaths in the profession.

"The flying is the easy part," Weiss says, breaking into a smile for a punch line he's repeated countless times. "It's the landing you need to worry about."

Weiss started as a clown. He grew up on Long Island, where he was a funny guy who could balance anything on his chin.

He joined the circus in 1982 and spent five years in Clown Alley. He loved his work, loved the nomadic life, but knew "that the average length of a clown's career was about five years."

One day there was an opening — in the barrel of a cannon.

"I'd admired the cannon act for a long time," Weiss says. "We had a double-barreled act then, with two guys going at the same time. But one of the human cannonballs was getting banged up pretty bad, and he really didn't want to do it anymore. So I said I wanted to try it."

You'd like to think that in modern-day America, any kid can aspire to become a human cannonball. But Weiss says that wasn't always the case.

"A lot of people said, 'A clown can't do that,' " he says. "And a lot of circus acts are family affairs that go from generation to generation. There was a lot of 'A Long Island kid? No way.' All the negativity just made me more determined."

He got his shot, so to speak. The first flight was all of six feet.

"I still have a video of the first one," Weiss says. "You can see I was in shock."

But he blasted a little higher and farther each time, watching the tapes to hone his technique and build his confidence.

He married his high-school sweetheart, Laura, in 1986 in the ring at Madison Square Garden. They have three children, 8, 6 and 3, and travel the Ringling Bros. circuit in a motor home.

"People think it's tough on a family, but it's just the opposite," he says. "We're always together. I do what I do so I can be with my kids."

Hydraulics do the trick

It's not really a cannon, but the cannonballs really fly. People in the human artillery business guard their trade secrets, but it's generally acknowledged that hydraulic systems are catapulting people from souped-up cylinders. Any booms and flames and smoke are just special effects.

Weiss can reveal that he's sitting on something resembling a bicycle seat. Inside, he can talk on a wireless intercom to his wife, who'll actually push the button.

"She's my eyes and ears out there," he says. "Luckily, we have a good relationship."

When he's ready, Laura Weiss pulls two steel rods out of the cannon that block it from firing prematurely — a safety system that Weiss designed. As the ringmaster bellows the countdown, Laura repeats it for Jon.

He clenches his fists, locks his arms and puts his head back. At "2," he takes a breath, closes his eyes and locks his jaw.

"You try to create one muscle out of your body," he says.

Then he blacks out.

"By the time I'm aware of where I am, I'm probably 20 feet out of the cannon," he says. "Then I stretch out, like I'm flying. Then I'm looking for the net."

During the brief flight, he rotates his body so his back will hit first. At the last moment, he tucks his head to minimize the impact.

Usually, it works. Weiss has a substantial list of work-related injuries, including whiplashes, back strains, sore noses, twisted fingers and one very messed-up Achilles' tendon. His costume now includes back and knee braces.

Twice during his tenure, the cannon failed to fire, and Weiss climbed out somewhat sheepishly. Once it fired, but not enough.

"I'm wondering, 'Why am I coming out so slow?' " he recalls. "I'm flapping my arms and grabbing air, like in a cartoon, but somehow I made it to the net.

"Those are the moments when you question your life — 'Should I be doing what I'm doing?'

"But I'm very good at my craft," he concludes. "And I'm the longest-lasting person to do the act in the 132 years of this circus."