August
2005 - As we enjoyed a beer at a small Worcester pub, my brother looked
at me incredulously. “And you want to get into multiple head-on
collisions why?” All I could offer for a reason was that it sounded
like fun. My brother, who knew that the derbies involved lots of old junk
cars limping into a mud-filled field and trying to smash the living daylights
out of each other, simply shook his head.Earlier in the day, I’d actually signed up to participate in the demolition derby at the annual Spencer Country Fair (of course, for some people, the demo IS the Spencer Fair, but…), hoping to wind up the last man standing – or rather idling – and to take the trophy and cash prize).
I had to work fast. I had to find a suitable car. While I tend to gravitate towards GM cars in “real” life, I knew that a large Ford would be ideal for the derby since Fords are structurally solid and have one great advantage: Their gas tanks are well protected in the middle of the car. This placement is important given that I expected to have my car bent and punctured and smashed to Kingdom Come and running out of gas – or exploding in flame – due to a punctured tank would be no fun at all.
The Demo Gods were smiling on me; the local paper had a 1984 Ford Crown Victoria advertised for the princely sum of $100. I bought it immediately, coaxing it onto my flatbed trailer (a sure sign that I’m obsessed with old cars – I keep at flatbed trailer at the ready in my yard!) and carting it away. Soon the old girl, a lovely shade of powder blue and hiding a killer V-8 under her hood, was sitting in my driveway. She ran, too, although not without some disconcerting noise emanating from beneath her hood. Ugly, cheap, powerful and MINE, she was perfect!
Half the fun of demo derbies is preparing the car for the day of the race. Most of the glass from the car had to be removed, as did all mirrors, trim, lights, etc. A few baseball bats, crowbars, and well-placed kicks later, my Derby Queen was stripped down to her basics. And knowing that my very proper neighbors would now think twice before coming over to borrow a cup of sugar (funny, how smashing a car with baseball bats will have that effect!) made the process even sweeter.
Next came painting. I had been assigned Number 29, which I prominently painted on both sides and the roof. In addition to the numbers, I thought my car needed some artwork to set it apart from the rest. Not that powder blue isn’t intimidating on its own, but I added a custom- designed shark’s mouth to both sides of the car, snarling back from just above the front tires. By the time I was finished, my car was a hideous masterpiece!
Race day arrived and my nerves were shot. The car was ready, carrying the two gallons of gas that we were each allowed to have in our tanks, but next to all the huge station wagons, Cadillacs, Lincolns, and other formerly roadworthy tanks my Ford looked like Pee-Wee Herman about to square off against Evander Holyfield. Not good odds to start, but I would have to make the best of it.
There were about 30 of us crowded into the muddy field. And once the green flag dropped, all hell broke loose. The sound of crunching and collapsing metal and spinning wheels became deafening. Steam from broken radiators and blown engines made the air thick and difficult to breathe. The audience – mostly die-hard fans and family members of the competitors – screamed from the stands. I was busy using the back end of my car to crash into my opponents. I was doing pretty well, not suffering too many hits, until CRACK, out of nowhere someone hit me. I thought I was done for, but my old Ford just brushed off the attacker. Back into battle I went.
More hits, more flying mud, more leaking fluids, more smoke, and – worst of all – a lot more noise from the Ford’s engine. Apparently, my last minute idea of adding oil treatment was not enough to keep the old girl quiet. But despite the noise, she kept going. The inside of the Ford filled with smoke as the engine got worse and worse. I continued to pulverize my enemies, crashing into them where I knew I could cause the most damage, and one by one the others cars expired from all the abuse.
Soon there were only three of us left. The field was much quieter, and I heard the announcer shouting that he couldn’t believe that #29 (that’s me!) was still running given all the engine trouble it sounded like I was having. I was pumped. Only two more cars to eliminate and then I could claim victory! Suddenly, one of them slammed into my side. I heard a loud pop as one of my rear tires exploded. Moving in any direction became nearly impossible as the car sank down in the mud because of the blown tire. Luckily, right after my tire exploded so did the car that had hit me. Down to two of us! We squared off against each other with the knock knock of my engine keeping time. Both of us were very badly damaged, and soon the announcer called the race. My Ford was still running, but too weakly in the announcer’s mind for me to continue or take first place. I had won second place, complete with the coveted trophy to confirm my insanity for generations to come.
So no, it makes no sense, this demo derby thing, signing up for the specific purpose of getting into car crashes. I can see where sane people might want to avoid junk cars, mud, jarred bones, rattled nerves and possible explosions
whenever possible. But talk about an adrenaline rush and the thrill of getting the last bit of life out of an old machine ~ you just have to experience it to appreciate it!