Spectacle of demolition derby excites all kinds

After all, who forgets a car accident?

On a spectacular day in late August, my relatively pristine ride and I traveled from Ann Arbor, and its haughty air of sparkling automobiles, to Monroe County, Mich., for the county fair.

As one might expect, the lineup to enter the fairgrounds stretched as far as the eye could see. The quasi-parking lot lay rows deep with pickup trucks, sedans and sport-utility vehicles, but mostly it was swarming with ordinary people.

For a young child, a fair of this magnitude, with rides, games and animals, is like an offensive lineman at Old Country Buffet. There are just too many options.

But my sheltered suburban existence drew me away from the tilt-a-whirl, cotton candy and blue ribbons for the fattest pig. My ears dragged me to the roar of the engines and the cranking of carbeurators.

I was going to watch a demolition derby.

Entering the event, I was determined to keep an open mind. Sports are sports and, after all, aren't events like this keeping the hallowed Silverdome on life support?

The track itself was nothing special. A large expanse of dirt sat awaiting its next moment of glory. But the grandstands surrounding the event were enormous. Thousands packed the wooden benches, shoulder-to-shoulder in anticipation.

Not a single witness went home unfulfilled.

The goal of the event? To bust up everyone else's car until yours is the only one running, regardless of its condition.

Talk about road rage ... this was encouraged fury. And the fans loved it.

The derby began with the monster car introduction.

"Welcome to the Monroe County Fair for this evening's demolition derby!" bellowed the announcer from his rinkside perch.

The crowd roared its approval. One by one, the first heat of damaged, refurbished, generally old-and-shitty quasi-automobiles lined up side-by-side facing the covered grandstand. And as the engines fired on the 1.5 cylinders that remained after they had been stripped of nearly all dignity, another thunderous roar emanated from the masses. But because this was a family event, safety became an issue.

So the fair organizers established some rules - purportedly for the drivers' safety, but more for the fans' reassurance. The rules were:

1. Make sure your doors are welded shut.

2. Get out of the car when it catches fire.

Now tell me that's not a conflict of interest.

But, judging from the clientele, personal safety was secondary to the little copper trophy awarded to the winner. The image of a new spitoon was enough to motivate many of the drivers.

Once the game began it was war. Backward, forward, sideways, it didn't matter. Cars crunched, fans ooohed and aahed and pieces of bodies (car bodies, not people bodies) launched in all directions.

Each car that fell casualty to a dead engine or an inability to move - like it was still on the cinderblocks at home - was stripped of its white flag and eliminated from the competition.

This continued through seven or eight heats, before the top two finishers from each outing advanced to the championship round.

As I strode around the grandstand, the comments varied from excitement to caution to anticipation. One distinguished gentleman, after eating a faceful of mud from a spinning wheel, began screaming eloquently back at the now-immobile cars.

"Dammit! I gots sprayed!"

The devastated cars, whose owners used the Dukes of Hazzard method to exit their vehicles, received the royal treatment. Bulldozers entered the track from one end zone, picked up three cars at a time and promptly deposited them into the world's largest trash compactor.

You think Superman had it rough in Superman II? These cars got squashed like the jaws of life in reverse. It was chrome sandwiches for all.

The sad part of all this is the time and effort each driver displayed. While it may not take extreme effort to crash into other cars - I have friends who could teach these drivers a thing or two - painstaking preparation occurred in the design phase.

Each car - before it was squashed like the New York Mets' playoff hopes - was meticulously detailed with paint. Albeit, some was random spray paint, but most was in classic designs which would appeal to the fans in attendance.

One car looked like the tank/float from Animal House. Another was covered in Looney Toons and still another paid homage to The Intimidator, Dale Earnhardt.

But in the end, despite a disputed finish, everyone went home happy. Racers fulfilled their competitive drive and got to mess up a car. Fans paid to get sprayed. And I left dreaming of Scotch-tape bumpers and busted mufflers, just like a little kid. It was heaven on dirt.

I wonder where my Matchbox cars are?

- Mark Snyder can be reached via e-mail at msnyder@umich.edu.

Mark Snyder The Daily Grind

10-01-98