Sheet Metal Warriors

I discovered demolition derbies in a small town outside of Mobile, Alabama in the early eighties. By discovered, I mean to say, I became aware of them as a sport that could be watched and enjoyed like any mainstream sport like baseball or football.

I was working on location in Florida, and with time to kill, a fellow worker and I decided to travel north to Mobile. Driving down a dirt road just across the Florida border, we came across a rusted old car sitting by the side of the road. Crudely painted, on the badly dented door panels, was a message advertising a demolition derby just one mile down the road.
 

© tom stoye

© tom stoye

I had watched demolition derbies on Wide World of Sports as a child, and I vaguely recall seeing a demo-derby at the State Fair in my youth, but these were distant memories clouded by the passage of time. It would be another 15 years before I became completely hooked on attending local derbies in my home state of Michigan, but it was the derby in Alabama that set the table for my yearly ritual of taking my family to small towns and county fairs, to watch sheet metal warriors compete for the privilege of being the last engine running.

To drive in a derby requires a special breed of person. Like a good home cooked meal, drivers spend countless hours in preparation; only to see it end in a matter of minutes.  Preparation for a demo derby is a continuous year-long endeavor that requires a team effort from friends and family, who bring whatever they have to the table, to transform beaten down cars into derby-ready behemoths, ready to smash their way to derby fame. It’s a true labor of love for anyone wanting to participate.

At the Chelsea Community Fair in Chelsea, Michigan, thousands of fans line the bleachers. Many will get there hours ahead of time, in order to save prime seats for friends and family wanting to sit close to the action. To occupy the lower rows of bleacher seats, you are bravely accepting the fact that you will  soon be subjected to the onslaught of flying mud that will most assuredly find its way unto your face and clothing during the course of the evening.

© tom stoye

© tom stoye

Just prior to the start of the first heat, a fire truck wets down the dry dirt track. Once the track is fully mudded, the public address announcer introduces the drivers one by one, as they slowly make there way onto the track. In a deep raucous baritone, the announcer then barks into the microphone, “What you are about to see is complete and total destruction.” This is predictably announced every year before the start of the race, but regardless of its regularity, on cue, the crowd responds with a rowdy cheer.

Each car is covered with rudimentary spray painted numbers, and then accented with creative flourishes or folksy messages that proudly pay homage to local businesses or individuals willing to kick in a few hundred bucks to sponsor cash strapped drivers. Drivers then line up their vehicles on the perimeter of the arena with their rear bumpers pointing towards the inside of the track oval. There are crowd favorites like Rick Beeman, who has been driving derbies for some forty years now, who when announced, gets a standing ovation from appreciative fans.

Once the drivers are ready and the track officials block in the arena entrance, the siren sounds and the mayhem begins. One by one, cars are eliminated from the pack, as cars give way to failed engines or torn radiator hoses, or simply fall apart as wheels and bumpers are ripped away from their chassis. As each heat ends, drivers take their wounded cars back to the pit where teams of resourceful mechanics armed with pry bars, sledgehammers, welding torches, and focused determination, make frenzied repairs, before the drivers  make their way back to the feature event. For those who don’t qualify, their mangled cars are taken from the arena to the back nine, where they’re loaded on to a flatbed, to be hauled away at the end of the evening.

© tom stoye

© tom stoye

The feature event is made up of the top finishers from each heat, and God willing they’re able to rescue what’s left of their cars before they advance to the next round. There’s a lot of luck involved to make it to the feature, but you’ll continually see the same skilled drivers, year after year, who find their way back.

What makes the feature event so compelling, is that the drivers will spend the better part of a year working on cars in order to make it through the first heat, then somehow find a way to perform all the necessary repairs in less than an hour, so they can get their cars up and running before the feature. Up for the task, they perform mechanical miracles to recuscitate dying cars, willing them back to life, by whatever means necessary.

© tom stoye

When it’s all over and done with, the winner will gladly walk home with cash in hand and bragging rights till next year’s derby. But you’ll be hard pressed to find the losers licking their wounds. In a demolition derby, you’ll rarely find a losing driver playing the role of what you preconceive a loser should look and act like. They’ll more than likely find their way back to the pit, crack open a cold one, then celebrate with friends and family as another derby season comes to pass.