Demolition derby

I was reminiscing the other day and the first demolition derby I drove in came to mind.

My cousin James had an '88 Dodge Dynasty with a 3.0L V6 engine. He decided to get rid of it when the transmission went out. It went into "Limp Mode" so that only second and reverse would work. Since the engine was healthy and it went forwards and backwards, I figured I'd derby it. I paid him $75 and agreed that he could ride shotgun during the race.

I worked long and hard on the Dodge. I started with the most important things, the gas tank and battery. Both have to be moved and that is the hardest part of the build. I pulled the back seat and cut the gas tank from underneath. After installing and strapping it down where the rear seat went, I drilled a hole in the floor so the electrical and fuel lines can come through. The battery was a little easier. I drilled another hole in the floor and ran cable extensions from the stock cables. The battery sat in between the front seats, down in the footwell. Then, came the fun part. The taillights came out, exhaust was cut off after the cat, the trunk carpet and spare came next. The headlights were pulled and two triangle holes were cut in the hood to allow the fire extinguisher in. I chose triangles because they look almost stock. I busted the windows with a sledge and that brought on the second hardest stage in the build, cleaning the glass. The windshield stayed in. I didn't want to get into cleaning that up. I had mounted a set of 195/75R14 whitewall mud tires on the front wheels. They came off a '78 Cutlass. We used only white paint. My number has always been 55 since the track is the only place that I can actually drive 55. I used my usual slogans like "Die trying" and "Kill 'em all" and "save the world, kill yourself". I painted "Road Warrior" on the front fenders and my "Suicide Squad" logo, which is a guy shooting himself in the head. On the roof, I painted my TV head guy. It's a guy in a suit with a TV for a head, usually holding a weapon. That year, it was a flamethrower. I chained the doors shut and locked them and the car was ready.

My Cousin Mike kept telling me to bolt the hood and trunk down. I didn't listen. I just wanted it done. I rented a tow dolly and hitched it to the back of my Caprice. Tomorrow would be a wild day.

I got everyone up at 6am. I wanted to be there early in case something went wrong. Even though the sun was just coming up, it was already warm. I was hungry and thirsty, but I wanted to get there at all costs. The whipped old Caprice pulled the dolly nicely, despite the 394000 miles on the odometer. I drank a ton of water that day, not realizing that it would sap all my electrolytes. I was already feeling weary.

We sat on lawn chairs, myself, James, and Mike. I checked and double checked the gas and battery. I started the car every hour to make sure nothing strange would happen. I wasn't gonna wait another year because of something stupid. all systems were go. It seemed like eons had rolled by when 11am came around. The stands were filled with eager fans. My parents, cousins, coworkers, friends, my boss, and most of the people in Lake County were there.

The announcer was talking to the crowd as another hour went by. We were slated to be in the first race, just the way I wanted it. I surveyed the other cars in our heat. ALL of them were big GMs and Fords from the 70s and 80s. Half of the 12 cars were station wagons. The scariest one was a '76 Grand Marquis painted all black. We were the smallest car in our heat, and in the entire derby. I can't remember if compact cars had their own race, but for the full-size guys, we were the underdogs. Finally, he asked everyone to rise for the national anthem. I stood, with my hat on my chest as the rockets red blare and bombs bursted in air. With 9/11 still relatively fresh on everyone's minds (it was 2003), it still hit home. The song ended and we were given the signal to saddle up.

I had never been so nervous in my whole life. There was a crushing pain in my chest and my heart was in my throat. I felt lightheaded as I opened the driver's door and hopped inside. James did the same and we slammed and locked the doors. The chains went around and helmets went on. With the exhaust gone, the engine noise was deafening. I had to read the tach to make sure the engine was still running. We looked at each other as the flagman waved us into the arena. We were the first car on the track on the first heat of the Lake County Fair for 2003. The flagman yelled something to me through the window and I think it was "Go park in the corner", but I'm not sure. I pulled into the middle of the track and decided to show off. I slammed the car in reverse and did a reverse donut. The crowd went crazy. They were really hyped up. I pulled into the corner, banging on the hood as the mighty, little V6 pulled us along. I adjusted the rearview mirror on the windshield. We both turned back to see what else was coming on the track. The Caprices, Crown Victorias and Cadillac entered the track. I saw that monster Mercury saunter onto the track. It drove like a mastodon through a tarpit with it's worn out whitewall street tires. It parked on the other side of the track with it's back bumper facing our back bumper. The driver turned around and made a gesture like he shot us. I gulped.

I turned around and ran through my strategy. Keep moving, float like a Cadillac, sting like a Beemer. My secret weapon was agility. A smaller car traveling at a faster velocity should equal a greater force, right? I actually asked myself that question, idling on the track. "Right?"

The announcer started counting down. "5..." The crowd counted with them. "4..." All I could hear was the roar of the crowd, the idling of the engine, the nagging fears, the worry, the angst... "3..." My cousin turned to me and yelled something. He had an expression of a deranged man. The anticipation of doing something that most people would never have thought of doing in there entire lifetime, the opportunity to act so irresponsibly and reckless, was overwhelmingly. "2..." My throat was dry, my head pounding, my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles were white. "1..." I revved the engine to 2500 rpm. I turned around and gazed upon the mammoth Carter-era Mercury. The car outweighed us be 1200 lbs, easy. It's engine was three times bigger than ours. I saw the driver's eyes, burned red by the fuel of rage and automotive aggression. I didn't know Satan liked Mercurys. All I felt was the thumping of my heart, nothing else. At that instant, there were no cars, no dirt track, no crowd, no noise... nothing...

"GREEN FLAG!!! LET'S GET RACING!!!"

I didn't hear the announcement, but I anticipated it. I released the brake and the Dynasty catapulted backwards across the track. The engine wound up like a top. The front tires churned mud, but caught a good grip. The Dodge was at 20 mph when everyone else was spinning tires. The Mercury grew in our rear window. It's massive steel bumper looming over our midsized suicide booth. I thought I should turn around, but I wanted to make sure I got a good hit. I think I hit that Merc doing 35 mph. The impact was as if God had dropped kicked our car straight to Hell. I felt like a mouse in a coffee can as some sadistic kid was shaking the hell out of it. I felt muscles in my torso being stretched and bent in ways they were never supposed to go.  The impact was so great, that the steering wheel bent and the front seat brackets pulled out of the floor. I had slammed the column shift into drive and had the gas down. I glanced at the rearview mirror and found it missing. It turned up later in the backseat. It was automatically printed in my brain to keep the pedal down and just slam it from reverse to drive and back when I wanted to change directions.

I was struggling with putting my brains back in my head. James was yelling something at me, but I still couldn't understand him. The front tires churned mud, trying to break free from the '76 Grand Mess. He had the gas floored, and he was actually pulling us around the track. We were playing "Tug-of-War" of Doom and we were losing. I saw a '78 Pontiac out of my driver's window. He was gunning around the straightaway, trying to get at our radiator. I revved and revved, the tach bumped 6000 rpm. I turned back and from out of nowhere, light a white knight, a big white Cadillac with a plastic hypodermic needle bolted to the roof rammed THROUGH our intertwined cars. He cut through us like a hot knife through butter. Dr. Demo in the #911 car had saved us. The Dodge was freed and the front end quickly dug in. She pulled and pulled, scrambling for every ounce of horsepower that the 3.0L could provide. The "Temp" light flicked on for a second and flicked back off. The Dodge was in motion. That Pontiac presented his driver's quarter panel to me as if to say "Come on, free shot." I gladly obliged. The Pontiac swung away like a door and we kept going, sending pieces of fiberglass flying from the impact. We made a few hits, but I kept the Dodge running. We circled the big pile of cars that had amassed in the center of the track. I turned the corner and slammed a station wagon. IT barely phased the Custom Cruiser. I looked up and the black Pontiac slid into view. The long, black car had its passenger side exposed. I could track shot him in the wheel and put him away for good. It was like an automotive "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly." A swirl of dust kicked up and we locked eyes. The driver of the Pontiac saw my intentions and revved the engine. The rear wheels spun like mad as he presented the big, chrome grille to us. The front end dipped as he goosed the throttle once again. I stabbed the gas and let the V6 ring. I floored it sending the Dodge on a kamikaze run towards All-American glory, fame and fortune or instant death. He sent the Pontiac flying towards us. The big Bonneville loomed over us. I braced for impact and yelled at the top of my lungs.

When I came to, I saw nothing but grey sheetmetal and cracked windshield glass. I smelled the steam, the burnt oil, the unburned fuel, and I could taste the anti-freeze. My brains couldn't form a single thought. My mind was a pile of sludge. I tried to focus. I looked at my cousin. He was holding his helmet and mouthing words. I couldn't focus. "What happened?" "What do I do?!" Uhhh...The dash. The dash. THE DASH! The almighty dash will tell me what to do! I gazed down at the dash. EVERY single warning light was illuminated. It was like a sucker-punch to my thought processes. I looked at the tachometer. 800 rpm. 800 RPM!!!! I yelled out a "WHOOO!!! 800 RPM!!!" to my cousin. He looked at me with a dumbfounded look. His bloodshot eyes pierced my euphoria. I grabbed him by the collar and screamed "800 RPM! The engine's still running!!! WHOOO!!!" I slammed the car in reverse and floored the gas.

I was satisfied in the fact that the Pontiac never moved under it's own power. The engine chugged hard and the car lumbered around the track.  We were basically getting hit, and every once in a while, we would feebly hit another car. I circled the center pile of junk, building speed, looking for that one sweet target in which I can give the Dodge an honorable death. I was peering out from under the hood, barely able to see through the steam and cracks through the windshield. I caught a glimpse of something chrome and moving. I floored the gas and piloted the Dynasty towards the shiny chrome. The Dodge complied and headed towards the light. We hit whatever it was doing 30 mph. There was a teeth-grinding, cataclysmic sound of crunching metal. We flew forward against the seatbelts one last time. The car we hit went up over the engine and opened the front end of the Dodge like a can opener. The tach sunk to 0 RPM. The Dodge was dead. I tried the ignition key. The engine cranked and cranked. I tried repeatedly until my cousin yelled at me to stop. I turned the ignition off and sat back in the upholstered seat. The race went on for another couple of minutes. Mighty Detroit behemoths clashed like rams butting heads. The big V8s spit ungodly noise and fire from the zoomie exhaust pipes.

James and I kept ourselves busy by throwing stuff out the window. The rearview mirror, the ashtray, the wooden stick that was duct taped to the b pillar, indicating we were still in the race, all went out the window. Finally, the race was over. I forgot who won. James and I climbed out of the wreckage. The Dodge was literally squished into half of it's original size. The rear bumper was pushed all the way into the rear axle and the axle was where the rear seat should've been. The front end was peeled away from the bumper. The grille, radiator, core support and the front half of the engine was flattened. The hood was bent in half and leaning against the cracked windshield. Both fenders were obliterated. I could hear my cousin Mike's words playing in my head. "You should've bolted the hood down." It turned out that we rearended a Caprice and it's back end drug over the top of our engine. The distributor cap lay in the mud, useless. The doors would no longer open, considering that they were bent so that daylight showed through the jams. All four tires were flat. IT was no longer a motor vehicle.

The forklift hoisted the pile of scrap that was once a Dodge into the air. Parts fell off the wreckage as it was towed away in view of thousands of screaming fans. They dropped it off in the pits. As a souvenir, I pulled the front right fender off, since it was mostly ripped off, anyways. We stared at the wreckage for some time. I placed my hand on the roof of the battered sedan. "Thanks, friend. You died honorably." James and I turned and walked back to the Caprice, with the sun setting over the Dodge at our backs. The Dynasty had come to and end.

6-14-11
John C Kreuz