There’s nothing like the smell of gas and exhaust accompanied by the ear-splitting roar of revving engines to get your blood pumping. Combine that with the possibility of having to dive to safety at any given moment and you have the demolition derby.
I attended the derby at the fair last week and walked away with more than I expected. Literally, I walked away covered in mud, like I had taken a mud bath. There was mud everywhere, my legs, shirt, hat, cameras and places I’m still trying to figure out how the mud got there. It took two good bath to get it all off and it wasn’t even Saturday night.
Of course, it could have been a lot worse had I taken up the offer of the demolition derby’s coordinator.
“Hey, do you mind if I stand here on the fence,” I asked him as I was perched on the stairs to the scoring box.
“You can come down here if you want and run around with me,” the man offered. “Just be ready to jump out of the way.”
At first I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. Hey, y’all don’t know me yet but those who do know I’m a risk taker. I’m the guy who will eat the ghost pepper and I sometimes drive 11 miles above the speed limit on the interstate. That’s right, I’m a modern day Billy the Kid.
“That’s okay,” I cleared my throat. “I think I can get good shots from up here.”
He smiled. “Uh huh,” he replied, likely sizing me up as a big sissy. I’m not a big sissy, I just don’t want to show up on YouTube being run over by a junked Chrysler.
Even though I opted to stay on the “safe side” of the fence, it soon became evident it was to be an interactive show as I was splashed with mud as the vehicles sped around the arena, slamming into one another. And, let me point out, that mud moves at high velocity. One of my friends told me he got some mud slung in his eye a few years ago at the derby and had to be tended by ambulance personnel.
However, being a daring person I am, I hung in there, joined on the fence by several teen-agers who were having a ball watching the carnage. There was one kid in particular who was whooping and hollering at the top of his lungs, shouting with every collision.
“Did you see that!?!” he exclaimed to one of his friends just as one of the cars came by, spraying everyone with mud. “That was …”
He was cut off in mid-exclamation as a chunk of mud went flying into his open mouth. He hacked and coughed, finally clearing the hunk of fairgrounds from his esophagus.
“Would you like some dessert with your dinner?” I asked, being the wise guy, getting laughs from his buddies.
After getting my pictures, I headed back down the hill to the midway, passing several people who had been watching the pageants. Several slowed and looked at me, one woman stopping me.
“What happened to you?” she sized me up, spots of mud cover my clothes.
“Demolition derby,” I replied. “If you don’t get some on you, then you aren’t close enough. Just make sure to keep your mouth shut.”
Contact Duane Sherrill at
news@smithvillereview.com
