Bumper Cars
I’ve been sitting on the hard wooden bleacher for over an hour. Doing so was the only way to make sure we had prime seats for the event that is about to begin in the muddy arena below us. My mom and my youngest son sit beside me. They’re sharing a small, greasy box of French fries that cost over 12 dollars. My son keeps his eyes on his can of pop, guarding it from the bees milling about with the human spectators. It’s early September in southern Ontario. The wind is cool, but the afternoon sun is hot. In one corner of the arena, there’s evidence of the previous day’s horse show, and the smell of livestock sifts through the crowd with the oily fried onion aroma of the food tents. Country music blares from the midway rides as children’s screams coast the sky high above pedestrians carrying purchases of homemade jam, beaded earrings, and patchouli soap.
A water truck enters the ring and muddies the arena one last time. Two firemen stand chatting on the perimeter. One of them holds a fire extinguisher. Then, I hear the scratch of a microphone and see a man in a checkered referee’s shirt standing on one of the giant cement blocks that make a hyphened circle around the ring. Already, the unmufflered engines are deafening, and I crane my neck to scan the Frankenstein assembly of vehicles lined up at the gate.
I see him. He’s wearing a helmet, gloves, and a neck brace. He’s driving a silver spray-painted pickup truck that has its roof braced with a steel bar taken from an old stop sign. Smoke from another driver’s oil leak occasionally clouds my view, but I know it’s him. My heart rate triples. I don’t know if I can do this.
* * *
Demolition derbies are common events at small town fairs. Often, they’re saved for last — the final event of a three-day calendar consisting of livestock competitions, agricultural displays, craft stands, food vendors, games, and carnival rides. Most dictionaries define “demolition derby” as a competition in which older cars are driven into each other until only one is left running. Merriam-Webster uses the word ram instead of drive: “a contest in which skilled drivers ram old cars into one another….” However, my favourite phrase to describe this activity remains “a spectacle of automotive destruction.” Because, that’s what it feels like when you sit on those fairground bleachers — you are transported from a quaint country fair to a colosseum of chaos.
I was 40 years old before I saw my first demo derby or even heard those words used in a sentence. I’d grown up attending country fairs — the kind where cotton candy was spun in the open air, then handed to you on a white paper cone, and fresh taffy was pulled and cut right at a vendor’s booth. (Yes, this was the 1980s, not the 1880s.) Yet, somehow, I’d never heard of demolition derbies. We were horse people. We watched and competed in show jumping, barrel racing, and horse pulls. I didn’t know that fairs had spectacles of automotive destruction. Then, one day, I asked my neighbour about her plans for the weekend. She said that she was taking her kids to the demo derby. I looked at her blankly. I asked her to please explain.
That night at supper, I announced to my husband and two young boys that instead of going to Dairy Queen for ice cream, we were going to a demolition derby.
“What’s a derby?” my eldest son asked.
“Is it better than ice cream?” my youngest asked.
My husband looked skeptical. Apparently, he did not think it would be better than ice cream.
“Don’t worry,” I assured them all. “It will be better than ice cream.”
Of course, I had no idea what I was talking about. What I was really thinking was, it’s good to try new things. This will be a fun family outing. My kids will love me for this. I’ll be the cool mom. My husband worries that our boys and I spend too much time reading, and this is definitely not listening to classical music and reading.
That was nine years ago, and I still remember my bemused curiosity as we packed into the ten-row bleachers that evening. As dusk settled around us, people of all ages and backgrounds gathered. A few rows down, a young mom was breastfeeding her newborn. Teenagers lounged on car hoods or in truck beds. Many people sat in lawn chairs they’d brought with them. And, there seemed to be some sort of middle-aged social gathering next to the porta-potty. I took out some bug spray while we waited. I didn’t yet know that safety glasses and earmuffs would have been better precautionary choices.
When I was little, the best ride at any fair or amusement park was the bumper cars. It was so much fun trying to drive into the other mini cars in the tiny car ring. I guess I thought a demo derby would be a lot like that. It was not.
If you’ve just googled “demolition derby” and watched a short video, you still have no idea of what a demolition derby sounds like, smells like, or feels like. It’s not the same as being there — not even close. Is watching a shark attack video the same as being in the water during a shark attack? No.
First off, there’s the noise — the ear-popping, bone-vibrating, air-rippling noise. Most derby vehicles do not have mufflers. They have “headers”: a short pipe running from the exhaust up through the hood. In theory, this gives the engine more horsepower. In reality, it meant that two days after the derby, I still felt like my left ear was stuffed with cotton balls. When 10 derby cars in a fairground show ring rev their engines, it’s like the underside of a rocket launch.
Inside the ring, vehicles fishtail and grind circles around themselves before smashing into opponents. They churn up the arena, dirt spraying from their wheels. Mud flies metres into the air and falls on the audience like a SeaWorld whale splash. The crowd cheers. Steam explodes from radiators. Transmission fluid runs out on the ground. There’s flames from engine fires. Smoke rolls from windowless truck cabs. Cars are pushed onto their sides or rammed into barriers. Bumpers and undercarriages drag behind vehicles like entrails as cars race back toward the frenzy. Referees blow whistles and wave flags. Drivers brace for impact. The crowd roars. It’s AD 2025, and you’re in the Colosseum.
And then, it’s over. A referee announces the match winner, and a prize is also given to the driver who earns the “mad dog” distinction. A tractor drives into the ring and tows twisted metal corpses from the arena. Some cars can be repaired enough to run in the next derby at the next fair. Others are carried out in the tractor’s forked bucket. They’ll be sold by their drivers as scrap metal.
* * *
I glance at my watch. It’s 10 minutes until showtime. Latecomers are squeezing into the spaces held for them by friends. Our row is packed like pickled beans in a mason jar, and still, more people try to find a seat. My mom and my son are pressed so tight, their shoulders look like they’re shrugging. The man-child beside me is so close, he’s sweating on me. A woman behind us brags about how sick she’s been for the last five days. I decide to move down a row to where a single empty bench space beckons. Mom’s shoulders relax, and my son laughs as I lean back toward them and nervously comment on my close proximity to the front seats. The small children beside me have a bedsheet spread over their laps. When the mud begins to fly, they’ll raise this as a shield. I do not have a blanket. I have two square-bodied men in front of me. That may be enough — I hope.
I’m not a regular derby attendee like my youngest son. And, I’m certainly not a derby fanatic like my eldest son, who often sits in the announcer’s booth or pays for a pit pass so he can get the best video footage for his YouTube channel. But, I’ve been to several derbies now, and I think I know what to expect. I’m wrong. This time is different.
Stock trucks are first. The hits are intense, and my nerves are on edge. A tidal wave of mud collapses on a group of spectators on the opposite side of the ring. The crowd screams with delight. Tiny rocks pelt the first row on our side, and a stout man near me exclaims how he thought it was the bees stinging him. The match ends, and more vehicles line up at the gate for the “junk run,” a ragtag gang of minivans and SUVs. When my eldest son drives into the ring, I realize I’m about to watch a series of intentional car accidents, and he’ll be right in the middle of it. This is his first derby as a competitor.
My mom reaches down and squeezes my shoulder. “This is it!” she yells at my ear. She’s pumped.
I nod, my smile rectangular, my eyes bright with terror, and holler back, “This is it!”
When the countdown finishes, 12 vehicles explode into action. My son accelerates toward the nearest minivan and slams into its back end. Then, he reverses into another vehicle before swinging around to ram another. Three good hits. I cheer like a maniac. Next, he hits a van head on. Its bumper crumples under my son’s. I whoop and clap with the rest of the crazed onlookers. An SUV spins out directly below us, and mud and grit shoot into the stands. The kids raise their peppered bedsheet, and I duck low behind the human shields in front of me.
When I pop back up, I see my son’s truck is driving backwards, dragging the van he hit. Their bumpers are hooked together. Huh. Not good. And, just as I think this, a truck plows into my son’s tail end. I see his head snap sideways like a crash-test dummy. I gasp. His vehicle and the van are still fused together, despite the massive hit. They’ve been spun around, and now, my firstborn is stuck in the middle of the ring. His tires spin desperately. He’s not moving. A minivan with a caved-in front speeds in reverse toward him. The impact T-bones my son. His truck rocks but remains hooked on the van. Another hit. Another. I’m losing my mind.
Minutes later, when the match finally ends, I’ve relived a lifetime that spans bringing my newborn home from the hospital to racing dinky cars across the kitchen floor, singing him the sandwich song, building a fort from sofa cushions, braving his first driving lessons, and helping him apply for college. I’m shaky and relieved and on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
It’s less noisy for a moment. There’s the chatter of spectators as they wait and the growl of tractors as they enter the ring to clean up. I tap my mom’s leg, and she leans down to hear me.
“So, we can go now,” I say. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. (Very astute of her actually.)
“Why would we leave now?” she asks. “There’s two more heats.”
When the cars enter the ring for the next round, one by one as the announcer calls out their names, towns, and sponsors, I hear the name of my neighbour’s son. I remember that this is his first derby too. I think back to how, almost a decade ago, his mom introduced us to this world of automotive destruction and Colosseum-like chaos. I wonder if she’s sitting somewhere nearby in the stands. She’s about to watch her son drive the derby car he spent his summer building — into this arena, into this voluntary car crash. Does she feel terrified and excited like I did? It’s been a decade of derbies for both of us. Only now, our sons aren’t watching; they’re driving. And, it’s not bumper cars.
