~Richard Cason explores the drive behind the fans and participants of the demolition derby

Browse a multimedia presentation by Fred Lynch

It's a crying shame that demolition derby couldn't have caught on the way NASCAR has. Somewhere along the line stock car racing became the new national pastime.

I don't see how. 

The level or, at least, frequency of destruction in demolition derby is unparalleled. That's what any race fan wants to see -- mayhem! Alas, demolition derby remains the same regional thing that it has been since ... I guess since folks decided to go out in a field and crash up cars. 'Tis fun to watch, though, and it was my destructive nature that brought me to the Show Me Center on Oct. 14 for the Halloween Crash 'n' Bash.

Most racing requires investors, advertisers, etc. Sure, there is the occasional advertisement spray-painted on demo derby cars, but I'm sure the client isn't charged much at all. 

In demolition derby the only thing that is required is a barely moveable junker (typical life expectancy: three races) with all the glass taken out and the interior completely gutted save for a steering wheel, seat, ignition box and a cooler of ice strapped on top of the transmission. This is one part practicality and one part tradition. 

Dink Butler of Piggott, Ark. gave an OK sign after his car was ruled out of commission in the demolition derby. (Fred Lynch)

Its true purpose is to keep the tranny from overheating, but during demolition derby's golden age these coolers would also contain a 12-pack of Stag, Pabst or Schlitz. The courageous drivers would then drink all the beer before their 20-minute long race was over. Sadly, those days are no more.

It was close to six or a little after when promoter/official John Niederkorn called a meeting of all twenty drivers. The first order of business: No drinking. After the race that wasn't a problem, but during the race drivers and pit crew were not to be drinking.

By the way, when I say "pit crew," I really mean a couple of hangers-on with a tool box and a floor jack who do their "work" out in the parking lot. Issue number two was that there was to be no fighting, at least on the premises of the Show Me Center. If drivers/pit crew wanted to go Dead Rabbits vs. Natives on each other, they could do it out in the street. According to driver Shannon Dietrich of Cape Girardeau, "Fighting is very common at these things". I asked what they would fight about and Dietrich replied "'Cause someone got knocked out of the race by someone else."

Everything else gets destroyed at a demolition derby, might as well thrown in sportsmanship.

Finally, Mr. Niederkorn warned every driver against "sandbagging". This is when a driver doesn't give or take any hits. Those guilty of sandbagging would have a pretty pink "X" spray-painted on their car by an official.

I don't know what the ticket prices were but for a few dollars more one could have "all access" to the Show Me Center, where you could rub shoulders with the likes of me along with members of the Cape Girardeau Fire Department, who looked as though they'd rather be anywhere else. But they were ready, clad in full fire fighting regalia almost hoping for a little action.

The regular audience, on the other hand, wasn't hoping at all for action -- they craved it.

You see, demolition derby is a direct descendant of the games held during Roman times. As descendants, through one way or another, from the ancient Romans, it is only natural that we attend events of a similar nature.

After the national anthem was over the first nine cars entered the Show Me Center as AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" echoed out of the building to the outside -- and the cars were louder than the music. Once Angus, Brian and the boys faded there was only a cacophony of crunching metal accompanied by nine motors so opened-up that it sounded as though time and space were being ripped to shreds. 

Photographer Fred Lynch had the foresight to bring proper ear protection as did a surprising number of spectators. Me? Of course not.  It was halfway into the first race when it occurred to me to jam a couple of cigarette butts into my ears.

For the second race or "heat," Fred and I took in the view from the announcing platform above the track. After a few moments the eight cars for the second race entered. Among the drivers for this round were newcomer Colin Crane of Villa Ridge, Ill., and the wily veteran from Piggott, Ark., Vic "Dink" Butler, who drove what looked like a ragged-out taxi. Dink himself looked like the Dunkin' Donuts guy in a yellow T-shirt. 

The air horn sounded and the second race was under way. The eight cars backed into each other at about 40 mph. After this initial crash it was "anything goes" ... almost.  

One of the only big rules is that one cannot back into or ram head-on into the driver's side door of another car. In the old days, this wouldn't have been a problem because most drivers poured concrete inside their door panels.

For a while this race was also lacking. 

There were a few good hits; in fact, Fred was showing me a digital image of one when it happened: A loud, ugly three-way crash between Colin Crane, Dink Butler and No. 4 whose name I didn't bother to get.  Butler had rammed Crane on the right and used No. 4 as leverage to scoop Crane onto his driver's side. In the 1.6 seconds that this happened, the bloodthirsty audience got their due and proper, their collective roar shaking the roof of the Show Me Center. The time-out horn was sounded as No. 4 and Dink backed away from Crane's car, which then turned completely over.

The spectators' rabid enthusiasm turned to gasps when Crane's engine caught on fire and the C.G.F.D. came to the rescue. I thought, "Don't wuss out now, folks. This is what you wanted."

It was during this tense and uncertain moment that Dink Butler cut victory donuts all over the track as he received 500 simultaneous "boos" which only served as fuel for his antics. Dink Butler, however, continued celebrating. 

He climbed out of his car through the "windshield" and started dancing on the hood like Bill Cosby during the opening sequence of "The Cosby Show". Crane was finally extracted, the fire was put out and in a show of solidarity the drivers pushed his car right-side-up ... and the race continued.

The consensus among the officials, pit crew and drivers was overwhelming: Dink Butler was crazy and he had to be taken out. With one driver already eliminated, the other six, led by Colin Crane, all ganged-up on Dink. He took hits from the back, the front and even a couple of illegal door hits which went unpunished. No. 5, an old AMC Hornet, circled the track and then cut a donut right into Butler, destroying his trunk.

Number 79 was a primer black station wagon and was missing a right rear tire. This didn't stop No. 79 from ramming into Dink's passenger side door. Colin Crane, whose right rear tire was now, somehow, extended on part of the axle away from the car rammed Butler head-on while another driver caught him on the driver's side fender. Dink's radiator was shot and the race was over.

These cars, which moments before were raging with fury, were now moaning in agony. One by one they drove out of the Show Me Center. Dink Butler, walked alongside his broken car, H.L. Schneider Jr., D.O. holding the front bumper in place as though it were an injured soldier.

I asked him if he felt in any way bad about almost killing another driver. Butler replied, "Nope. If he's afraid of that he shouldn't race."

The Dinkster had a point.

Colin Crane's take: "Awesome! Best roller-coaster ride ever!"

Why do they crash into each other for thrills?

Keith Pritchett of Steele, Mo., summed it up best: "Aw, just a bunch of bored rednecks".