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Left: Stranded on the top of car No. 5, competition pauses. Bull-dozers were used to separate wrecked vehicles. Both cars continued in the derby.
In the cornfields south of the new county jail, crumpled car skeletons sit on the earth
The people responsible for them stand in a group outside a nearby garage.
They step back as a car rolls to a stop on gravel damp from a midmorning electrical storm.
The '76 Chevrolet Impala has no windows, mirrors or headlights. The bumps are jagged and chained. In overalls and a straw hat, Lawrence asphalt pavier Dwight Byers broods behind the steering wheel.
Painted crimson and blue, it is not a car ordained for restful pasture and weekend drives.
Violent death awaits it
"I like to smash cars," says Byers, who intends to drive the Impala at the demolition derby in Tanganoxie the next evening. "This car will do good."
Like cockfighting or bearbaiting, a derby is a simple spectacle: big strapping American cars batter each other until one survives, a sorry victor, bent and hissing steam. The sport has been derided as the dregs of car racing and described as the state fair's whore that draws crowds in ways pig-racing cannot.
Unlike other sports, the derby is really not about winning or losing — it's about smashing and surviving and the culture that thrives on it. The reasons these people risk their necks, destroy their cars and pay $10 just to see it happen may be as old as the death wish and as deep as the will to live.
"We're all in construction," says plumber Kenny Patterson, a derby mate of Byers. "I got so much construction in my life I need some destruction."
They search for cars to buy during the winter and pay as much as $250 for a steel-laden 70s sedan.
Once they get the car to the shop they kick out the windows, or pry them out if they've got the time.
Kenny, his brother Bobby, dump truck driver Terry Harmon and Byers' girlfriend Kayla Weaver all build and race cars with Byers. They call their fleet of vehicles the "Hawk Flock."
They also build a firewall, in case the gas tank explodes.
They gouge the headlights, tear out the back seat, shear the chrome, yank off the mirrors and gut the interior. They relocate the battery to the front seat and put a new gas tank in the space where the back seat used to be. They trim the bumpers, so they won't snag in battle, chain the doors shut and crimp the trunk, so it won't fly up after the first solid hit.
They bolt everything down and tighten the nuts.
All that's left to do is to test the transmission they spent a week rebuilding.
"Please be careful," Weaver says to Byers, who fiddles with the ignition.
Byers fires the engine. Flames spit from the headers in the hood. He hits the gas and brakes simultaneously. The shock and sound of detonating gasoline ripples the skin on Byers' face.
It is a terrible minute, watching the Impala buck uncontrollably. Its engine rips and coughs blue gas rings.
Kenny Patterson's 8-year-old daughter covers her ears and begs him to stop.
When it's over, Byers says, "I think it's leaking oil." Three men lean over the car, hold their beer against their hips and peer into the engine.
Most foreboding is that the Hawk Flock drivers have attached metal bars in front of the dash, on the driver's side door and behind the front seat of Byers' car. These bars protect the driver against deadly driver-sides hits.
"People are usually pretty good about not hitting the driver's side," Harmon says. "But there are people out there who'll do it. There's bad eggs."
Harmon would know about the dangers. Three years ago he broke his back in a derby. Emergency workers cut through the top of the car to lift him out.
Byers collided with a truck driven by one of his friends. Byers escaped with bad bruises on his chest. Weaver, who was going to race in her first derby that week, underwent four hours of surgery on her face.
Byers and Weaver were in a serious car accident when driving a derby car home on July 4..
He bit clear through his tongue two weeks ago, at his first derby back since his accident.
Barney Farr, demolition derby organizer and Leavenworth city employee, says he pays a $1,500 insurance premium for derbies, which is the single greatest expense he has.
"I'll never do it." Weaver says. "Not now."
But Farr says that derbies are no more dangerous than any other sport.
Byers assures her she will
"We'll get you in a derby car," he say and squeezes her shoulders.
"You get bumped up, cut," Far says. "But you have a good night of sex, it'll do that."
Farr enforces rules at the Leavenworth County derby to keep the drivers safe and the competition fair, he
says.
He doesn't allow welding and forbids pouring sand or grout in the frames, filling the tires with liquid or attaching extra metal bars inside the body. Farr will reject 10 cars out of 70 at a typical derby for violating the rules.
At Toganoxie the next day, a crowd of people press around Byers' car.
Byers will be unstoppable, a spectator savs.
"People cheer when they see me drive out there because they know there will be some big hits," he says.
Byers is something of a celebrity here. He has won his heat more than 30 times in two decades. He has trophies that come up to his hip. He has derbied on The Nashville Network. But he hasn't won the whole thing.
But those big hits hurt him.
The paradox of derby driving is that each stroke against your opponent is a stroke against yourself. It's Newtonian: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For that reason, drivers who go after the $1,000 cash awards tend to hide in the corners to protect their charlots. It's called paint scraping, pussyfooting or sandbagging. And everyone hates it.
"I hit often and I hit hard." Byers says. "Those people who sandbag aren't competing."
where their windshields once were or wave to girlfriends.
Across the trunk of one car reads "Hit me. I like it."
The crowd counts down from five, the officials shake their sticks and the derby begins.
Tires squeal and two lines of cars advance backwards. People brace against the probable impact.
Rocks and mud hit a Frenchman in the audience in the face. He giggles and says that there is nothing like this in his country.
Byers' car hurls like a juggernaut across the arena, and some cars, understandably, flee from him.
Then his engine dies again. He can't get it restarted, and he's out before he even began. Afterward, you can hear the disappointment in Byer's voice as he calls his car a hunk of junk.
Others hit him dead-on.
This is the third time this car has died on him early in the heat.
He gives his car away and leaves early, his girlfriend trailing after.
"He won't stop derbying," she says. "They're all crazy."
Rules of the game
- No driver-side hits
- No head-on hits
- American cars only
- Must make contact within one minute
- Last car running wins
Above: Cars swerve to cause a collision. Watering crews work before the derby to keep the pit muddy.