Crash Bang Zoom

The Schutte family's demolition derby devotion

Russ Schutte, of Monroe, Wis. (pop. 10,843), sits behind the wheel of the 1976 Chevy Impala that he has spent hundreds of hours and a few thousand dollars rebuilding.

This is not, however, your average Saturday night car cruise.

Wearing his lucky helmet and his seatbelt, Russ, 52, shifts into reverse, guns the Chevy engine, and slams his back bumper into one of the dozen other cars circling the large dirt oval in front of the grandstands of the Mississippi Valley Fairgrounds in Davenport, Iowa, last September.

The other drivers, including Russ' younger brother, Tory, 34, do the same, and the cars—mostly 1970s sedans and station wagons—smash together in the kinds of crashes you'd normally only see in Hollywood action movies.

Mud from spinning tires flies into the stands and pelts some of the 1,000 fans. Flames shoot from exhaust pipes that stick straight up through holes cut into the car hoods. Steam and fluid spew from punctured radiators. Smoke billows from burning tires and failing motors. The crowd roars.

It's a familiar scene at county fairgrounds across the nation during the heart of the May-through-September fair season. Every year in the United States, an estimated 100,000 drivers crash, bang and zoom their cars in 3,000 demolition derbies from coast to coast.

The derbies range from 10-car crash-ups to mega events such as the annual Metal Mayhem in Oregon, Ill., where 5,000 fans watch 200 cars compete for $15,000 in prize money. The more unusual derbies feature colliding school buses, motorcycles or farm machinery.

Demolition derby's roots

Many consider the now-closed Islip Speedway in Long Island, N.Y., to be the birthplace of organized demolition derbies. In the late 1950s, Larry Mendelsohn, a 28-year-old stock car driver, observed that the crashes drew the most cheers and organized an event billed as "a night full of car wrecks."

"Larry is one of the most overlooked guys in motor sports," says Marty Himes, owner of The Himes Museum of Motor Racing Nostalgia in Bay Shore, N.Y. "He was a genius. Just look at the legacy he left."

By the 1960s, demo derbies—and the Islip Speedway—were regularly featured on ABC's Wide World of Sports.

"The first time I saw a derby on TV, I couldn't believe it," Russ Schutte says. "It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. When a derby came to the (Green County) fairgrounds, I entered a junker. I was a one-hit wonder. One hit and I was done."

That was 1968, and Russ was hooked.

"It's everything a gearhead could love," Russ says. "You get to build a car, smash it, then build it again."

Through the years, 12 of Russ' 16 brothers and sisters, who range in age from 32 to 60—and a few of their children—have driven in an estimated 300 demo derbies and won trophies and cash prizes in more than 100 events throughout the upper Midwest.

In 2000, a love for the sport prompted Tory to form the Demolition Derby Drivers Association, a 5,500-member group that supports standardized track rules across the country. The association's website, www.wecrash.com, features an events calendar, classified ads with 600 demo cars for sale, and car-building tips and techniques.

"We don't charge for memberships in the association," says Tory, a Navy recruiter. "I just wanted to give something back to the drivers. I want people to love the sport as much as I do."

Family tradition

Last September, Tory drove 1,600 miles in three days from his home in El Paso, Texas, to spend a weekend building, and then smashing, the 1976 Chevy station wagon that he hauled on a trailer to Russ' house in Wisconsin.

For two days before the derby, a dozen Schutte family members and friends put the finishing touches on Russ' and Tory's cars. The occasional white flash of arc welding, the sound of sledgehammers on steel, and the smell of fresh spray paint filled Russ' garage, which primarily serves as a 32-by-42-foot demo derby car workshop.

The self-taught mechanics welded and hammered bumpers to the frame and painted Tory's station wagon Green Bay Packer green. Russ' wife, Cindy, who has attended nearly every demo event with her husband since the mid-1970s, packed lunches—and aspirin—for the four-hour round trip to Iowa.

"That is what it's all about," Russ says. "Spending time together as a family. I guess it's what they call bonding. With 17 kids in the family, we didn't get to do a lot of that growing up. This workshop is like our sandbox.

The Schuttes number their demo cars based on birth order. Russ, the fourth oldest, drives the No. 4 car. Youngest sibling and regular derby driver Ryan, 32, drives the No. 17 car.

Russ' daughter, Vicki, 24, is one of the rare female drivers—an estimated 2 percent—in the world of demo derbies. She's driven in a dozen derbies since winning a women-only event in 2001.

"It's something I can relate to the guys in the family with," says Vicki who, as Russ' oldest child, drives the '4a' car. "It's one time I know we can all hang out together. And when I drive, there's something pretty powerful in taking out my road rage on someone else."

Track rules

The requirements for demo cars are simple: Remove the windows, move the battery to the passenger side floor and replace the original gas tank with a small tank in the back seat.

Attention to detail, though, is what separates one-hit wonders from winners.

"A car shifts a lot when you hit it at 30 miles per hour," Russ says. "We strip the cars down to the frame, then completely rebuild them. We put in motors that can take a lot of abuse. We put a lot of time into protecting the wires and distributor cap and the radiator and hoses. We can spend an entire night welding one bumper."

The average Schutte car costs from $500 to $3,000. They spend an estimated 100 man-hours preparing each car for derby competition.

"I don't golf," says Russ, who operates heavy machinery for a fertilizer company. "Those golfers spend a lot of money on greens fees."

"And," Tory asks, "do they get to feel like human gladiators?"

Demolition derby rules are simple: Don't hit a driver's side door. Sandbaggers—drivers who spend more time avoiding crashes than causing them—get disqualified. The last car moving wins.

Derby night

During the final event in Davenport, Russ and Tory never got a chance to go head to head on the track. Just a few minutes after the starter's flag dropped, Russ' rear bumper got hooked to another car and, vulnerable, his Chevy Impala took a direct hit that bent the car's front end straight up in the air.

"The distributor cap exploded," Russ says, "and every piece of metal in the car became an electrical conductor. It was, for me, a shocking experience. At least until I turned the engine off." He finished 12th.

Tory landed a number of solid hits with his station wagon and knocked out three cars. He finally got wedged into a corner—against one of the concrete barricades that surround the track—and couldn't work his way out. He took home $300 and a 3-foot-high, third-place trophy that eventually will make its way to the family's collection displayed on Russ' living room table.

Long after the last fans exited the grandstands, Russ winched his car, with the front bumper sticking up higher than the car's roof, onto his flat bed trailer. "It doesn't look too bad," Russ says. "If we can't straighten the body out, we'll just buy another car and start all over again.

"It's really just a good excuse to spend some time with family and friends. And then spend another Saturday night wrecking some cars."

Steve Lange is a freelance writer in Rochester, Minn.

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