Jun 1, 2023 4 min read

Sometimes a girl needs to get out of her comfort zone and get some local culture. That is how I found myself sitting on the bleachers one warm spring night, watching cars smash into each other.

It’s no big surprise that I was well into my 60s before ever attending a demolition derby. Growing up, I was more likely to spend a Saturday evening practicing piano, or attending early Mass. But there I was, eight rows up, and let me tell you, what a weird and loud thrill.

The drivers scan junkyards for cars that, with some engine help, have one more ride in them. Once on the muddy field, the drivers ram the cars into other cars with the goal of killing off the engines. Sit without moving for a minute or more and you’re out of the game. Unable to climb out of the cars without themselves being bodily rammed, the drivers have to sit there for the rest of the game, often in a cloud of engine smoke.

The best demolition drivers do their work in reverse, a way to damage others while avoiding damage to the front of their own cars, where the motors are. As with the bumper cars at amusement parks, the field has a clump of slow cars in the center of the field, with zippy drivers circling the perimeter, either evading contact or gunning for someone.

Just when you are growing weary of watching a scrum of crumpled Chevys spinning their wheels, out of your peripheral vision comes a purple sedan streaking backwards toward the scrum, aiming to take out at least two of the laggards. Thrilling, I tell you, thrilling.

There are derbies for trucks, and for school buses. (Who knew there were so many buses that would qualify?) But it got me thinking of what other derbies I’d pay to see.

Last week, Oscar Meyer changed the name of the Wienermobile. The fleet will now be called the Frankmobiles; it appears to be a case of new branding and decals and not new vehicles, but eventually there will be hot dog cars that are no longer highway-worthy. I’m picturing a whole field of them, abandoned like rejects on a plastic platter at a barbecue, their meat gone limp and rubbery and their buns all rusted.

Someone should go get those wiener cars: the smashed ones, the unloved ones, the ones that slipped off the highway during a snow squall. Hook them to a tow truck and bring them on over. Put them on the muddy derby field, blow the starting horn and let them have at it. I’m picturing a wad of wieners in the center, pushing at each other, getting nowhere. And then from off to the left, a streak of mustard yellow and dijon brown hurling itself back-end first at the clump of idlers. I can hear the roar of the crowd as that zippy hot dog finds its target, landing with a squeaky thud.

This may feel hostile toward the friendly Frankmobile, but that’s not my intention. Like the cars that rot in a junkyard waiting for their chance for one last ride, the wieners deserve a final moment of glory. It wouldn’t take too long to amass enough of them for a derby; there are six Frankmobiles on the road at all times, so it’s fair to say we’re always within proximity of one. (Like with spiders.)

But when that wiener car can no longer cruise the interstate because its bun is crumpled and its meat dented, give it one last ride; let it hammer its way backward into the cluster to be the last wiener standing.

I can already smell the smoke.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.