Banger Racing

The second to last event of the day, the 1400cc Bangers Final, was nearly indistinguishable from the last event, the 1400cc Bangers Destruction Derby. The cars were a motley lot of refuse, having in common only the things they lacked; bumpers, grills and glass of any kind. Much of the body work appeared to have been done with a sledgehammer. At their best, freshly banged out and tuned up, they arrived with mufflers held on by baling wire, their rear ends crumpled or bent up to expose the springs.

The noise was high pitched, deafening, abused rubber burning and spalling as it dragged around the track. For the first few laps, the cars were in nearly constant contact, a pack of banging hounds hard on each other's heels. At least one driver had his tire ripped completely off the rim, but it didn’t stop him from grinding through the laps.

With no knowledge of the favorites, I was free to cheer a slick pass, a hot straightaway run and a dashing maneuver through the car park in turn two.

Cars fell out of the final quickly, abused mechanicals able to take only so much between hitting the walls and the inevitable crashes. I never saw a finish flag for the Final, cars just started slamming into each other with greater and greater vigor and it became obvious that the destruction portion of the derby was now in full swing.

The drivers smashed and spun each other out, more times than not ending up spun out themselves. Two teammates, identifiable by light blue and purple coloring with the words "Bong Crew" painted on the sides of their cars, pulled around and begin racing around the track in the opposite direction of the other cars, veering directly at them as they came around the bends, trying to force a head-on collision.

Since their behavior could be explained by some sort of drug use, I scoured the race program trying to find any rule about being under the influence while driving. A glossary revealed that "bonging" meant going round the track the wrong way, "on oppo," which was certainly not the meaning I had assumed from their actions.

One of the Bong Crew caromed into another car, then continued around with his hood buckled and only one front tire turning. The driver held up one gloved hand to make an ‘OK’ sign to his teammate.

Four cars had piled up in turn two, almost completely blocking the track. Smoking, disabled vehicles were scattered around, drivers leaping out to run for the center of the track and its dubious safety.

One of the last few cars remaining on the track smashed the wrecks in turn two out of the way. Pieces of car big enough to crush a man exploded across the track.

The problem was that blockages were causing the bong crew to do figure eights through the center. I could hardly see how it was any safer there and neither could the dismounted drivers, as they scrambled to climb on top of the huge concrete blocks that were placed strategically around the center oval.

In the end, the Bong Crew did a head on collision with each other in turn two, joining the other cars they had smashed off the track with a bang and a cloud of hissing radiator fluid. With the Destruction Derby at its inevitable conclusion I asked my friend, when the last two Bangers collide head-on and both are disabled, how do you declare a victor?

Cars were scattered across the smoking asphalt, mostly in pieces. The race was over. My ears were ringing. My friend never managed a satisfactory answer to my question about declaring a victor. Soot coated everyone and everything, particles of burnt muffler pipe and rubber, greasy smears of brake fluid, coolant and unburnt gasoline. I had grit in my teeth and a napkin came away smeared with black grime when I wiped my face. I realized that I now looked like everyone else --I was filthy.

Where was the hostility and resentment I had seen upon arrival? I looked around, amazed at the change that had come over the racetrack.

Drivers were sitting on the hoods of their mangled, steaming cars and smiling as they waited for the tractors to come haul them off the track. Boys were joking with each other, leaping about as they replayed the most spectacular crashes of the day with each other. Crews laughed and shook their heads in amazement as they used come-alongs to winch the mangled wrecks onto flatbed trailers. Everyone was laughing and gesturing. We crowded easily together through the wide gate, rubbing shoulders. People were helping each other around the puddles. There was a jubilant feeling among the people headed for the exit.

I know that the hostility I saw was real, I just wonder if I wasn't according it too much significance. Sure, there's a knob or two out there who would jostle your elbow on purpose to make you spill your pint, but there are many more who'd be quick to buy you another if they did it accidentally. Those angry looking men in the pits before the race were just expressing their natural sense of competition, stressing about the upcoming race, whatever --they weren't hating me just because I was a foreigner. These people weren't going to riot, no matter how they felt about me.

The crowd had come to see roaring races and colossal collisions and they were satisfied. I had come seeking entertainment and had found something more. For a few hours, I had shared a bit of something fun and unique, and I had never been in any danger of personal injury, aside from a flying muffler or two. Even though I knew I was destined for nothing more than a shower and another night of noodles and rugby, I was content.