I have to say, that when it comes to motorsport, my wife has been amazingly tolerant of my little affliction. She’s stood on the pregrid, in sweltering 115-degree desert heat. She’s held a flashlight for me in the below-freezing, December predawn light as I try to drain my racecar’s radiator before it freezes and bursts. She’s been dragged to innumerable amateur races, professional races, drag races, even a Monster truck pull. However, a few month’s ago I realized that there was one key piece of American motorsport tradition that she had not yet experienced.
“You want us to go to a what?” she asked incredulously. A “Demolition Derby,” I responded, trying to make it sound on a par with a day at Ascot or center-court seats at the U.S. Open. “There’s going to be one at the county fair, if we go Saturday, instead of Sunday.”
