I had enjoyed watching my younger brother Sam race in the summer destruction derby at our local fairgrounds for years. The flying dust, the roaring engines and thunderous collisions were thrilling to watch from a grandstand full of screaming fans. When Sam offered to allow me to drive his car in the women's Powder Puff speed heats, I was thrilled. Powder Puff were all women drivers, usually wives or girlfriends of the male drivers. The dirt oval track was given a light wash of water to hold down the dust and slow the track for novice drivers. Though the winner was the driver who completed eight laps the fastest, miniature crashes and "bump to pass" was encouraged to titillate the crowd.

I talked about it for weeks, fantasized about winning trophies, of surviving colossal pile-ups without a scratch, waving to the screaming crowds...and then Sunday afternoon arrived.

I approached Sam's sky blue Chevy Impala with trepidation. It was a beautiful car, decorated with a large 58 on each door, and a three-foot cereal logo standing on the roof. The 58 represented the year Sam was born, and I grinned as I got close enough to make out the face of the smiling logo waving from the roof. Captain Crunch. But as race time approached, my smile felt a bit forced.

Soon, Sam was fastening the helmet strap under my chin - not out of any particular brotherly concern, but because my hands were shaking too hard to manage the buckle. I finally convinced Sam that squishing this six-foot tall, two-hundred pound (plus) body through that window with steering wheel in the way, was akin to the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. Sam shrugged, unconcerned, walked me around to the passenger side and cupped his hands in a familiar "leg-up" pose. He wasn't going to let me chicken out of this one, I could tell.

Somehow, I managed to plop into the space where the passenger seat had originally been installed. I scooted across the raw metal floor, and managed to smoosh myself into a bucket seat originally manufactured for a 1967 Corvaire. The fit was not exact and pieces of me were hanging over the edges, but I was in, and I couldn't see an easy way back out.

Did I mention the doors were welded shut?

Sam grinned at me as I handed him the end of a seat belt, "The rules say we gotta install seat belts", he informed me, "but they don't tell you exactly how they need to be installed". Sam pulled the seat belt across my chest and joined the mouth of the seat belt to the tail of the shoulder harness, tied a knot, and then stood back to admire his handiwork. I could barely breathe, let alone move.

I gave Sam my best tough gal look, "And in case of a fire, I should...what, spit on it?" Sam laughed and showed me a tiny pocketknife he pulled from his pants. I nodded with understanding, in case of fire - he would cut me out. Now I was totally unnerved. I dawned on me there was no backing out - I was tied into the car, and Sam had the only knife. I motioned to Sam to untie me, I think I wanted out.

Blind to my discomfort, Sam leaned in through the window and fiddled under the steering wheel ...something to do with twisting wires. Without warning, a spark flew, and the engine exploded. I screamed and covered my head with my arms.

Sure that I had died, I curled into a tight ball, waiting for the angels to descend. After a few moments, I felt a light tapping on my shoulder. I uncurled briefly and saw Sam laughing and shaking his head and motioning for me to steer as I was backing out of the pit area and toward the starting line.

Sam had "dressed" his car with eight chrome exhaust pipes standing vertically through the engine hood. Every touch on the accelerator brought about a deafening roar and caused flames to shoot out of the pipes. My bladder began to complain. Unable to be heard above the noise of the engines, Sam used hand signals to guide me to the starting line. It looked like I had obtained an excellent outside "post position" - though about now, I was heartily wishing we'd drawn the number for last car.

Another car roared as it eased up on my left. I smiled at the driver of the hot pink Chrysler, but she just glanced over at me and turned back toward the track. Her eyes were hidden behind tinted goggles, and she was wearing something around her neck...it looked like trophy buttons of some kind. This was not a good ... I really needed to pee.

I recognized Jim, the local owner of a cellular phone store, place his life in mortal danger as he strode purposefully between the front car fenders. It was not until I saw the green flag in his hand I realized he was the race starter. I gripped the steering wheel, stood on the brake and began to feather the gas pedal. A hint of flame erupted from the chrome exhaust pipes.

The car beside me leapt forward and I realized Jim had dropped the flag. I pulled my foot off the brake and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The pink Chrysler threw dust and bits of mud through the wire screen with which Sam had replaced the windshield. I couldn't breathe, couldn't see and found myself hyperventilating with fear. I could hear Sam's voice, echoing in my brain, "gas on, brake off". The last part was simple enough, I was far too terrified to think strategy or winning tactics. The "gas on" strategy was working fine. This was one powerful car, and she leaped forward like a hound from Hell. My heart was racing with exhilaration...until I looked up and saw I had reached the first corner.

"Gas on, brake off...brake off...brake off", Sam's words were a litany in my brain. I zoomed into the first corner with the gas pedal smashed to the floor and the car entirely out of control. Though I eased off on the gas pedal, the old Chevy bucked and rocked as I hit the ruts carved in the previous heat races. The once docile steering wheel twisted about with a mind of its own, wrenching out of my grip spinning first left and then back to the right. I was wrestling a two-ton car, and the car was winning! Despite my best efforts, the car was slipping away from the track and directly toward a gap in the track barrier.

Through the billowing dust and engine smoke, I glimpsed a mob of screaming children, eyes large, mouths wide, hanging from the track fence. I redoubled my efforts to gain control of the incorrigible Chevy, but with little success.

A scream of metal on metal pulled my attention back to the track, and my helmeted head slammed into the window frame. I looked across the passenger seat and instead of the grandstand crowd, I saw the grinning face of another driver. My incorrigible Chevy was firmly attached to red Dodge the size of Texas! "Gas on...", I thought, and mashed both feet down on the accelerator, and slipped out the grip of the red Dodge and back into a straight stretch.

Thereafter, as each corner approached I would look for a likely victim. I forgot about winning the race, suddenly the object was to make it through each corner without braking, using an outside car to hold me in each corner. First the pink Ford, next the black ...well, I'm not sure what it was, but it was mostly black. Finally, the dust cleared and I realized there were no more cars to chase. As I rounded the final turn, I saw the driver of the hot pink Chrysler step up to grab her prize. The race had ended. I smiled and waved at her as I drove on past to the pits.

Her driver's door was smashed and covered with sky blue paint.

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