[Classic news of the weird!] Farmers Enjoy Smashing Success With New Style of Demolition Derby Hulking Combines Are Mean Machines In Head-On Battle; The Viking's Pit Crew
By ILAN BRAT Wall Street Journal June 27, 2008; Page A1 http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121452521223909113.html?mod=hps_us_pageone MILROY, Minn. -- Larry Lanoue climbed into his two-story-high, 13.5-ton combine, revved up the engine and rammed the harvesting machine straight into another one. Then he backed up, swung to his right and lunged forward, tearing into the rear axle of a third. The crowd of 1,200 at this tiny town's Race and Crash Day went wild. Forget monster trucks and funny cars. Across the Farm Belt, the new star of the demolition derby is the combine, a hulking harvester with a top speed of about 15 miles an hour and a sticker price that can top $300,000. At county fairs and local fund-raisers, farmers slam them into each other until only one remains mobile. By summer's end, at least two dozen of these battles will take place in Indiana, Kansas, Ohio and other states. A derby in Lind, Wash., recently drew several thousand spectators and 16 steel behemoths. Last year, the only two combines in Holyoke, Colo.'s inaugural derby backed into each other so hard that they lifted into the air, forming an upside-down V-shape that held for 40 seconds. Many of the combines are decades old and so worn out that, even amid a farm boom and surging used-equipment prices, they're of little use in a field. Derby contestants often deploy the same machines over and over, before sending them to the scrap heap. Small towns have parades to celebrate their founding and fairs to celebrate their harvest, but Milroy, Minn., has its Crash Day. Milroy, population 271, had its first derby in 2004. The town, surrounded by corn and soybean fields in southwestern Minnesota, is home to a bar named Oasis, a Catholic church and no stoplights. Tim Zwach, a volunteer firefighter, organized the contest to raise money for the town fire department after hearing about a combine derby in another Minnesota town. The first Milroy derby attracted 13 combines, drew about 2,200 spectators and hauled in about $18,000, he says. "Every farmer in the world at one point or another would like to drive their combine into a brick wall," said Mr. Zwach, a jovial 38-year-old who farms 2,600 corn and soybean acres and pilots a fire-department-themed combine in the derbies. First Outing In his first outing, Mr. Lanoue, 48, entered a combine that was painted blue like Cookie Monster from the television show Sesame Street. The combine got knocked out in an early heat, but the family fixed it up and even added black softballs hanging by strings in white plastic barrels that bounce around like the cuddly character's bobble eyes. Four years later, Mr. Lanoue, who works at a local grain-processing plant and farms 500 acres, has added two more combines to his arsenal: Tony the Tiger and the White Tiger, each painted with black stripes. Reinforced corn headers -- long, metal spikes normally used for drawing in corn stalks -- menace from the front. He also strengthened the cabs of his combines and wears a helmet and a seatbelt. Rules prohibit certain modifications, like caging in the wheels. "You're out there to win," he said. He paid $750 for the White Tiger and $650 for Tony the Tiger, 1976 and 1977 Deere & Co. models, respectively. He has spent a thousand additional dollars on parts and paint over the years. He, two of his three sons and a daughter-in-law have skirmished in eight derbies in the past four years. One recent day, he showed off his driving skills by popping a reverse wheelie in his White Tiger and spinning in circles. The day of the derby, the Lanoues parked the three machines beneath a sunny sky near the combat zone, a muddy pit a little larger than a basketball court. A hint of manure floated on the breeze. Seven other entrants, all from the Milroy area, joined the Lanoues. One steered a purple Barney-themed combine, another drove one festooned with U.S. flags. Tim Louwagie's "Timinator II" had to be towed in because it can't drive on the highway. Dale Kesteloot rolled up in "The Viking" with yellow metal horns sticking out of the cab, and a yellow football painted on the side. Five of the 10 entrants would face off in two separate heats. The surviving six would joust for the championship and a check for $400. Among the rules: No puncturing of front tires (though popping rear tires is OK), and no backing into other combines. Also, corn headers "should be solidly attached," the rules say. "You will be disqualified if your head comes off during the event!" By the time the derby began, temporary bleachers set up around the pit were packed. Members of a local baseball team sold hotdogs and hamburgers. Country songs blared over loudspeakers. Two beer wagons did a brisk business. Then, as AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" blasted from the speakers, Mr. Lanoue and his son Paul in their twin tigers lined up against Mr. Kesteloot's Viking and two other combines in the opening heat. Although there are no teams, contestants don't hesitate to gang up on one other. The Viking and the elder Mr. Lanoue's Tony the Tiger charged. The head-on crash sent their rear wheels bucking into the air. The crowd cheered. Mr. Lanoue backed up and spotted his son in the White Tiger tangled with the U.S.-flag combine. Mr. Lanoue swung to the right and jammed his corn header into the flag combine's rear, mangling the axle. Suddenly, Mr. Lanoue caught sight of the Viking gunning for him. He dodged it but the Viking whooshed past and smashed into his son's White Tiger with a metallic clank followed by a deafening crunch. Soon the Lanoues circled back and sandwiched the Viking. The heat ended with the Lanoues and the Viking still standing and the acrid smell of burning oil on the air. While the crowd cheered the second heat, the first-heat winners prepared for the finals. Mr. Kesteloot's Viking had taken big hits from behind and pieces of its corn header were missing. He turned to his seven-member pit crew and a truck outfitted with a welder and tool set. The crew jacked up his combine and replaced the rear axle while others welded metal rods across the header. "It's like Nascar," said Mr. Kesteloot's son Darek. Nearby, Larry Lanoue discovered the White Tiger combine had suffered only a smashed rear tire. "It's OK," he said as he crouched to change it. He warned his son not to let Mr. Kesteloot get behind him. "We got to get [the Viking] sandwiched again," he said. They never got the chance. Soon after the final round started, the younger Mr. Lanoue's gears jammed and he shut off his combine. His father and Mr. Kesteloot circled like prizefighters while the other three contestants battled. The Barney combine, battered from its first round, died earlier. Messrs. Lanoue and Kesteloot smashed into each other close enough to talk. Mr. Lanoue says he asked Mr. Kesteloot to have a beer after the match. Mr. Kesteloot says, "He was not saying anything about a beer." After one collision, Mr. Lanoue backed up and then couldn't move forward again. "Damn!" he said, slamming his fist on the hood. Black Smoke In the end, Mr. Kesteloot's Viking reared back and slammed Mr. Louwagie's crippled Timinator II again and again. The Timinator could barely move. The Viking was spewing black smoke. Finally the Viking stalled. The Timinator had won. "I just can't fricking believe it could take that much beating," Mr. Kesteloot said after climbing down from his machine, his hair drenched in sweat. "Second ain't bad. You want to grab a beer?" ================================ George Antunes, Political Science Dept University of Houston; Houston, TX 77204 Voice: 713-743-3923 Fax: 713-743-3927 antunes at uh dot edu ******************************* * POST TO [EMAIL PROTECTED] * ******************************* Medianews mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://lists.etskywarn.net/mailman/listinfo/medianews
