August 28, 2009 (Vermont) – Sunday evening found the members of the Green Racing Project leaning against a wooden fence watching the 4-cylinder championship of the Barton Fair demolition derby. A mist of rain gently dampened our clothes. Paying $4 apiece for the grandstand seating had seemed like an unnecessary expense, and we were closer to the action, even if we had to stand.

This was an event we had been looking forward to all summer. When we moved into our house, we had no social life: just the occasional volleyball or croquet game against the rowers. Looking for new friends is intimidating, but now that we had moved to the Kingdom, we thought we should try to integrate ourselves into the community. So we sat down and made a long list of summer activities. We wanted to go to the pizza place in Glover, the Thunder Road speedway in Barre, a Lake Monsters baseball game, Circus Smirkus, a game in the wooden-bat baseball league, and so forth. Maybe we wouldn’t make new friends just by going to these events, but at least we’d get a taste for life in northeastern Vermont.

We didn’t get to most of the things on the list: no baseball games, no circus, no speedway. But we wouldn’t have missed the demolition derby for anything. There was no better way to familiarize ourselves with Kingdom culture than going to the fair. And what better event to pick than the demolition derby?

We learned quite a bit about car-smashing theory during the consolation heats. With 15 or 20 entries per heat, the most successful cars often avoided the crowded middle (just like some skiers’ strategies in a mass start race!) and used the space at the ends to gain momentum before their hits. These drivers also most often tried to hit the front of another car with the back of their own; since most of the important stuff is under the hood, that’s where the most damage seemed to be done. The rain had turned the track into a mud bowl, and even when drivers seemed to plan their lines carefully, they sometimes spun out and missed the hit.

There were also rules. A car only has a certain length of time it can sit without hitting another (moving) car, and as soon as there’s a fire under the hood, that car is disqualified. If the fire doesn’t go out on its own, the officials blew air horns and all action stopped while a fire crew ran out, pried the hood open, and doused it with a fire extinguisher.

By the time the final rolled around, we were tired of standing up, and my wet hair was sticking to the back of my neck. As Ollie tore into some fried dough, we wondered aloud whether we really wanted to stay for any more rounds. Maybe we have short attention spans, but we wondered what more there really was to see.

The third car to line up, though, belonged to Jesse, one of the cooks in our dining hall. We craned our necks to see and waved our hands to try to get his attention. All of a sudden we were shouting for him, newly energized.

We were also worried. Jesse’s car was easily the smallest in the field. It was hard to say exactly what model it had been, now that its windows were out, its paint job was redone and covered in graffiti, and the panels, front, and back were dented and caved in. It reminded me of the Fiat Uno taxis I had ridden in when I was in Morocco. While the taxi drivers there were a little crazy, I wasn’t sure how much wear and tear a tiny car like that could take.

The announcer called the start and Jesse immediately turned towards our end of the track and was soon backing into car after car. Other cars sputtered out, unable to start, or started smoking. But Jesse’s little car just kept hammering. We kept shouting.

Soon there were only five cars left, and Jesse’s was one of them.

Steam started pouring out from his hood at about the same time that the fifth car caught fire. In the firemen’s rush, they thought Jesse was the one with the problem The announcer disqualified him and the firemen tried to pry open his hood. We shouted at them, “No! No! Leave him alone, he’s still fine!”

After a lot of confusing announcements, the real fire was finally doused and Jesse was reinstated. The battle resumed, but Jesse couldn’t get his car started again. He tried and tried in vain, while getting hit repeatedly by the other cars. “Come on, Jesse!” we yelled. Then we started booing. How could you be expected to restart after the firefighters messed around with your hood? Our shouts turned to, “Jesse was robbed!”

He ended up fourth, just out of the money. Not too shabby for the tiny car. We had used up all our energy cheering and went home before the final of the 6- and 8-cylinder division. There was no way it would be as exciting without someone that we knew.

It was a very contented car-ride home. Life can’t be all training; you have to have some fun too. We’re doing better than we were at the beginning of the summer, but there are still nights when we all sit on the couch on our computers, bored, barely even making conversation. While one of the best things about skiing as a job is that you have time to recover, napping isn’t the only way to recover. You need mental recovery, too, when your mind is focused on something that isn’t training and isn’t work.

Sunday, Jesse’s little car was that something, and we couldn’t have been happier.