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Gregory Hardy, 19 of Rantoul, smashes a sledgehammer in to the side of his car before round two of the derby. Hardy has been competing on and off in derbies for three years.

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The birthplace of the demolition derby is uncertain. The most common story is that the first one took place in Long Island and was hosted by a stock car racer named Larry Mendelsohn during the late 1950s. Other reports point to California and Wisconsin and reach as far back as 1946. Since their creation, derbies have become staples of state and county fairs across the country. This year, CU Krash is sponsoring three days of derbies at the Champaign County Fair, and I got a chance to go down into the pit to find out what the demolition derby is all about.

Steven Skinner, an Urbana native acting as a flagman explained the rules to me: "If you can't make contact [with another car] within 60 seconds, or if you hit two driver's doors, or if you catch fire, you'll be disqualified." Besides that, hit the other cars as hard as you can; last man standing wins.

I had never seen a demolition derby before. What little I did know had led me to assume that there was some sort of abnormal safety system installed in the vehicle, like a super-skeleton. In reality, however, the cars are pretty standard.

Bob Nichols from Philo, Illinois has been coming to the county fair for 20 years. His son, Adam, 17, entered the event for the first time this year, and Bob showed me around the machine that he and Adam spent the last week and a half creating. In her previous life, the car was a 1991 Mercury Sable, but now she was the "People Eater."

"We took all the glass out, wired all the doors and welded them so they stay shut. There's a 12-inch cut in the hood, so if there's a fire, the firefighters can get down to it," Bob explained, "and there's a steel bar [in the back] to support the car inward so it doesn't smash in."

All drivers are also required to move the battery and fuel tanks into the car's interior so they won't be affected by collisions. They must wear helmets, eye guards and, of course, buckle up during the competitions. As Bob Nichols spoke, a slow clap started in the grandstand. The cars in the first heat had lined up and were prepared to enter the arena.

Fourth in line, in the red #32 car was Mike Weber. A derby veteran, Weber and his 16-year-old son came all the way from Coral Springs, Florida to compete in the event. The strategy, Mike said, was simple,

"Just go out and save the front of the car."

Eight cars pulled into the ring as a voice from the large speakers announced the names of the drivers. Half faced the audience while the others faced outward along the opposite side of the ring. The crowd counted down from five, and it began.

The drivers slammed into reverse, gaining a little speed before colliding back-to-back in the center of the arena. Mud and sparks flew; thousands of pounds of metal crumpled boomingly.

The moment of the night came during the second-to-last event. Ben Uher, a 10-year veteran of the Champaign derby, found himself strung out near the center of the ring as another car approached rapidly from the left. Everyone from the crowd, to the announcer, to Uher himself saw it coming, and the volume in the arena began to rise. There was an unmistakable synthesis between the participants and the spectators, and it almost seemed as though the frantic energy from the grandstands contributed as much as the collision to raising Uher's right wheels out of the mud and planting the car flat on its left side. The engine ignited; an isolated chant of "U.S.A, U.S.A!" rose into the air alongside the bright orange flames and black smoke. As the roars reached their apex, Uher rose through the passenger window and pulled himself to the top of the burning mass, fists raised triumphantly in the air. After the on-site fire engine had smothered the blaze, we settled back into our seats in a sort of post-coital coma, both invigorated and physically drained from the mass catharsis we just took part in.

When the competitions ended, I found Adam Nichols. "It was just...total mayhem. [The collisions] just kind of all run together," he said.

We were standing next to his newly condensed car. Unfortunately, though he competed hard, Adam wasn't victorious, and the People Eater fared worse.

"She's sung her last song," Adam said whimsically. But he'll be back next year, maybe with a bigger car.