Derby Car

In June my parents and siblings built a derby car with charitable donations going to the Gillette Boys and Girls Club. Here's the story and pictures that appeared in the local newspaper.

link to the Gillette News Record article


Jim Foster holds a bundle of wires while working where the dash once was in his Cadillac demolition derby car. Foster spent many hours in May converting the car into a derby car for charity. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne

News Record story by Sports Editor KATHY BROWN, sports@gillettenewsrecord.com

The first sign of trouble was the tow truck getting a little too close for comfort.

Or maybe it was the front bumper hanging out of my back window as the tow gave me a none-too-gentle nudge back to the pits.

I wobble in on three wheels, spewing smoke and steam. The engine that has purred soundly most of my life is silent. Dead quiet.

I feel like I’ve been shot. Punctures everywhere.

I’m bleeding. Life is fading fast.

But death doesn’t come quickly, as I hoped.

This is a brutal wrenching and screeching, metal banging on metal, gut-twisting agony of dust, oil and heat.

So, this is what it’s like to turn 30.


Mid way through the stripping process Jim Foster’s demolition derby car sits in his driveway missing a hood and glass. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne

I came to life in a South Gate, Calif., plant in 1979, one of 121,890 Coupe DeVilles made there. Powered by a 425-cubic inch V-8, I’m a sweet ride.

My factory price is $11,139. But the extras pushed my price to more than $12,500 when Thomas Olds-Cadillac-GMC in Rapid City sold me.

Let’s talk style. Swanky power leather seats, air conditioning, pulse wipers and opera lamps. There’s cruise control, tilt steering, and an AM/FM radio and 8-track tape player with digital display.

I don’t just drive, I glide.

I’m wearing a new, slick paint job called “medium saddle firemist” with accent stripes. The chrome adds a lot of bling.

I’m sharp. You can’t afford me. But you wish you could.

Steve Earle, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Chris LeDoux and the Stray Cats all have sung my praises.

My shipping weight is 4,143 pounds, a bit smaller than your average Caddy.

I’m a sleek, brown beauty.

But by the time that teen-ager in Belle Fourche, S.D., sold me in April, I’d seen better days.

So much for firemist.


Jim Foster talks to his son Jeremy while the two chain their demolition derby car to a trailer after children at the Boys and Girls Club signed their names on the hands that dot the car. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne

He spray painted me black to hide the rust after his grandfather gave me to him. The kid throws in two extra cans of “fat black” spray paint for the $250 Jim Foster spent on me.

But the road trip into Gillette felt good — a 75-mph cruise on I-90.

“This one has good brakes,” Jim tells people. “The shocks are worn out. When we hits a bump, my head hit the roof.”

Don’t let him fool you. He brags me up. He practically floated home, even if he got some odd looks from folks along the way.

My trip meter rang up 147 miles that day. That’s nothing on top of the 161,682 miles I’ve racked up on the speedometer.

But Jim had plans for me.

“I’ve always wanted a Cadillac,” I hear Foster, 62 explain to an onlooker.

He wants to use me to help raise money for the Gillette Boys and Girls Club.


Conner Bates writes his name on the roof of his grandfather’s demolition derby car in front of the Boys and Girls Club before it was demolished during the 2009 Razor City Rumble. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne

He looks at me and sees a demolition derby car for the 2009 Razor City Rumble. His son, Jeremy Foster, will drive.

The grandfather and his sons, including Jordan Foster, call it a “bonding” experience.

Are you kidding? I’m the one who needs bonding.

“I thought I’d spend a day on it and be ready,” Jim says.

He had help from two longtime Gillette demolition drivers. One of them, Carl Pankowski, works with Jim at Rio Tinto’s Cordero mine. He has the know-how. Jim has the desire.

“I’ve been to derbies, I just didn’t realize how much work goes in on them,” Jim says after spending three days yanking on my innards. Three weeks later, they still were stripping parts. He stood in my engine compartment, cutting what he says are miles and miles of wiring.

“Everything you pull off is stubborn,” he laughs.

When they stripped off my chrome, you could see my original paint job.

As they welded the metal around my wheels, I felt like I was being torched alive.

The drill they used to remove my drive shaft sounded like something a dentist uses to seal a cavity. But this is metal pounding metal.

Still, I came away much lighter, leaner and meaner.

They removed 1,000 pounds of extras.

I have a hacking cough. Cruise control is history. The air conditioning is drained. The parking brake is useless.

My battery’s been given away. Now I get power from a bigger one parked in a box behind my front seat. It tickles.

“It’s a big, ugly, yucky looking car,” Carl says.

They left the tilt steering, though.

“These (Cadillacs) are not as tough, but you can do a lot of stuff. You can get them tough,” Carl tells Jim. “Every derby interprets the rules differently. You can take it to the limit. It’s not cheating, unless you get caught.”

He suggested painting me blue and pink, with handprints.

“I have to talk to the boss,” Jim says. “I don’t know if my driver will drive a car with pink on it.”

“This car, this is it’s last hurrah. And if you get one last hurrah for it, you might as well have some fun with it,” Carl says, as he bangs my midriff with a sledge hammer.

Somehow, that filled me with trepidation.

“I’ve been doing this since I was 14,” he adds. “I’m 40 now. ... I don’t do it for winning, just to put somebody on their roof.”

I wished I was somewhere else, anywhere else.

Jeremy painted more than 300 handprints on my exterior.

Ninety kids of all sizes have crawled over my hood, trunk, even my roof, to sign their names.

I’m No. 7, with painted pink handprints indicating the numeral.

Jim’s wife, Donna, suggested the 7.

“Seven has always meant heaven to her,” Jim explains.

I like the sentiment, anyway. But pink?

“I haven’t ever crashed intentionally,” Jeremy says. “I’m 70 percent excited and 30 percent scared. I’m not nervous about getting hit. I just don’t want it to die or get put out right away. I want to make a good show.”

This isn’t the first derby for most of these cars. But it is for me.

“We’re in a fight,” Jim says.

And that’s how I found myself in the dirt arena at Morningside Park on a cool spring evening.

Jim and Jeremy watched the first heat. I can see them through my rear-view mirror.

As they walk, Jim pats Jeremy on the back, looking worried. Before they reach me, he gives Jeremy’s shoulders a sideways hug.

Hey, what about me, bud?


After working on the pink and blue Cadillac for 30 minutes, Jeremy Foster slides back through the windshield into the driver’s seat for the consolation round of the 2009 Razor City Rumble. - News Record photos by

“He’s walking on water,” Jim says as Jeremy slides on a borrowed 1970s-era gray helmet.

“You should have a silver outfit with it,” someone says.

“That’s truly a brain bucket,” another quips.

Jeremy gives a nervous salute before he slips behind my wheel.

“He’s got a tough heat,” Jim says. “This is harder for me than him, I think. I’m more nervous. I’m really a family man.”

I think it’s harder for me than both of them.

I chug to the arena, but I’m in a haze, not quite ready for the start.

I get in a few quick wacks, though. We hit the other Caddy, a black No. 82, with my back end. We barely nudge another car with a glancing blow.

But it’s not going well.

Here comes No. 22. He pounds my passenger side door with a vengeance. He backs up, hits it again and then repeats the maneuver over and over. Apparently that wasn’t enough. So he slams into me two more times.

I feel the earth slide.

What am I doing? My side has caved in. I limp ahead.

Another hit. Whoops, there goes my front bumper.

What’s that? A thunderous whack from No. 50. I can’t move. I can’t think. My engine’s revving. But I can only make a few inches.

I’m stuck. But Carl comes roaring to the rescue. He knocks me loose from that metal coffin and zips away. Oh no, two more cars square up on me.

My right front tire blows. The crowd cheers. My radiator drains. Smoke drifts into my eyes. I cough.

They’ve finished me off. ... I’m shaken.


Water splashes from the transmission cooler in the pink and blue Cadillac after being hit hard by a competitor during the 2009 Razor City Rumble. Soon after the hit the car was incapacitated when its distributor cap was dislodged. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne

It’s a good thing I can’t see the damage. But I can sure feel it. Now there’s more black than blue. And firemist? It’s long gone.

“He did good until the bumper came off,” Jim says. “He did kind of good for a novice.”

“I saw that bumper and I didn’t realize it was mine,” Jeremy says. “Whew. ... After that first hit, the nervousness was gone.”

A “crew” of five is prying open my welded hood. I don’t know if I can take much more. They’re replacing my radiator, filling it with soothing water. Oooo, my throttle’s unstuck.

They’re changing my tire. What going on up there? They’re re-attaching my bumper, still sizzling from a red-hot torch. All I can see is mud, puddles of Anti-freeze and a few sparks flying by. It’s all happening so fast.

Thirty minutes whizzes by.

Jeremy climbs back in and starts me up, shifting into reverse. There’s nothing. I can’t move. There’s panic.

“We’ve got a bad radiator and no reverse,” Jim says. “I would have given anything that the transmission would hold up. ... When we bought it, it had a brand new muffler. When we dropped the oil pan, there wasn’t a drop of dirt in it. Honestly, whoever had it, they took care of it.”

But I’m the only car parked facing forward in the arena. This can’t be good.

The consolation heat starts and I clip a stick with a flag on it, winning these guys an 18-pack of beer. I take a swipe at a larger metal target swinging out of my way and just miss.

Great, there’s No. 67. He’s hammering my front end. I’m stuck momentarily in a deep dirt berm, but Jeremy drives me up the side and back into action. It’s a slick move.

Whoa. I just slammed off of No. 21. Ow, No. 13’s having another go at me. That’s the last jolt. My distributor cap shakes off.

I’m done.

“I was thinking I’m the only one facing forward. Everyone else is going backward. I’m going to be a sandwich soon,” Jeremy says.

What a mess. My black paint is sheared away. Below that, I’m wrinkled and wrecked metal.

“The car didn’t do so well,” Jim says.

You think they’ll share that beer?


Jim Foster answers a call after his pink and blue Cadillac lost power and was eliminated from the 2009 Razor City Rumble. - News Record photos by Photo Editor Nathan Payne