The air smells like burnt rubber and antifreeze.
But it tastes like victory.
There’s a fella with a highlighter-pink handlebar mustache on the mic and generations of family members cheering behind the chain-link fence.
Sixteen people are competing in the Upperco Volunteer Fire Company demolition derby’s final event. Only one can win.
The rules are simple: Be the last man standing. When your car catches fire or no longer moves ... you’re out.
But no matter how many times Mat Michael rams the remnants of his 1995 Chevy Lumina into the last opposing junker, he can’t quite eke out that victory.
“Hit him! Hit him! Son of a biscuit,” his 10-year-old, Max, screams.
Michael, 33, was the runner-up in last month’s derby, the kickoff to a season of hard-fought battles hosted by a northwest Baltimore County fire company with a penchant for adrenaline-fueled fundraisers.
Upperco’s fire department hosts several motorsport events a year that draw thousands of spectators. This year includes one on Saturday and two more on Aug. 15 and Oct. 17.
A short-track race takes place in the afternoon. Drivers in the short-track event, held on a half-mile oval of mud, compete for cash prizes up to $600 for first place.
The smashup event — the one that Michael competes in — takes place at the end of the night. Demolition derby drivers compete for up to $1,500 for first place in three different divisions.
“I haven’t missed a derby since 2010,” Michael said. “We just strip ’em, build ’em ... and the event I’m running in is called the ‘Backyard Build.’”
Mud bogs and motorsports
The aforementioned mustachioed emcee, Scott Timberman — better known as “Screamin’ Scotty” — has been a car geek his whole life.
His dad had cars. Timberman’s first was a ’68 Camaro. He built his nephew’s first car about four years ago.
“Once you got racing in your blood,” Timberman said, “it’s hard to get out.”
The self-described gearhead is also a third-generation firefighter and serves as a lieutenant and president of the Upperco Volunteer Fire Company. Baltimore County’s fire department subsidizes fuel and EMS services, Timberman said, but Upperco has to find a way to cover property taxes and the mortgage on their new firehouse.
That’s where the derbies come in. Last year’s season brought in $60,000 for the department, Timberman said.
The fundraisers started in the mid-1990s as “mud bogs” — people off-roading in ATVs in thick mud pits — and expanded into short-track racing and a full-fledged demolition derby. It’s $60 per driver to race and $80 to run in the derby. The company charges for admission: Adults pay $20; those ages 10 to 17 pay $15; and kids 9 and under get in free.
After starting out as a driver, Timberman pivoted to announcing.
“I have so much fun interacting with the crowd,” he said. “I get ’em screaming and hollering. I’ll be picking on the drivers and this guy’s booing at me and this guy’s loving it.”
Last month, Screamin’ Scotty was armed with a headset and an equal-opportunity jab throughout the derby.
Sporting a cheeky grin, Timberman referred to one heat as an “F-A-F-O” — shorthand for “f--- around and find out” — race, while gesturing to a pair of smoking cars piled up at the hairpin turn of the track. “I think y’all know what that means.”
“If it’s not on fire,” he added, “leave it where it is.”
Family by choice
Derbying is a family affair. Just ask Brandi Paquette.
Her son, Robert “Boo” Arndt III, 19, tinkers with, fixes up and races cars, just like his dad, Robert “Bobby” Arndt Jr., and grandfather, Robert “Bimbo” Arndt.
The youngest Arndt is joined at the hip with Michael — often literally when they work on cars together — who used to babysit Boo.
Parked in a lawn chair in her Reisterstown driveway last week, Paquette laughed as she recalled the first time they left Michael in charge of her son. Her then-6-year-old accidentally swung a bag of frozen bagels in Michael’s face and broke his nose.
A decade-plus later, the pair lay crouched under a Chevy Malibu they’re desperate to turn into a derby car. One of the cartridges inside the car’s fuse box was missing, or maybe broken. They couldn’t tell.
“Robert! Pay f---in’ attention,” Michael said.
“Damn,” said Grace Bray, Boo’s girlfriend. “He called you by your government name.”
Everyone pitched in to work on the car, whether it was testing the radio, tracking down a socket wrench or refilling the bowl of barbecue Utz chips.
It wasn’t clear if the Malibu would be derby-ready, but no one seemed too concerned.
“Wood flexes for a reason,” Paquette said. “Trees sway for a reason. You gotta be flexible.”
From toy Jeeps to junkyard Durangos
The derby is multigenerational.
Kids 3 to 10 years old compete in the “Power Wheels” division. Teenagers work on cars that race across various classes — from lowly Nissan Altimas to heavyweight F-150 pickup trucks to born-again Durangos rescued from the junkyard.
“You can race here before you get your actual driver’s license,” Paquette said.
The youngest Michaels — Aubree, 7, and Willow, 5 — competed last month with Barbie-themed toy Jeeps in the kids’ derby. It’s essentially a pint-sized version of bumper cars; when the balloon mounted on a kid’s ride pops, they’re out.
The girls’ grandfather, Gary Michael, cheered them on with misty-eyed admiration. Just a few hours later, he watched his son, Mat, out-smash nearly every other junker vying for the win.
“I’m not gonna lie,” Mat Michael said. “I get nervous every time ... until I get the first hit. Once I get the first hit, it’s game on.”
The rush, he said, puts roller coasters to shame.
A few years ago, he got flipped upside down during a derby and oil spilled everywhere. So he made 710 — “OIL” flipped around — his car’s race number.
Saturday’s path to what he hopes will be a redemptive victory follows the same trajectory as every derby:
“We keep hittin’ each other until you can’t hit no more.”
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