Our day started with a parking dilemma, as many great Midwestern excursions often do. Most locals near the fair had turned their lawns into makeshift lots, charging anywhere from $5 to $20, the price dictated by proximity to the gate.

We turned onto Douglas Avenue and found our spot: a neatly trimmed lawn, a hand-painted sign, and an older gentleman in a veteran’s hat solemnly waving cars like a suburban air traffic controller. He accepted our cash with a nod and directed us into a backyard grid of vehicles, a masterclass in maximizing space without chaos.

My family and I headed to the main gate. On the walk to the gate, front yards became mini marketplaces. Homeowners sold bottled water, random candy, and, at one house, puppies. A pile of puppies, drawing in kids, parents, and anyone with a heart. Maybe sales tactics - yes these tactics dictated where people chose to park.

Past the gates, the air was thick with the smell of deep-fried everything, kettle corn, and a faint whiff of livestock. A quick family huddle set the plan: food first, vendors later, derby always - it's what we came for anyway. The food stands delivered nostalgia in fried form. Elephant ears the size of steering wheels, absurdly long corn dogs, gravity-defying fried Oreos.

A random stranger who had momentarily merged with our group insisted we buy the root beer mugs—$9 upfront, $1 refills. We bought four. The investment felt like a small mortgage, but the cold root beer was worth it—refills required braving a swarm of bees, a test of agility and devotion. We never refilled our mugs.

Properly fueled by sugar and grease, we moved on to the vendors—a stretch of the fairground where capitalism operated at its most charming.

Leather wallets, jewelry, and an overwhelming amount of Trump gear. Handmade candles with cryptic names like Autumn Nostalgia that mostly just smelled like vanilla. Imported knives. (Why are there always knives?) Wooden signs with inspirational quotes, as if our walls needed constant encouragement - nice touch.

We resisted silly impulse buys and finally took our seats for the main event—the demolition derby.

My family joined hundreds of others, packing the stands, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee with strangers. Kids clutched cotton candy, old-timers sipped lukewarm coffee - it didn't matter that it was the high 80s, and all eyes were locked on the muddy battlefield, drawn together by the thrill of the event.

If there is a purer expression of American joy than watching old cars—some once-family minivans, now battle-scarred—collide for sport, we have yet to find it. The crowd erupted with a primal enthusiasm. A sedan took an unexpected hit, spun in a slow, theatrical circle, and then came to a defeated stop. Chaotic Poetry.

Demolition derbies in Allegan aren’t new. They’re woven into rural Michigan life, passed down like an heirloom toolset. Now a rite of passage for local men and boys.

Behind the scenes, the derby is even more intimate. Competitors work late into the night in barns and garages, hammering out last-minute fixes while their kids hand them wrenches. For some, it’s a multigenerational tradition. Watching their teens line up for their first heat is equal parts pride and terror—because nothing says “family bonding” like watching your kid ram someone else’s car at full speed upwards of 50mph.

The derby is more than just cars colliding with one another; it’s a modern gladiator arena where courage, strategy, and a bit of madness come together. Farmhands, mechanics, and kids with their first jalopy arrive equipped with welding torches, creativity, and a strong desire to win. It’s rarely about the trophy; it’s about the thrill of driving until the wheels won’t turn or the battery catches fire.