Ricky Nelson And The Hushed-Up Demolition Race

As the sun drew over the towering mountains framing the still Arizona desert, Ricky Nelson wearily lifted himself out of bed and walked slowly over to the bathroom to shave and get washed up.

He thought to himself as the sink began to babble with whirlpools of water, Today it’ll be the same old drag. Heck, it isn’t the film which is a drag. Making Rio Bravo is a ball. Ifs this part of the world which bugs me. No excitement here. At least not the kind of excitement that I crave.

And Rick Nelson delighted in a special kind of excitement.

He enjoyed being strapped into a shining hunk of bright metal which can negotiate sharply banked curves at 100 miles per hour without breathing hard.

He got his kicks swerving a car wildly, leaving shreds of burned tire rubber and a field of swift racers in his wake.

He liked racing the moon, knowing that he’d never win but at least willing to give the cow up there a run for her money.

Yes, decided Rick that morning as the sun which filtered into his room did nothing to temper his reckless determination, I’ve got to race again!

There was no mistaking it. Rick once again had his terrible urge to get behind the wheel of a car.

It’s a habit which had Hollywood biting its nails.

Friends of the Nelsons, who watched Rick develop into an intelligent, mature boy, were worried that he would never ripen into the maturity of manhood.

Death must be reckoned with on the accident-marred, blood-scarred speedways used by Rick to unleash his tremendous drive to go, go, go.

And Rick had almost traveled the highway to heaven more than once. . . .

The first big wreck

Like the big, fantastic wreck which almost cost him his life late one night two Decembers before.

That particular wreck happened in Beverly Hills. The city is a sedate residential area well-patrolled by steel-eyed motorcycle officers who are not afraid to hand out traffic citations.

But this night there wasn’t a cop in sight . . . and it was late . . . and Rick was loose behind the wheel of his primed-for-action Porsche.

Rick, forgetting that Beverly Hills was not the Hollywood Freeway, roared through the city with abandon. Instead of writing ‘Ricky Was Here’ at the intersections he passed, he left vicious streaks of rubber smeared on the roadway . . . streaks which can be used as evidence in a vehicular manslaughter case like a bloodstained knife is evidence in a murder case.

Rick was traveling the road by instinct . . . like a pilot who blacks out at the controls but can keep his plane aloft because of his time-trained reflexes . . . and was not really noticing the dangers lurking in the darkness.

Suddenly, looming like it was the Mississippi River, a slick spot of water appeared on the road. Rick still isn’t sure whether or not he ever saw it, but he did see the island in the center of the divided road. Swerving with the desperation of a man fighting for his life, he failed to keep the sleek car upright and flipped over amidst the terrifying crunch of metal and the tinkling of shattered glass.

He and his friend miraculously escaped serious injury in a wreck which veteran examining officers agreed should have resulted in death.

But while such a wreck would have kept most any other survivor off the streets, it did little to ease Rick’s urge to drive . . . fast.

“I guess I just like to drive,” he rationalized without apologies.

And today Rick was going to drive again.

As he quickly finished dressing, Rick happily realized that—in the middle of nowhere—he had discovered an outlet for his racing prowess. This part of the world was going to be a drag no longer!

He rushed through the day’s takes with more enthusiasm than usual and after the director called it quits, he and his friend and stand-in, Joe Byrnes, quickly changed clothes and rushed off the set.

This was going to be a night to remember for both of them.

Dangerous destination

As the sun crept below some of the peaks jutting out into the sun-scorched desert, Joe and Rick headed for a racing strip near Tucson.

They didn’t tell anyone when they were going because, unlike some of Ricky’s past speedway appearances—which had been the world’s worst-kept secrets—this one had to be hushed up.

Warner Brothers was not especially anxious to lose its star in the middle of a multi-million dollar picture. Had Rick and Joe told the producer of their intention, they probably would have been kept under twenty-four hour surveillance by a crack corps of Pinkertons.

Rick and Joe were unusually quiet on the way to the track, but their stomachs had butterflies chattering away like spinsters on a party line. It was the kind of conversation which produces ulcers.

They were nervously silent because Rick was about to experience something new. This race was going to be literally a fight to the finish!

And Rick had another worry etched into his troubled mind. He was entering the race as a ‘mystery driver’—his name was not going to be revealed to anyone. Only he and Joe were aware of his identity.

What if someone unmasked him?

It would cost him future roles because producers would type him as a ‘risk’ property, not concerned enough with the picture he was working on to protect their ‘investment’ in Rick Nelson, boy actor.

As they pulled up at the racing oval, Rick realized that he was in this thing for keeps . . . come what may, and who knew what might come?

“This was it,” recalls Rick with the cautious awareness of a survivor. “The Demolition Derby.

“It’s a pretty wild thing. You take a half dozen old jalopies, the most beat-up things around, and practically junk them. You knock their windows out and barely leave their motors in one piece.

“Then you line them all up in the infield and at the gun you go after each other in a wild free-for-all. You try to knock into as many cars as possible and anything goes.

“You’re strapped in and helmeted and reinforced for the dozens of bumps you know you’re going to get.

“You just go for broke. It’s not a race. It’s more a sort of auto suicide. You kill the cars—and maybe yourself.

“The last guy running under his own power is considered the winner.

“Well, for about fifteen minutes we were knocking around and flying all over the infield. We just slashed at each other. Finally there were only two of us left. Me and another guy.

“I was going to try to win by cutting across the infield into him broadside. I sliced both our cars with the impact. . . .”

“What a stupid way to die . . .”

If Rick could disengage himself from the wreck and just move another inch under his own steam, then he would be the winner of The Demolition Derby. But he never got the chance. . . .

“Suddenly,” he says with a shiver, “I saw that my car was on fire and panicked a little. I pulled and I tugged but I couldn’t get the safety belt off.

“I thought that I might burn with the car. . . .

“There was no way out. The doors were jammed and the roof was also solid. I figured this was it. . . .

“What a stupid way to die, I thought. In a crazy stunt like this!

“I had my wind knocked out of me as I was thrown against the wheel when we hit. My stomach was aching and I was panting. I tried to yell. . . .”

The crowd lining the infield was on its feet, screaming for someone to save the poor guy trapped in that flaming wreck. No one realized, except Joe, that one of America’s most popular performers was seconds away from death.

Joe Byrnes, the stand-in, couldn’t ‘double’ for his best friend now. All he could do was pray.

Suddenly, one of the officials who had run over to give assistance spotted a hole in the rapidly rusting wreck. But, was it large enough for the driver to crawl through? And, if it was, did he have the strength to save himself?

Flames kept stretching their fiery claws closer to him and the smell and smoke were becoming dense . . . and the guy trapped in the inferno was still alive.

The group of heroic men bunched around the flaming car, oblivious to the threat of an explosion which could catapult them to a blazing death, decided not to ask any needless questions, and just went to work.

They thrust their strong-boned hands in and began to pull Rick through the jagged hole. Offering what little energy he had left, Rick—still conscious—helped them along. He retained his senses and was able to see everything that was going on, frustrated only by his inability to do more than he was doing. In minutes he was dragged clear of the wreck.

“It was weird,” says Rick, not admitting that the close call on this, his most daring night, has virtually cured him of his thirst for speed.

He hasn’t raced since that fateful night.

It was the night that Rick, saved from death, decided to live. . . .

THE END

Ricky’s in Warners’ RIO BRAVO and Columbia’s WHACKIEST SHIP IN THE ARMY.

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE DECEMBER 1959