Man. Derugging. Just typing that word makes my shoulders ache. You see those home reno shows where they peel up carpet like unwrapping a candy bar? Yeah, that\’s pure fantasy. Reality is more like wrestling a sweaty, decades-old, dust-bunny-infested beast. I did my first derug job in my first house – a charming 1950s bungalow whose previous owners apparently believed in \”carpet for eternity.\” Beige. Matted. Stained with the ghosts of a thousand spilled coffees and maybe a small pet accident or three. I went in thinking, \”How hard can it be?\” Famous last words.

First hurdle: finding a damn corner. The carpet was tucked so tight against the baseboards it felt fused. I ended up jamming a flathead screwdriver – the only tool I thought I\’d need, idiot that I was – behind the baseboard near a door frame. Scraped the paint, obviously. Heard a small tearing sound, like velcro giving up reluctantly. Got maybe two inches up. Underneath? Not beautiful hardwood, oh no. Concrete slab. Cold, grey, slightly damp-feeling concrete. My Pinterest dreams of sanding and staining original floors evaporated right there. Just… gone. Replaced by this sinking feeling of, \”Oh. This is what I paid for.\”

So, the actual removal. Forget those fancy knee-kickers the pros use. You need leverage. Brutal, awkward leverage. I found that grabbing the tiny exposed flap with pliers – the kind with the rubber grips that still manage to dig into your palm – and then heaving backwards while basically sitting on my butt and pushing with my legs worked. Sort of. It involved a lot of grunting, repositioning, and swearing under my breath. The carpet backing started fraying almost immediately, filling the air with this fine, itchy dust that smelled vaguely of old attics and regret. Wear a mask. Seriously. Not the flimsy COVID kind, a proper respirator. Your lungs will thank you later.

Then came the padding. Oh, the padding. If the carpet was the beast, the padding was its disgusting, disintegrating underbelly. Crumbly yellow foam in some places, weird black rubber mesh in others, all glued down with what I can only describe as demonic adhesive. It came up in chunks. Tiny, frustrating, disintegrating chunks. Forget pulling it up in sheets. It was more like archaeological excavation, scraping layer after layer of degraded foam off the slab with a putty knife. The glue spots? Black tar-like patches that laughed at my scraping. I spent hours on my knees, covered in grey dust streaked with sweat, hacking away at this crap. My back screamed. My knees felt bruised for days. The trash bag filled with this vile, lightweight debris that somehow still weighed a ton.

Tack strips. Ah, yes. The hidden landmines. Those thin strips of wood lined with hundreds of little metal teeth, nailed into the concrete around the perimeter. Designed to grip the carpet edge. Also designed to impale the unsuspecting DIYer. I learned this lesson when I knelt right onto one. Through my jeans. It hurt. A sharp, shocking pain. I bled. Not a lot, but enough to stain the dust on my knee a weird brownish-red. Rookie mistake. After that, I crawled around like I was navigating a minefield, which, frankly, I was. Pulling them up required a crowbar (the flathead was useless here) and a hammer. Slip the crowbar under, lever it up just enough to get the claw of the hammer under a nail head, and yank. It’s violent. It sends splinters flying. It’s deeply satisfying when a whole strip pops free, nails and all. But it’s slow. And loud. And jarring to your wrists.

Finally got it all up. The carpet, the padding, the tack strips. The concrete slab lay bare. It wasn\’t pretty. It was stained. It had glue residue like abstract art. It had gouges from my crowbar enthusiasm. It was covered in a fine layer of that godawful dust and billions of staple fragments – little metal pricks left behind from the padding. Sweeping just seemed to embed them deeper. Vacuuming helped, but I swear I\’m still finding staples years later, lurking in corners like tiny metallic spiders. The glue? Chemical stripper. Nasty stuff. Requires ventilation (opening windows wasn\’t enough, I needed fans), gloves that feel like you\’re performing surgery, and patience I didn\’t possess. It softened the tar into a gooey mess that I scraped up, swearing the whole time about the fumes giving me a headache.

So, \”easy\”? Nah. Not really. It\’s simple in concept: pull up carpet, padding, tack strips, clean. But simple doesn\’t mean easy. It\’s physical. It\’s messy. It\’s frustrating. It reveals the often ugly truth beneath your feet. Would I do it again? Well, I did. In the next room. Because paying someone felt like admitting defeat, and honestly? That feeling when the last strip is out and the space is just… empty concrete? It’s weirdly primal. Like you\’ve conquered something. Even if you’re covered in filth and your back feels 90 years old. There’s a raw potential in that bare slab. Even if the next step is just slapping down some laminate because, let\’s face it, exposed concrete gets cold. It’s a start. A dirty, exhausting, slightly painful start. But yours.

【FAQ】

Q: Seriously, how long does this actually take for, say, a 12×12 room?
A> Forget the \”weekend project\” estimates. If you\’re solo and it\’s your first rodeo? Budget a solid weekend, maybe bleeding into a third day if the glue is particularly sadistic or the padding disintegrates into pure dust. It\’s not just the removal; it\’s the prep (moving furniture is its own hell), the cleanup (the dust gets everywhere), and recovering from the sheer physical toll. Pros do it faster because they have the tools, the technique, and the lack of emotional attachment to the process.

Q: My padding seems glued down everywhere with black tar. Any magic solution?
A> Magic? Nope. Elbow grease and chemicals. A heavy-duty floor scraper (the kind with replaceable blades) is your friend for the bulk. For the stubborn, tar-like adhesive, you\’ll likely need a solvent-based adhesive remover. Test it in a corner first! This stuff is potent – ventilate like your life depends on it (it kinda does, fumes are no joke), wear serious gloves (nitrile over cotton isn\’t enough, get chemical-resistant), and eye protection. Apply, let it dwell (check the label), scrape up the goo. It\’s slow, messy, and profoundly unglamorous. Sometimes, renting a floor grinder for the concrete afterwards is the only way to get it truly clean, but that\’s a whole other level of dust and noise.

Q: Found some suspicious-looking tiles under a corner of the padding. Should I panic about asbestos?
A> Don\’t panic, but do not disturb them further. Seriously. Stop. If your house was built before the mid-1980s, and you find 9×9 inch tiles, or any tiles really, or black papery backing, there\’s a chance it contains asbestos. Breathing asbestos fibers is bad news. Your best move? Carefully put the padding/carpet back over that spot if possible. Get a sample tested by a certified lab – it\’s not hugely expensive. If it\’s positive, hire a licensed abatement company. It sucks cost-wise, but it\’s not worth the long-term risk. DIY asbestos removal is a terrible, terrible idea.

Q: Pulled up the carpet, subfloor is wood but looks stained/damaged. Can I just lay new flooring over it?
A> You can, but should you? Depends. Superficial stains? Probably fine. But look for soft spots (rot), major warping, gaps, or signs of water damage (dark staining, buckling). New flooring needs a solid, flat base. If the subfloor is uneven or damaged, your new beautiful floor will telegraph those problems – squeaks, dips, premature wear. You might need to patch plywood sections or even replace damaged boards. It feels like a setback, but skimping here guarantees headaches later. A floor leveling compound might work for minor imperfections, but it\’s not a fix-all for structural issues.

Q: My hands are shredded and my back is killing me. Any pro tips besides \”hire someone\”?
A> Too late for that now, soldier! For hands: Heavy-duty work gloves before you start (leather palm helps), and keep bandaids/medical tape handy. For the back: Kneepads are non-negotiable. Seriously. Get good ones. Take breaks before you feel the pain set in. Stretch your hamstrings and lower back periodically. Leverage is everything – use the crowbar and hammer smartly, don\’t just muscle it. Hydrate. And mentally prepare for the fact that you\’ll feel like you got run over by a truck for a day or two afterwards. A hot bath and ibuprofen are your friends. Next time? Maybe price out pros before you start… just saying.