Race of the year, ride of a lifetime

Although last year’s Little 500 race was perhaps one of the greatest sporting events I’ve ever witnessed, I can’t pinpoint when it was I realized that.

I’m not sure what the worst part of last year’s Little 500 race was.

Trying to maintain the IDS live chat for the men’s race, which 367 readers logged into from across the nation and posted 578 comments on (not including the ones I didn’t allow) rates pretty high up there.

Having every sorority and fraternity chant drilled into my brain is definitely in the top five.

The horrible wireless connection, my computer dying and the sunburn that turned the back of my neck tomato-red surely factor in.

I’m not sure what the best part of the race was, either.

Caroline Brown of Pi Beta Phi riding 70-plus laps in a Herculean effort to bring the sorority its first Little 500 victory.

Cutters, led by Clayton Feldman, battling back from a half-lap deficit to win the race on Eric Young’s splendid last-lap sprint. Hearing the cheers as the fans rushed onto the track to follow their team for its victory lap.

All I know is that somewhere between the 4:36 p.m. start of last year’s women’s race and the 4:50 p.m. finish of the men’s race a day later, magic happened.

I could bring up watching Stefani Puaca of Wing It, who had mono during the race, leap onto the bike in an effort to bring her team back into the lead pack.

I could talk about a rider from Vicious & Delicious who suffered a brain hemorrhage and a skull fracture, yet was there on race day, working as a mechanic.

I could tell you about the picture of Matt Neibler of Delta Tau Delta, leaping into the crowd to celebrate his team’s second-place finish in last year’s race.

I could help you relive that final lap, the chills I get even now looking back on that third-straight Cutters victory.

I could mention seeing a member of Phi Delta Theta crying after a disappointing finish. After several crashes during the race, the team finished two laps down of Cutters.

I’ve seen tears, heard cheers and smelled beer ... lots of it. I’ve been in the inside the track, outside the track, above the track and almost run over on the track. Those cinders, while not buried under the skin of my legs (as they are in most riders), have become a part of my heart.

This is more than a bike race; just as the Super Bowl is more than a football game; just as the final day of The Masters is more than a round of golf; and just as the Olympic games are more than a gathering of countries trying to collect circular medals.

This race is beautiful. It is ugly. It is glorious. It is atrocious. As one rider told me, in a basketball game, there is one winner and there is one loser.
In the Little 500, there is one winner and there are 32 losers on each side, not counting the teams that failed to qualify.

For a whole year, the riders (the serious ones, anyway) basically take on the commitment of a varsity sport without the scholarships, free textbooks or other perks that come with being a letterman. Their grades suffer, their bodies suffer and their nerves build.

It’s all for one day. For one shot at glory. In pretty much any other sport, you can make a mistake in a game and come out the next day to make up for it in some way.

There are 162 games in a baseball season, and, if you’re a Cubs fan like me, you know there’s always next year.

As a Little 500 rider, you get one shot a year, and, if you’re a senior like some of the riders are, there is no such thing as a second chance.

This is the essence of sports at its finest. There is no big money on the line. There are no contracts, no breaks for the athletes, no real motivations for riding other than the ability to have that conversation with their kids one day:

“Son, that’s me in that picture riding in the Little 500. We won that year.”

A blank stare. “What’s that?”

And then, once more, the magic happens.