Courageous, outrageous Little 500

The terrified freshman

If there is one thing I could go back and tell my freshman self, it would be that there is nothing wrong with taking a night off during Little 500 week.

But of course, your first year at college, you think the force of judgment will hammer down on you if you don’t rage all seven nights.

This is why I subsequently ended up at a sketchy off-campus fraternity freshman year.

One of my freshman friends convinced me we had to rage and an older friend said we could come with her to an off-campus frat. I hate to paint with a broad brush, but if all off-campus frats are like this one, run.

And don’t stop running until you’re home, safe in bed. First off, it was cheap beer for days and nothing else. Great if you’re someone who enjoys beer, not so great if you’re me.

Then, as the evening progressed, it was heinously overweight frat stars with yellowed wife-beaters grinding on peroxide blondes for as far as the eye could see.

Unidentified stains speckled the walls.

I found two used cigarettes in the couch I sat on. I prayed for death or a police raid, whichever would come first.

Luckily, I eventually escaped, but the frat in question still refuses to pay for my recuperative therapy.

— Dane McDonald, wdmcdona@indiana.edu


Getting home safe

As I was leaving class yesterday, I froze in horror when I heard two classmates discussing their plans for the evening.

“How are we gonna get there?” one said to the other.

“I’ll probably just sober drive,” he replied.

Maybe I’m not getting proper exposure to frat-boy lingo, but is that a thing?

What happened to just plain, old “driving?”

I get that we live in a culture of bars and alcohol and I’m sincerely trying to avoid killing anyone’s week-long buzz, but have we really reached the point in Bloomington where this is a distinction we need to make?

Must I clarify that I intend to “sober drive” when taking a trip? Isn’t that the default state when operating a motor vehicle? Shouldn’t it be?

This week is always a pinnacle of pent-up energies. Flowers shoot up out of the ground, legs shed their yoga pants, and pale biceps sprout from party tank-clad shoulders.

Letting loose is good, especially after we’ve been shrouded in snow and essays for months, but making stupid choices isn’t.

If you’re out and unable to sober-drive, call a cab. In a pinch, you can call SafeRide at 812-856-RIDE for a sober ride home.

This Little 500, keep it cute, keep it safe, and — behind the wheel — keep it sober.

— Drake Reed, drlreed@indiana.edu


Storming the stadium

I cannot remember a Little 500 weekend that did not, at some point, involve pitifully sloshing through freezing rain.

Judging from the forecast, it looks like this weekend will be no exception.

My most pitiful Little 500 memory happened my freshman year. Parts of it are immortalized on some video deep in the annals of Facebook.

The Saturday of the race, it was storming. Violently. Being freshmen, my friends and I had actually purchased tickets to the race.

As the starting time approached, we decided to venture out into the storm in hopes that the rain would let up by the time we’d gotten from Read to Bill Armstrong Stadium.

We were wrong.

By the time we’d gotten to Foster Quad, we were soaked to the bone and shivering.
Two of our party opted to flee into Gresham for hot cocoa and soup. Me and my remaining compatriot soldiered on.

The closer we got to the stadium, the worse the storm got. We ran on, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol, determined to “get our money’s worth.”

As we approached the stadium, we had to fight against a crowd of people fleeing.

Lightning struck somewhere in the general vicinity, and the immediate thunder (combined with the wind gusts and the resisting crowd) nearly knocked us over.

“Where are you going?!” one man yelled desperately at us. “That’s the wrong way!”
We screamed and continued. “We just have to see the stadium! We just have to touch the stadium!” we shrieked.

After fighting the crowd for a few minutes, we finally got there, only to find that the stadium was being cleared. We weren’t even allowed in. We collapsed dramatically against the fence.

“Wait,” my companion said. “WE TOUCHED IT!”

“OH MY GOD WE DID! WE’RE ALIVE AND WE’RE TOUCHING THE FENCE! WE DID IT! THE FENNCEEEEEE!!”

The security guards stared at us in confusion--two young, confused, hysterical freshman, laying on the ground by the stadium during a thunderstorm, yelling and laughing about touching a fence.

We were ushered away after that. Somehow, on our walk home, we found ponchos among the stuff we’d been carrying all along.

When I got back to Read Center, I got into bed, trying to regain feeling in my extremities. I meant to take a quick nap.

I slept through the entire Saturday night.

— Kelly Fritz, kelfritz@indiana.edu