Looking back at the Little 500

A week later, my mind is just starting to wrap itself around the idea: After four races, thousands of dollars, about 25,000 miles of training and more blood, sweat, tears and joy than I could possibly measure, my career as a Little 500 cyclist is over.

I’ll never do this again, never attend another final race briefing, never leave my half-eaten breakfast on the table the day of qualifications, never feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck as they play the opening bars to “Back Home Again in Indiana” on a perfect spring afternoon.

Four races, three top-11 qualifying positions, one pole, two top-15 finishes and more crashes than I care to remember – that’s how I define my time at IU.

At the risk of – but heedless of – sounding incredibly arrogant, the Little 500 is not a commitment. Everyone has commitments. You can write about commitments in a day planner.

What I spent the last four years doing amounts to a lifestyle. There have been weekends I literally spent more time riding than sleeping, and in no way did that make me sad.

I still have cinder – the stuff they use to surface the track – littered under my skin like constellations across the night sky.

Some people get tattoos – I wrecked out. It’s all good.

It really is hard to explain this thing to someone who’s never gotten the chance to see the Little 500. This year, for example, 25,000 people came to watch us ride in circles 200 times. And years ago, larger venues accommodated crowds twice as big.

But if you want one word to describe race day, or if I only get one, here it is: T-shirts.

Little Five jersey color schemes are some of the most ridiculous pieces of clothing you’ll ever see a human wear. We have jerseys that vaguely resemble the Jamaican and French flags and others that are just inexplicably ugly.

Every year, teams order T-shirts to match said jersey colors, and on race day, Bill Armstrong Stadium looks like a hot air balloon on steroids.

There, amid a whirring sea of bicycles and an ocean of brilliant color, we leave everything we’ve got (including skin off my elbow, thanks) in four turns and two straightaways.

It’s odd to think that we train for 365 days just to race for one. I mean, I race on the road when not specifically training for Little Five, sure, but this is my constant focus.

Anything can happen on race day. Get caught behind one wreck, or ride into the turn one pole as my buddy Drew did four years ago, and your day is immediately changed.
Believe me, considering some other weird stuff I’ve done in the name of Little Five, that’s nothing. Case in point: there’s more hair on my face than on my legs.

But it was worth it. It was all worth it.

I can’t count the number of days I swore and screamed and said I wasn’t going to do it, but I would do anything to have back those days of frustration.

These past four days have been hard, knowing that I’m going to miss this so damn much.

And it would be cliche to say that Little Five has given me more than I could possibly have known, or that it’s shaped a part of who I am, who I’ve become.

But I’ll say it anyway, because sometimes cliches are true. This one certainly is.
Looking back on the past four years, I can honestly say I have never been – and probably will never be – more proud of any single thing I’ve ever done.

At some point in the coming days, I know it will finally hit me, that I never get to do this again. That moment will bring me tears, honest and bittersweet. But I will be proud too, and I’ll probably laugh.

And then I’ll go ride my bike.