In 2011 I watched as he dominated the entire field to carry the Cutters to their fifth straight crown. It was as if I was watching Blasé-incarnate ride into the present to remind us of our history. When Eric Young lifted his hands to the sky and crossed the finish line that was the moment when a hero became a legend.
Halfway through the race I decide to go for a stroll around the stadium. Every step I take highlights a different facet of the Little 500. Surrounded by alumni my grandmother keeps a keen eye out from the VIP section. I continue down the homestretch pushing my way through the hordes of students who have lined up behind their team’s pits. Many have brought homemade stools and cutup milk crates to stand on in an effort to peer over the crowd. One girl is huddled up under the bleachers either drunk, asleep, or both. Two fraternities are having a back and forth cheer competition in the stands. In the infield giant scaffolding holds cameramen swinging their video cameras to and fro as to catch the stream of colors rounding the track. I watch as a mechanic and coach debate the best height to adjust a seat. A row of police and sheriffs seem to be more interested in the race than the ornery students surrounding them. On one of the curves I run into my friend Megan who competed in the women’s race yesterday. I haven’t seen her in months because of her demanding training schedule, but now she’s in good spirits. After a lackluster qualification time she rode a majority of her team’s laps to take them from the back of the pack to a 7th place finish, a Cinderella story for a team of rookies. She’s still wearing her Collin’s uniform from yesterday and she strolls around the track enjoying her day in the sun.
As I continue around the track I peer up to the scoreboard where each team has a lap-counter keeping a tally of each lap finished. It’s a terribly boring job that nevertheless requires constant attention; I wonder how many of them drew the short straw in getting stuck with that job. In the stands I see more friends and take a moment to catch the race for a different vantage point. At this point in the race the riders are finally spreading out, though the top eight teams are still within milliseconds of each other. The Cutters have recovered from the early setback and keep moving forward. Phi Delts are setting the pace and the Black Key Bulls keep making moves towards the front. Beta is in the mix and looking to make this year the one. The sun decides it’s finally time to come out and stay out, the racing is getting good as the last laps approach.
As I make my way back to my seat I notice that the Delta Tau cheering section has posted up behind the Cutters pit. These guys know who their competition is. 15 laps to go and they’re watching intently as the pack rides past us and into the 3rd turn—the Cutters try to make a move towards the front and go down hard, taking the Black Keys Bulls with them. The Delts go crazy, this is the opportunity they’ve been waiting for. Commotion on the Cutters bench, pits clear yet again, and it looks as if the two strongest independent teams have let the moment slip out of their hands. Delta Tau, Beta, and Phi Delts set the pace for the final laps. Delta Tau makes a flying exchange and captain RJ Stuart saddles up for the final push. He doesn’t look back. As the checker flag flies he too lifts his hands to the sky in celebration. The Cutters must regroup and look to the future. Phi Delta settle for second yet again. Stuart cements his place in history. Another amazing race, another amazing year.
“Something special” might be a bit of an understatement. Until now you may have not even heard about this race, but for 62 years it’s been bicycles and brotherhood that brings the Bloomington community together. It’s an event that the 20,000 students watching, the thousands of previous riders, and the half-a-million Indiana alumni will never forget. My grandmother certainly hasn’t. She’s joyful yet tired as we begin to leave the stadium. Though she’s been to countless races this one, she informs me, will be her last. Old age is inevitable; though the race she helped start will live on. She has seen what’s it’s become, from those kids racing their bikes around Hickory Hall to the grand modern spectacle; from Howdy Wilcox to Eric Young the Little 500 has brought a community together in a way nothing else could. As we leave the track I glance back to see the Delta Tau team riding their victory lap. It’s not just the four riders circling the track—it’s their entire community. Friends, family, coaches, fraternity brothers, girlfriends, mechanics, all played a part in making victory a reality. It’s a beautiful scene to behold. One that I know has happened sixty-one times before, and will continue to happen every April in Bloomington, so long as bicycles have wheels and students have feet