Halloween candy. That was what drove the point home.

Not that long ago, I had the chance to watch my first "live" cyclocross race. And while the racing was incredible (and incredibly insane), it wasn't the cycling that ultimately made the biggest impression.

No, it was the atmosphere that turned my head. Low-key doesn't begin to describe it. The cost was $15. Early-birds could help themselves to the muffins and Halloween candy laid out on the registration table. Everybody seemed to know everybody else. If the line for the potties was long, I didn't hear anybody complaining. There were no T-shirts or goody bags.

The participants seemed to expect nothing more than a fun and fair race on a challenging course. From what I could see through my admittedly very inexperienced eyes, they got it--even if they did have to tangle with trees to do so.

The spectators? They came with their kids, a picnic lunch, their dogs. They spread out on the football field and settled in for a day of racing.

Sitting there on the grass, watching the races, it occurred to me that the roots of triathlon and present-day cyclocross have something in common: passion for their sport in the face of a public largely ignorant of what it's all about. It was, I imagined, almost like looking back in time. Cyclocrossers seem to love their sport so dearly that they're just happy to be able to practice it somewhere, anywhere, at an event organized by someone who shares their passion and puts it into motion by organizing an event.

I didn't have the good fortune to race triathlon in its early days, but I'd wager that those races had a lot in common with the cyclocross race I saw on Halloween.

But as our sport grows, and entry fees for the "big races" balloon (along with participant expectations that a big-ticket entry fee guarantees a perfectly organized race), it becomes easy to lose sight of our roots. And I think we risk missing out on some fun, which is almost the bigger shame.

Of the races I did this season, exactly one had the atmosphere I found at that cyclocross race.

It was run in part by my doctor, who in addition to being very good at what he does is also a very fast triathlete. I have a couple of vivid pictures in my mind from that day: Running along the weekend-morning streets and seeing people out on their balconies sipping coffee, cheering for the racers and laughing at our (well, my) jokes. Sitting on the grass under a warm sun for the awards ceremony, looking down at my tired feet, feeling proud of my race and happy to be laughing with my friends.

I did not feel this way after, say, Wildflower. Yes, I was glad I'd completed that grueling course, but...there was no bag of Halloween candy waiting at the finish. That damn bag of candy has shown me what I'd been missing and couldn't name until now: a sense of community created by love of this goofy sport.

My point here is not to bash one kind of race and put another on a pedestal. Both have their place, and the big ones continue to grow bigger because, in general, they are providing what people want: safe and fair races that offer a good challenge.

But many small races are just as safe, and just as fair, and just as challenging.

Sometimes, big just isn't what I want. Maybe you feel that way, too. Maybe the hype seems extreme. Maybe the scene is too much. Maybe the cost is too great. Maybe you'd just like to spend a day competing in good fun, with old friends or making new ones, testing your limits and enjoying your fitness.

If you feel this way too, put a small race on your calendar next year. Or volunteer at one. Or take a cue from Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland and put on your own show. Then sit back in the tall grass, enjoy the sun, and have a laugh with your friends when it's all over. Make sure you put some candy out for me.