For 68 years, the Daytona 500 has been the most prestigious race on the NASCAR Cup Series schedule. It's the season opener and the highest-paying event. It's a race that carries a greater significance than any other, and to call yourself a champion of it is a true badge of honor.
In recent times, though, that honor has lost some of its substance. Every year for about the past 10 years, the "Great American Race" has managed to produce wreck-filled finishes in which the winner isn't the driver who rose to the top; rather, it's whoever managed to luck into being in the right place at the right time.
The "win and in" aspect of the Cup Series' old postseason format was blamed for much of this. Superspeedways are the great equalizer, and winning one locked you into the playoffs. Most drivers in the field knew it was one of their only chances, and they had to lay everything on the line.
That playoff format is now gone. And the 2026 Daytona 500 was still an unhinged circus.
The Daytona 500 no longer means what it once did, and it's going to be hard to restore its credibility
The final lap was at least entertaining, but if only for the fact that race control let the field race to the line. From a driver etiquette standpoint, all respect went out the window, and all but a small handful of cars got wadded up.
Two separate wrecks occurred, first when Erik Jones gave a bad push to Carson Hocevar at the white flag, and then a much bigger one at the checkers when Riley Herbst made a block on Brad Keselowski that never even had a chance.
The finish everyone is talking about. #DAYTONA500 pic.twitter.com/3bmKf5QJ49
— NASCAR (@NASCAR) February 16, 2026
All in all, it ended up looking like the type of finish you'd see in an online video game lobby. The abrupt moves and lack of discipline, even in NASCAR's biggest race, is unbecoming of the supposed best stock car racers in the world.
Sadly, at this point, it's just a product of the nature of the beast. The insane closing rates of the Next Gen car make it nearly impossible to race on the edge without wrecking. Nobody wants to see drivers riding around at half-throttle saving fuel, as they did for much of the afternoon, and yet the alternative was everyone in full desperation mode to escape the gridlock of the draft.
Even before the Next Gen car came along, the Daytona 500 was already losing its luster. More than anything, Daytona's problems trace back to the repave prior to the 2011 season. It turned the track into a slightly smaller Talladega Superspeedway, stripping it of the character it used to have in which the pack got spread out and drivers could work the draft on their own merits to maneuver to the front.
That character was what made NASCAR's biggest event so special. It allowed the stage to be set over the course of the race, and the cream to ultimately rise to the top. There was controlled aggression and a slow buildup of intensity, rather than everyone going from zero to 100 in a heartbeat and throwing their brains in the trash at the finish. It was like watching a Best Picture-worthy cinematic work of art, not a cheap summer action flick in which the sole appeal is explosions and shootouts.
That is all the Daytona 500 has become today. It's an unserious demolition derby in which world-class racecraft takes a backseat to sheer dumb luck. The Harley J. Earl trophy may still be the most coveted individual race prize in the Cup Series, but where it used to be a defining achievement on a driver's resume, now all it means is that you managed to survive the chaos.
None of this is to say Tyler Reddick didn't earn the win. He did everything right. But the victory, in and of itself, is less valuable, and the same would apply had it been Chase Elliott or Keselowski or Ricky Stenhouse Jr. or Zane Smith or anybody else who was in the mix on the last lap.
When it might as well be a random number generator deciding who ends up in position to compete for the win, it compromises the weight of crossing the line first.
The Daytona 500 is called the "Great American Race" for a reason. It's an event that's supposed to carry a certain grandiose magnitude, one that's supposed to have an aura of honor and dignity surrounding it. As a fan today, it's hard to feel that sense of dignity anymore.