Post by rogermiller on Dec 17, 2011 21:58:48 GMT -5
'Twas two weeks before Christmas, at the middle school
not a creature was stirring, except for three fools.
The bikes were unloaded from roof racks with care,
while we wondered why none of our colleagues were there.
Fellow riders were nestled all snug in their beds,
so we pumped up our tires and checked out our treads.
And Tim in his wind pants and Janet with warm mittens,
me having to ride due to clothes that aren't fittin'.
When out on the road there arose such a clatter,
I looked up from my Cateye to see what was the matter.
Out over the parking lot we all glanced real quick,
And were certain our eyes must be playing a trick.
The sun on the breast of the frosty brown field
gave us hope that the bone-chilling temps would soon yield,
when, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
but a new carbon bike and 10 shiny bright gears.
With a little old rider, so lively and quick,
We knew in a moment i t must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Armstrong, his cadence it turned,
and pounded those cranks `til the tires nearly burned:
"Now 25! 23!
21, on down to 11!
54 on the chain ring!
And we'll hammer to Heaven!
To the top of the hills!
There will be no down-shiftin'!
Hop on those bikes, ride away! The frost soon will be liftin'"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
we were rolling along, `neath a bright sunny sky
so over to Boulder us riders we flew,
the whole pack, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, as the cold wind was taking a toll,
it was getting harder and harder to make that bike roll.
As I drew in a breath and was starting to frown,
to the back of the paceline St. Nicholas came slowing down.
He was dressed in red Lycra, from his head to his cleats,
and I wondered how a fat man could accomplish such feats.
A bundle of components he had flung on his back,
if he could ride with such burden, he would cut me no slack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
He had quads of steel, but his legs, they were hairy!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin filled with dust from the road.
The stump of a PowerBar he held tight in his teeth,
and Accelerade dripped from his chin to the street.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook as he pedaled, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, but could crank out such watts,
and I laughed when I thought of him doing his squats.
A wink of his eye and a feather of the brake
soon gave me to know he was here for my sake.
He spoke not a word, but his message was clear:
Tuck in right behind me and stay close on my rear.
And laying his finger aside of his shifter,
we went flying along, ever swifter and swifter.
He sprang from his saddle, to us all gave a whistle,
And then shot away, riding fast as a missle.
But we heard him exclaim, 'ere he hammered out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good bike!"
not a creature was stirring, except for three fools.
The bikes were unloaded from roof racks with care,
while we wondered why none of our colleagues were there.
Fellow riders were nestled all snug in their beds,
so we pumped up our tires and checked out our treads.
And Tim in his wind pants and Janet with warm mittens,
me having to ride due to clothes that aren't fittin'.
When out on the road there arose such a clatter,
I looked up from my Cateye to see what was the matter.
Out over the parking lot we all glanced real quick,
And were certain our eyes must be playing a trick.
The sun on the breast of the frosty brown field
gave us hope that the bone-chilling temps would soon yield,
when, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
but a new carbon bike and 10 shiny bright gears.
With a little old rider, so lively and quick,
We knew in a moment i t must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Armstrong, his cadence it turned,
and pounded those cranks `til the tires nearly burned:
"Now 25! 23!
21, on down to 11!
54 on the chain ring!
And we'll hammer to Heaven!
To the top of the hills!
There will be no down-shiftin'!
Hop on those bikes, ride away! The frost soon will be liftin'"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
we were rolling along, `neath a bright sunny sky
so over to Boulder us riders we flew,
the whole pack, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, as the cold wind was taking a toll,
it was getting harder and harder to make that bike roll.
As I drew in a breath and was starting to frown,
to the back of the paceline St. Nicholas came slowing down.
He was dressed in red Lycra, from his head to his cleats,
and I wondered how a fat man could accomplish such feats.
A bundle of components he had flung on his back,
if he could ride with such burden, he would cut me no slack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
He had quads of steel, but his legs, they were hairy!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin filled with dust from the road.
The stump of a PowerBar he held tight in his teeth,
and Accelerade dripped from his chin to the street.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook as he pedaled, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, but could crank out such watts,
and I laughed when I thought of him doing his squats.
A wink of his eye and a feather of the brake
soon gave me to know he was here for my sake.
He spoke not a word, but his message was clear:
Tuck in right behind me and stay close on my rear.
And laying his finger aside of his shifter,
we went flying along, ever swifter and swifter.
He sprang from his saddle, to us all gave a whistle,
And then shot away, riding fast as a missle.
But we heard him exclaim, 'ere he hammered out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good bike!"
