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A Racing Christmas Story

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A Racing Christmas Story:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the paddock,
Not a motor was stirring, not even an impact ;
The stockings were hung by the pit fence with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The drivers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of championships danced in their heads;
And mamma in her checkered flag, and I in my Bell,
Had just settled down for a long winter's spell,

When out on the grid there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
To the back of the trailer I flew like a shift,
Unlocked the rampdoor, and let down the lift.

The moon on the crest of the new-paved front straight,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects so late,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a formula car, screaming by in top gear.

Such a noise caused the chief steward to immediately arise,
And by the look on his face he had words for this guy,
He shouted aloud in his most gruff voice,
“It’s quiet time now, GET OFF OF THE COURSE”!

Then sound control had been stirred from its slumber,
And yelled to the chief steward, “I’ve never seen such a DB number!”
The chief of tech said, upon seeing this fellow,
“I’ve never seen that car, and I know it has no

The chief steward demanded to know this driver’s intent,
To which registration replied, “Maybe he’s a late
Suddenly timing and scoring appeared from yonder,
And chimed in “That car on course has no transponder.”

Though I couldn’t see the driver, he went by so quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Schuey his crew they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Beyond the tech shed! to base of the pit wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As valves that before the busted cam fly,
When they meet with a piston, mount to the sky,
So to the base of the timing tower the crewman they flew,
With a hauler full of “go fast” bits, and St. Nicholas

And then, in a flash, I heard on the grid
The roaring and thunder that each piston did.
As I drew on my pitboard, and was turning about,
into Victory Lane, St. Nicholas had arrived, without doubt.

He was dressed all in Simpson, from his head to his boots,
And his suit was all tarnished with oil and soot;
A bundle of speed parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a vendor just opening his pack.

His face shield -- how it twinkled! his helmet decals shone!
His patches were like a mural, his name scripted like a pro!
His neck restraint was the best design we’d seen yet,
And his gloves and his boots were a perfectly matched

His tools spoke volumes, he used all that they had,
A mouse, a keyboard, a computer, and CAD;
This just confirmed what we already knew,
More than a great driver, he is a great designer too.

The parcels for the stockings that he brought along,
Dripped of technology that helped engines make song;
A look at the sides of his car showed there had been
no rubbing here,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to fear;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to pacing,
And filled all the stockings; with parts for racing,
Then flipping the master power switch, and laying his
finger on the starter,
And into first gear, back down pit road, but no

He sprang from his car, to his team gave a holler,
And immediately they loaded the car back in the
But I heard him exclaim, as they tore out from the


Hat tip to WRL

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