Night Before Christmas, TRS Version
It has become a yearly tradition to recite our dirt bike version of the Night Before Christmas at our December TRS club meeting. Since we are not having club meetings right now, I am posting the story here for you to enjoy in the privacy of your own home. Each year I update some of the club member names used in the story to keep things fresh. Enjoy!
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the store
Not a Serrano was stirring, why he didn’t even snore;
The mufflers were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Bingham soon would be there;
The riders were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of Garmin GPS’s danced in their heads;
And Noah in his compression shirt, and Mary in her EVS cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the gravel there arose such piston chatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the seat of a new KTM Enduro,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a hyper 250 sled and eight tiny dirt ride-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and in in rhythm,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Bingham.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Meeker! now, McGuire! now Davis and Ivy!
On, Godwin! on, Brogmus! On Amborsio and Perry!
To the top of the hill! to the top of the wall!
Now ride away! Ride away! Ride away all!”
As dust that behind Bob Hurricane Hannah did fly,
When they meet with a 3 ft. rock step, did mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of bike parts, and St. Bingham too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the lobby
The digging and spinning of each little knobbie.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Bingham came with a bound.
He was dressed all in dirt riding gear, from his helmet to his boot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with tranny oil and muffler soot;
A bundle of bike parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his jersey and pants were once white as the snow;
The spark arrestor end cap of a muffler he held tight in his teeth,
And the 2-stroke smoke, it encircled his red helmet like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old dirt bike elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all bike gas tanks with fuel; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his ring,
And giving a nod, he said I’m off to Red Spring Trail – and up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his hyper sled, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to TRS, and to TRS a good night!”
-by George Wysopal
(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)