‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the paddock
Not a crew member was stirring, even the beer-drinking was sporadic;
The leathers were hung by the tire racks to air,
In hopes that St. Chuck-olas soon would be there;
The riders were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of winners’ trophies danced in their heads;
And Niccole in her ’kerchief, and Shane in his cap,
Had just settled down while Addy took a nap,
When out on pitlane there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the Media Center to see what was the matter.
Away to the balcony I flew in a flash,
Stood against the railing and let out a gasp.
All the canopies at rest along pit wall
Formed a colorful backdrop as I do recall.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an old TZ750, and a man in race gear.
The rider revved the throttle, and practiced his tuck,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Chuck.
More rapid than eagles, the revs they climbed,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called the riders by name;
“Now, Gagne! Now, Scholtzie! Now, Herrin, Wyman, and Jacobsen!
On, Flinders! On, Gillim, Escalante, Yates, and Petersen!
To the starting grid now! Climb over the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away, all!”
As tire smoke that, after the burnouts commence,
Gives a notable scent of Dunlop rubber quite intense;
So, up to turn one, on the race course they flew,
All the MotoAmerica riders, and St. Chuck-olas, too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard them in Tech,
Tige, Tom, Jen, and others were shouting, “What the heck?!”
As I craned my neck when the riders came around,
There was St. Chuck-olas in front with his knee on the ground.
He was dressed in leathers from his neck to his foot,
And on his head was a helmet, a boot on each foot;
He motioned to the riders to get a tow off his back,
So they got in his draft, he had the pace that they lacked.
His eyes, you couldn’t see because his faceshield was dark.
St. Chuck-olas was fast, his bike, it did bark.
He twisted the throttle and put on quite a show.
The fans couldn’t believe how fast Chuck did go.
Though his helmet didn’t reveal it, he was gritting his teeth.
Could St. Chuck beat the paddock? Would he win the victory wreath?
The crews along pit wall, they consulted the bulletins.
Nothing in the rules said a TZ750 was allowed in.
It wasn’t on the homologation list in any of the classes,
St. Chuck-olas didn’t care, he just kept making passes.
But, I knew this guy. I had no need to worry.
On the penultimate lap, he pitted in a hurry.
He spoke not a word, when he entered parc fermé,
But, he wasn’t quite done. He had something to say.
So, laying a hand on each side of his mouth,
St. Chuck-olas laughed and started to shout.
“Happy Holidays,” he yelled to the whole paddock listening,
His TZ750 all shiny and glistening.
And we heard him exclaim, as he shouted with glee,
“Have a Happy New Year! See you in 2023!”
