(my sincere apologies, I did this really fast)
Twas the hour before gun time, when all through transition,
All the tri-geeks were stirring, each with his own mission.
The tri-bikes were hung in the bike racks with care,
In hopes that their sew-ups would hold all their air.
The racers were standing there in the start chute,
With visions of glory, stuffed each in wetsuit.
When out in the water there arose such a racket,
'Twas the start of the pro/elite bracket!
Away to the beach start I flew like “Oh, crap!”,
Struggling to put on my yellow swim cap.
The sun on the foam of the now-churning surf
Hid the carnage below as each held his turf.
When, what to my wonderment should I meet,
But a pair of really fast feet,
With a marvelous kick, doing a low-fifty pace,
I strove to hang on as we quickly gave chase.
More rapid than dolphins his swimmers then came,
And he yelled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Widoff! now Faris! now Sibber and Monty!
On Rutger! on Peter! On Cameron so jaunty!
To the front of the pack! To the head of the race!
To the turnaround buoy! Let’s pick up the pace!"
So into transition the swimmers did haul,
'Twas clear this was no simple pub crawl.
And then, in a flash, I saw them take off,
With nary a look-back, with only a scoff.
As I put down my head, and turned over my cranks,
Up came Francois, flying up through the ranks.
He was wearing a man-bra, a Speedo to boot,
I really must say, he looked rather cute.
A slew of gels he had taped to his bike,
It seemed not two of them were alike.
His Zipp disk-- how dimpled – how fast could it be?
His position was aero, and that was the key.
The stump of a P-bar he held tight in his teeth,
As the ground raced by so quickly beneath.
He had a math job, and a rather quick wit,
It was obvious he wasn’t a Brit.
He was lean and quite short, perched there on his seat,
I laughed when I saw him: “that is no athlete!”
A wink of his eye and a shift of his gears
Confirmed to me the worst of my fears.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He blew a snot rocket that just missed my toes.
He took off like a cannon, a gear way too large,
And away he flew in an incredible charge.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to the front,
And crushed all those losers, if I may be so blunt.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight,
“It’s only a race, don’t get so uptight!”
Happy Holidays, everyone.
----------------------------------
"Go yell at an M&M"
Twas the hour before gun time, when all through transition,
All the tri-geeks were stirring, each with his own mission.
The tri-bikes were hung in the bike racks with care,
In hopes that their sew-ups would hold all their air.
The racers were standing there in the start chute,
With visions of glory, stuffed each in wetsuit.
When out in the water there arose such a racket,
'Twas the start of the pro/elite bracket!
Away to the beach start I flew like “Oh, crap!”,
Struggling to put on my yellow swim cap.
The sun on the foam of the now-churning surf
Hid the carnage below as each held his turf.
When, what to my wonderment should I meet,
But a pair of really fast feet,
With a marvelous kick, doing a low-fifty pace,
I strove to hang on as we quickly gave chase.
More rapid than dolphins his swimmers then came,
And he yelled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Widoff! now Faris! now Sibber and Monty!
On Rutger! on Peter! On Cameron so jaunty!
To the front of the pack! To the head of the race!
To the turnaround buoy! Let’s pick up the pace!"
So into transition the swimmers did haul,
'Twas clear this was no simple pub crawl.
And then, in a flash, I saw them take off,
With nary a look-back, with only a scoff.
As I put down my head, and turned over my cranks,
Up came Francois, flying up through the ranks.
He was wearing a man-bra, a Speedo to boot,
I really must say, he looked rather cute.
A slew of gels he had taped to his bike,
It seemed not two of them were alike.
His Zipp disk-- how dimpled – how fast could it be?
His position was aero, and that was the key.
The stump of a P-bar he held tight in his teeth,
As the ground raced by so quickly beneath.
He had a math job, and a rather quick wit,
It was obvious he wasn’t a Brit.
He was lean and quite short, perched there on his seat,
I laughed when I saw him: “that is no athlete!”
A wink of his eye and a shift of his gears
Confirmed to me the worst of my fears.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He blew a snot rocket that just missed my toes.
He took off like a cannon, a gear way too large,
And away he flew in an incredible charge.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to the front,
And crushed all those losers, if I may be so blunt.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight,
“It’s only a race, don’t get so uptight!”
Happy Holidays, everyone.
----------------------------------
"Go yell at an M&M"