ADRL.us sponsored by Flowmaster

Twas’ the End of the Season

‘Twas the end of the season, with champions crowned,
Not an engine was running, not even a sound;
The tools were all quiet, put away with great care,
Awaiting the racing that soon would be there.

The crew chiefs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of horsepower danced in their heads.
But Nowling and I, we sat down with my pad,
To record and remember the year we’d just had.

When out on the strip there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from our chat to see what was the matter.
Away to the start line I flew like a flash,
Jumped over the guardwall, half expecting a crash.

Instead, stood a truck on the freshly-paved track,
With A-D-R-L spelled out on its back.
Then, what to my wondering eyes it would seem,
Was a miniature starter, and eight race cars—Extreme!

What a spry little fellow, no mistaking the look,
I knew in a moment it was mini Dave Cook.
And then to the start his racers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Janis! Now, Scruggs! Now, Hamstra and Stanton!
On Barklage! On Stott! On Taylor and Clanton!
To the lanes you will go! You will answer my call!
Now race away! Race away! Race away all!”

So the burnouts began with Goodyears a-churning,
And smoke filled the air as rubber was burning.
With eyes somewhat narrowed and clenching his teeth,
Nowling watched while the smoke cloaked his head like a wreath.

Then the lights counted down and the revs counted higher,
And the launch threw them back and wrinkled the tires.
And up to the top end, those race cars they flew,
With the truck close behind, and mini Cook going there, too.

And then, just as quickly, I heard the chutes pop,
And the screeching of brakes as they came to a stop.
Then I marveled aloud how they got there so fast,
Especially Cookie (though he did come in last).

The drivers, they hopped from their race cars with glee,
And jumped in the truck for the ride back to me.
Where I asked them again, “So, how was that pass?”
And they answered like always, “It was a gas!”

Now, given the season, and the ruckus they caused,
You might be inclined to think, “Santa Claus.”
And they’re dressed for the part, from helmet to boot,
Though their suits are all covered with rubber and soot.

And some have broad faces and round little bellies,
That shake when they laugh, like bowls full of jelly.
But it’s speed that they bring, not presents or toys,
And they don’t make a list of good girls and bad boys.

Now Nowling, he waited and took it all in,
He spoke not a word, nor gave up a grin.
But I knew that he cared, that he loved what he saw,
And I thought, just perhaps, that he’s Santa Claus.

Then he sprang to his coach, to his team gave a shout,
“We’ll see you in Houston,” and Bones backed the rig out.
Then I heard him exclaim, as they drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”