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'Twas a Moto Christmas

A Courtney Staton MotoMom original.

All rights reserved, ©MOTOMOM MEDIA 2020

‘Twas the night of Christmas and all through the shop the boys were out looking at google maps to find a riding spot.

MotoMom was in the laundry room washing dirty gear, thinking to herself Why can’t we ride here!?

The children were nestled on the couch watching YouTube, saying “Axel Hodges I want to be just like you!” And MotoDad had brake cleaner sprayed on the floor, telling mom he’s out of gas and must go pick up more.

When out on the drive there arose such a clatter,

MotoMom ran outside to see fork seal spatter.

Away to the garage she flew like a flash, tore open the shop rags and threw them at Dad.

The moon on the side of the trusty race hauler gave the illusion of money when the family had paid it’s last dollar.

When, what to local bike dealer should appear, but an overworked MotoDad hoping to pay with some beer.

With a little cute rider, so lively and fast, We want to follow dreams because forever won’t last.

More rapid than Deegan, and other racers they follow, they cheer and shout and want to chase them all over:

Go Reven! Go Ryder! Go Humphrey and Ferry! On, Mumford!

On, Martin!

On, Vinney and Berry!

To the top of the box!

Off the track with no falls! Now race away, race away, race away all!”

As cash that before Loretta’s qualifiers fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the racetrack the riders they flew

With the bikes full of fuel, and their aspirations too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the gate

The reving and pounding of the motokids’ heartrates.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the starting straight my baby came with a bound.

He was dressed all in Fly, from his head to his boots,

And his gear was all tarnished with nasty clay mud and roost;

A handful of throttle he twisted on back,

And he looked like a pro racer ready for attack.

His eyes—how they focused! His graphics, how cherry!

His goggles were so filthy, and he thinks the triples aren’t scary!

His Dunlop’s still knobby, even on packed dirt,

And the road rash on his hip and shoulder he swears doesn’t hurt.

The silencer and pipe from Bill’s purrs just beneath, and the smoke it encircles his 6D like a wreath;

He wears a moto vest to protect his chest and belly,

He eats protein and rice- a training athlete has no jelly!

He speaks with his hands, signaling for a swap,

MotoMom shakes her head every time she hears BRAPP!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his hand, soon gives her to know, she has nothing to dread.

He says not a word, and goes straight to his work, slamming through berms and rutting the earth.

Raising a finger to the sky, while in the air he rode

Then throwing a fist pump and his confidence, grown.

Off his stead he sprang and MotoDad gave a whistle, they had a huge hug - his win is official!

But MotoMom heard has he rode out of sight-

Merry MotoChristmas to all and to all a goodnight!


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