A Triathlete's Offseason Christmas Dream

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a spouse.
The tri-bikes were hung in the man cave with care,
In hopes that warm temperatures soon would be there.

Compression socks nestled all snug on my legs,
While visions of carbon wheels danced in my head.
And mamma in her yoga fleece, and I in my heat wrap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When in the garage there arose such a clatter,
I gingerly rose, groaning "What is the matter?"
Away to the man cave I limped like a flash,
Tore open the door and so too my road rash.

The lamp on the carbon equipment did glow
For swim, bike and run it all stood in a row.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a strength coach, with kettle bell, stop watch and snear.

With a Serbian accent so deep and so thick ,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Mik.
More rapid than eagles his orders they came,
And he taunted, and shouted, and called me mean names!



note: this is the real Coach Miki


"Jor back and jor arms, and jor core aa-r-r-r-r like children,
Jorr booty and stomach aa-r-r-r-r like pregnant women!
To the top of the bar! Pullups! Weight vest and all!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

Like tifosi that before the pro peleton fly,
When they meet with the Pyranees, mount to the sky.
So up to the chin bar, my courses I flew,
With the vest full of weight, and Mik's kettlebells too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the room
The clanging and thudding of each heavy tool.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Right straight at me, Coach Mikilous came with a bound.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
From his shirt to his pants to his big combat boots.
The tools of his trade he had flung on his back,
And he looked like the Spetsnaz, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his smile was just scary!
His chuckle was frozen, his gaze made me wary!
His serious brow was all furrowed to show
That his plan was to see me PR, not go slow.

The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And training plans circled his head like a wreath.
He had a strong back, and a flat, washboard belly,
That's nothing resembling a bowlful of jelly!

He was wiry and lean, a right hardy old Serb,
And I gulped when I saw him, and knew that he heard!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Wrote down all the programs, then turned with a jerk.
And laughing once more at my weakness and woes,
And giving a nod, from the man cave he road!

We sprang to our bikes, as he blasted his whistle,
And away we both flew like a Serbian missle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he rode out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"