Twas The Night Before Spartan

Twas the night before Spartan, and all through the crib;

Not a thing was stirring, not even the racer’s bib;

Compression socks hung by the door with care,

In hopes that the start time soon would be there;

Us racers were nestled all snug in our beds

While visions of obstacles danced in their heads;

And baby in her pj’s, and I in my cap,

Had just settled in for a short autumn’s nap,

All of a sudden there was a clatter, out on the lawn,

Sprang from my bed to see what the hell was going on.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen rain,

Gave a luster in the fog of my sleepy brain,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a Spartan Elite and all his race gear,

With a spry young racer this year’s champion,

I knew in a moment it was Robert Killian.

More rapid than eagles his competition they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Zuzana! now, Elite! now Michelle Ford!

On, Super! on, Sprint! on, Beast and Kevin Lavioe!

Finish the Atlas Carry! to the top of Traverse Wall!

Now dig away! run away! smash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

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

So up to the housetop the racers they flew

With buckets of rock, and Robert did too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard through the flue

The running and burpees of each little shoe.

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

Down the chimney Robert came with a bound.

He was dressed all compression, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with mud and soot;

A bundle of gear he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the clean cut face was as white as the snow;

The metal of medal he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a lean, ripped belly

That shook when he laughed, not like a bowl full of jelly.

He was athletic and conditioned, a jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Filled all the packs; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his squad, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Spartan race to all, and to all a good night!”