Ryan McGee's Blog: 'Twas the Weekend Before Christmas

... and all through the house... (wait for it)

Ryan McGee

"And to all a good night!"

Want more of Ryan on racing? Check his archives.

'Twas the weekend before Christmas,
And all throughout Key West,
The island buzzed about NASCAR,
To this I can attest.

The locals were decked out in green, white, and red,
While visions of Silly Season danced in their heads.
And my wife in her one-piece and I in my tee,
Went looking for fun as we strolled by the sea.

When out from a shack there arose such a clatter,
"If you folks want a deal, I'm the only dude that matters!"
Over to his window I flew like a kite,
To meet a tour guide and salesman whose name was George Wright.

His house was covered in pamphlets and all sorts of shots,
Of all the celebrities for whom great deals he'd got.
There were singers and actors and Senator Hillary,
But the photo that caught my eye was the one of Jimmie.

The Cup championship driver, so lively and quick,
Likes to jet to the Keys when he's feeling tropic.
When he wants to fly like an eagle or parasailing's his game,
He whistles and shouts and calls George by name.

"He's not the only one!"
George said as he waved,
To the photos around him that he'd always saved.
"There's Vickers! And Mears!
And this one…I don't know his name.
They like to come here
Because their boss does the same.
It was very cool to meet Mister Jimmie,
But I have to admit,
I'm still waiting on Little E."

As the sun began to drop over Marina A and B,
We strolled over to see what the racers did see.
"It's not in port now, but it's usually parked there,"
Said a local who sported more tattoos than hair.

He spoke of what some say is the nicest boat on the isle,
The place that ends with America's last mile.
"The ship that moors here don't belong to no dipstick,
That vessel is the property of one Mister Rick Hendrick."

Ryan McGee

"But the photo that caught my eye was the one of Jimmie."

And then, in a twinkling, we began to realize,
There were signs of NASCAR all before our eyes.
As I drew in my head and tuned in my ear,
I heard two men talking about no testing next year.

On Duvall Street the vendors sold clothing and plunders,
Including hand-blown glass ornaments with stock car numbers.
In the souvenir shops that sold henna tattoos,
There were tribal arm bands but number 88's too.

At Sloppy Joe's Bar, our waitress was named Brandy,
She served up Rum Runners and slipped us free candy.
And there in the watering hole where Hemingway would hide,
She asked if I thought Bobby Labonte would find a ride.

Our cabbie's Ford was slapped with a Dale Jarrett sticker,
But his driving did nothing but make us feel sicker.
The couple in the hot tub hit Daytona each spring,
While the guy on the elevator said that Homestead's his thing.

And the crew of the Appledore, a two-mast ship,
Were more than happy to take us on a sunset trip.
Oddly enough, two of them hailed from Motor City,
"To deny them a bailout would be such a pity."

Then, after three days, it was time to go back to work,
So we filled all our bags, then turned with a jerk.
And wiping the sunscreen from the side of my nose,
I jumped in Dale Jarrett's taxi and up U.S. 1 we rode.

George Wright sprang to his window, and to us gave a whistle,
As away our car flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim as we drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to you a good flight!"

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