Flyin' Miata 1 800 FLY MX5s

Some of you know me from my penned articles in previous issues of the Wild Rose Miata Club's Miata Musings newsletter. What most of you don't know is that when I'm not writing demented prose, wrenching on my transportation (cars and mountain bike) or making a general nuisance of my-self, I consider myself a bit of a cook. In years past this cooking was absolutely disastrous, especially at Christmas. It's around this time that I try to bake rum-filled fruit cakes, however, the only thing being filled with rum was me, leaving a cake pan full of candied fruits, nuts and flour burning in the oven. What's worse is that in this inebriated state I'd consider myself quite an accomplished poet and try to re-compose old Christmas classics.

This year was no different! I tried to stay level-headed and be spartan with the alcohol.but, as they say, when in Rome... I accidentally used my Bacardi 151 Proof instead of the usual Bacardi Gold - oops. One result was a fruitcake that didn't need an oven to bake, as any nearby heat source rendered it a flambé. The other is this butchery of yet another old Christmas classic I eventually peed in the snow (what else can you do while you're waiting for the fire department?).

Alvin Ma

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the Counties,
The Miatas were parked, warm and safe from the Mounties;
The driving gloves had been packed, with loving care,
Knowing that next Spring they would still be there;

His ‘n her Miata owners were nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of forced-induction danced in their heads;
And mamma in her FM shirt, and I in my cap,
Were planning next year's drives on a dog-eared road map,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I dropped my Miata Musings to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

What I saw made me weep and shook me to the core,
It was a Velocity Red Mica Mazdaspeed Miata, a two-thousand and four!
With a tall thin man driving, like a bat out of hell,
I knew in a moment it must be Bill Cardell.

"Now, ELVIS! now, TRACKDOG!
now, FILOU and TORO!
On, ANGEL on BABY!
on, CUZI and PHOENIX!
To the point of that apex!
cut the driving edge fine!
Now make that last mad dash!
all the way to the finish line!"

And I heard on the roof the sound of much fun,
The squealing and chirping of Toyo RA-1's.
As I grabbed the car keys, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Bill came in with a bound.

He was dressed all in Nomex, from his head to his toe,
With tight fitting driving shoes so he could shift just so;
The sunglasses he wore sparkled with a dancing light,
And I thought to myself “How the hell can he see at night?”

Around the room to the stockings he raced,
Leaving Hard Dog Deuce bars and a FM Cannon Brace,
I even saw under the tree, by a moon so low and so pale,
Nothing less than a Da'Lan hitch and a brand new Tire Tail!

Bill was ready to leave, “Other slalomers yet to go!”,
And make his way through the white winter's snow.
But he left mine till last, ‘fore he went up the flue,
I found in my stocking a brand new FM-II!

He sprang to his droptop, blipping the throttle with a roar,
And I knew right away the 2.0L was stroked, not bored.
I heard him exclaim, ere he squealed out of sight,
“KEEP the needle at REDLINE and CUT the corners Tight!”