When Old King Cold’s reach is bold,
Down from his frozen lair,
It’s then we sleep in covers deep
and shiver upon the stair.
It’s then some curse their northern berth
In Earthship’s stinging air,
And dream of spring, when songbirds sing,
and the land is sweet and fair.
But not us guys with goggled eyes
And helmets on our hair!
We like the ice, rough or nice,
Here, or way out there.
We like wool socks, we iceboat jocks,
We like the land that’s bare.
We like a gale, a straining sail,
No matter when or where.
For us the summer is a bummer.
The spring it is a bore.
And, about all we get from the fall
Is thinking what’s in store!
When timber’s in the ‘ol wood bin,
And felt is on the door,
It’s a lot funner to sharpen a runner
Than any other chore.
The temperature’s seven? To us, that’s heaven.
We wish for seven below.
We disdain thermometer gain,
And we despise the snow.
Sleek as an otter smooth, hard water.
In glee we watch it grow.
The pond it skims. The lake it rims.
We take a step and Oh!
We hear it crack. We jump back,
And wait a day or so.
Two knuckles deep, then on we’ll creep,
And RACING we will go!