Little Red Riding Helmet
Little Red Riding Helmet
A Motorized Variation Of A Familiar Old Fable.
MARK G. POLAK
ONCE IN A FAR OFF LAND, somewhere in Minnesota, there was a beautiful young girl who was admired by many for her form on the motocross course, as well as the skill with which she could handle a motorcycle. Every day she could be seen screaming flat out across open fields, sliding into high-speed turns, and ravaging neighborhood garden patches. She loved off-road riding and racing, and never passed up the challenge afforded by a new mud hole, stream, or flower bed. Whenever she rode, she would wear her battered, old, red helmet, which soon became her trademark. For this she was nicknamed, “Little Red Riding Helmet,” not to mention many assorted names of somewhat stronger language, and was known by everyone in the village.
Little Red Riding Helmet had just taken delivery of a new Greeves Griffon 380, and was doing some minor modifications and fine tuning, when her mother came out to the driveway carrying a bottle of chain lube. “Red,” she asked, rubbing her thumb up and down the plastic container, “why don’t you go show your grandmother the new Griffon? I’m sure she would be pleased to see it. When you go,” she added, “you can take her this bottle of chain lube she wanted for her old Vincent Black Lightning.” Red took the soft plastic squeeze bottle from her mother, then turned back to the Greeves, and finished adjusting the Amal. When everything seemed to be in order, she put the tools away in the garage, and wiped her hands with a shop towel. Then, swinging her leg over the saddle, she fastened the strap of her red helmet. Revving the 380 a few times to doublecheck the tuning job, she released the clutch lever, and wheelied to the end of the driveway.
As she pulled out onto the road, her mother called to her from the front porch, “Go straight to Grandmother’s house, and don’t waste time fooling around on the trails.”
“Don’t worry, I will take care to be home before dark, as I have no lights, and do not wish to become lost in the woods,” replied Red, as she twisted the right-hand grip, and churned up a spray of gravel with her rear knobby.
The old woman lived a good 10 miles out from the village, in the middle of a dense pine forest. The day was clear and warm, and Red was enjoying her ride to Grandmother’s house. About half way there, she stopped for gas at a little one-pump station, just near the edge of the forest. A character in greasy Levi’s and a blue-jean jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled out to the girl and her bike. “One gallon is all I need,” she said, pouring a small container of oil into the tank.
“You must be Little Red Riding Helmet,” said the dirty jeaned fellow, as he squeezed the pump handle. “Where are you going to, on this fine Saturday afternoon?”
“I’m going to my grandmother’s house to take her some chain lube for her old Vincent Black Lightning,” said the girl, scraping the remains of a large bug, which had unfortunately flown into her path, from her jacket. “I guess she hasn’t been feeling too well lately, and didn’t have a chance to get it herself.”
“Where does your grandmother live, Red?” asked the attendant, looking admirably at the machine he had just fueled.
“A good five miles down the road into the forest, over that way,” she said, pointing in the direction of the old woman’s home. “She has a little stone house under the oak trees near the creek. Surely you must know it. It is very easy to find, since the rest of the forest is mostly pine.”
Sly Wolf, as the fellow was called, thought to himself, “Ah, what a beautiful new bike this young girl has, and her grandmother has a Vincent! I must act craftily, so as to steal both motorcycles. The Vincent could give me great pleasure and nostalgia on the highways, or it could even be sold for a handsome price, and the Griffon, ah yes, the Griffon shall bring me much fame and fortune in motocross racing.” Visions of riches and notoriety ran rampant in his mind, as Sly proceeded with his evil plan.
“Tell me, Red,” inquired the underhanded fellow, “why do you ride this wonderful dirt bike on the road when there are such good trails through the woods?”
“Well,” said Little Red, folding the right peg with her toe and preparing to jump down on the kick starter, “my mother told me to go straight to Grandmother’s house, and not to get carried away trail riding all afternoon.” One kick and a few quick revs brought the 380 to a popping idle.
Wolf smiled as if in approval of the sound, and continued his sinister scheme saying, “But it seems a shame to ride such an excellent motocross machine on the road.”
Red looked at the many paths leading into the forest, and thought, “Suppose I do take the trails. It certainly would be more fun, and it is so early in the day that I shall surely have plenty of time to get back before dark!” Convincing herself of this, Little Red Riding Helmet turned up the wick, as she pulled out of the gas station, and jumped the ditch a few yards down the road. She rode from one trail to another into the woods, until her U.S. Forestry approved spark arrester was barely audible in the distance.
Meanwhile, back at the station, Sly gloated over the success of his plan thus far, and he jumped on his “chopper” riding straight to the grandmother’s house. He sped off down the road, stomping the suicide clutch, and hand shifting the old hog. As he neared the stone house, he shut down the big Twin, and coasted up the drive, so that the 1200 cc’s growling through straight pipes would not warn the old woman of his arrival. He leaned the machine on its side stand, then walked around to the front of the house, and knocked on the door.
Now, the elderly grandmother was feeling a bit under the weather this particular Saturday, and though it was mid-afternoon, still had not got out of bed. Hearing the knock, however, she put on her robe and fuzzy slippers, and walked as far as the bedroom door. There she slumped against the door frame, holding her head, and let out a moaning sigh. “Who is it?” asked the old woman.
With a falsetto voice, Sly replied, “It is I, Grandmother, Little Red Riding Helmet. I have brought you the chain lube you wanted.”
“Chain lube,” muttered the aged woman, feeling as though the “Widow Maker” hillclimb had just taken place in her mouth during the night, “just what I really need.” She sighed again, and rubbed her eyes. “Come in, said the relic of yesterday’s celebration. “I’m still recooperating from a wild party last night, and my head feels like somebody is riding a megaphoned Ariel Square Four in it.”
Wolf lifted the latch, and threw the door open, grinning ridiculously. Without a word, he went straight to the old lady, who was in no condition to struggle, and tied her up with some old throttle cables and worn out single row chains that he found in a cardboard box. He had to work quickly to be ready with the rest of his sinister scheme before Red arrived.
“This is just awful!” complained the grandmother. “Such pitiful manners you have, young man!” she scolded. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.” Sly looked around, and found a Castrol-soaked shop towel, which he could use as a gag, and stuffed it into her mouth. “Oh dear,” thought the grandmother, after being shut into the bedroom closet, “and now I suppose I’ll miss the flat track events on “Wide World of Sports” this afternoon,” and she began to sob.
Wolf then took some clothes from a laundry basket, and dressed himself up to look like the ancient woman. He drew the curtains closed, and jumped into the bed to wait for Little Red Riding Helmet.
About this time, the distinctive sound of the two-stroke could be heard rapping through the forest, and becoming louder. In a few minutes, Little Red screamed up toward the house, and slid to a halt in front of the door. Seeing the chopper parked near the garage, she thought, “Oh, my goodness! What has Grandmother done to her nice old Vincent?” The door was still open, but since it was such a warm day, she didn’t suspect that anything was wrong, and went into the house. She called through the house, “Good morning, Grandmother!” but there was no answer. “The old lady must be sleeping,” she thought. She then went into the bedroom, and pulled the curtains back.
Sly Wolf moved a bit, rustling the sheets in the bed. “Oh, did I wake you, Grandmother?”
He said nothing, but shook his head in reply. Through the window, Red could see the chopper, and said, “Oh, Grandmother, what a big rear tire you have!”
“The better to get traction with, my dear,” said the hoodlum in his falsetto voice.
“Oh, but Grandmother, what a big extended fork you have!”
“The better to look ‘cool’ with, my child.”
“But Grandmother, what strange little headlights you have.”
“The better to see you with at night, my dear,” was the reply.
“Oh, but Grandmother, your voice sounds terrible!”
“I am not feeling very well, my child. Come and touch my forehead to see if I have a fever,” said Sly, as he progressed with his dastardly deed.
Scarcely had she come to the bedside, when Old Dirty Jeans jumped up, and threw a sheet over Little Red Riding Helmet’s head. Tying her up, as he did the old woman, he stuffed her into a closet in another room, and closed the door. “Grandmother is not in a kindly mood today,” the girl muttered to herself.
With the old woman and the girl both out of the way, Sly was now free to depart with the two motorcycles. This presented a bit of a problem for him, though, since he was not talented enough to ride three cycles at the same time, nor did he remember to include in his plan a truck or even a trailer to transport them. He scratched his head, trying desperately to figure out what to do.
“Well, now I must think of a way to get those two bikes, as well as my own beloved chopper, out of here,” thought the nasty Sly Wolf. While pacing through the house, racking his brain, he found an almost full bottle of whisky on the table in the kitchen. “Ah!” he exclaimed, clutching the neck oí the brown glass container, this surely will help me to think!” In his enthusiasm, he drank the entire contents of the flask. “That ought to do the trick,” he slurred. And trick it did. He staggered a bit, and then fell backwards, sprawled out on the floor, and began snoring.
Now it happened that the grandmother’s nephew, a policeman, was just passing by on his “74”, and thought to himself, “How hungry I am! Surely I must stop and mooch some fine food from my old aunt.” He went up to the door and remarked, “Oh, how the old lady is snoring! And in the middle of the afternoon too. She must have been to another one of those “Senior Cyclists Club” bashes again. Well, I’ll just go in and help myself. Certainly she will not mind.” The policeman went into the kitchen, and seeing the snoring fellow on the floor, exclaimed, “So, I find you here, Sly Wolf, notorious evil deed doer. I have hunted you for many weeks.”
The nephew handcuffed the slumbering slob in the kitchen, and dragged him outdoors. As he was about to drape him over the rear fender of the big Harley, to take him down to headquarters, it occurred to him that the grandmother was nowhere around. He also recognized the red helmet hanging on the handlebars of the new Greeves. “So,” he observed, “Little Red Riding Helmet is here visiting her grandmother. Perhaps they are together on the old Vincent. I should check to be sure.” He looked in the garage, but the big V-Twin was still there. “Hmm, ” he thought, scratching his head, “I had better check the house. There’s no telling what he may have done to them.”
The policeman began searching all throughout the house. Soon he found Little Red Riding Helmet, and untied her.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” she cried. “I think Old Granny has finally lost her marbles!”
“No, Little Red Riding Helmet,” the nephew informed her. “Evil McNasty (alias Sly Wolf) is the one who tied you up. I have been trying to catch him for many weeks now. He’s wanted on several counts of cycle-snatching, as well as a long list of other assorted no-nos.”
“Really? Well, don’t just stand there. Help me search for the aged grandmother.”
They began looking all through the house, and in a short while, found the old woman in the bedroom closet. Now all three were quite happy. The good policeman carried the villain off to jail, and Grandmother went with Little Red to try out the new Griffon. When the elderly woman returned from a few quick laps around the house on the 380, she said, flicking the throttle and grinning, “Ah, this is truly a fine handling motorcycle, but I prefer the magnificent power and flat-out speed of my old Lightning.” Stroking her chin and gazing off into space, with a gleam of recollection in the old woman’s eyes, she began, “Did I ever tell you about the time when I was tooling along down by the old . . .”
"I had better go now, that I may get home before dark," interrupted Little Red Riding Helmet, not wanting to get involved with the old woman's fantastic and extremely long-winded Vincent adventures. She mounted the Griffon, and headed out down the road, leaving a perforated trail in the ground, as the knobbies dug in.
