Ridley's Believe It Or Not

Ridley's Believe It or Not

Mean little ankle-biter of a motorcycle

JOHN BURNS

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN you rock the boat. They assign you to write about weird little bikes, rocket-powered monstrosities, the Iron Butt Rally, Sturgis...

Luckily, I can find the silver lining in any cloud. I grew up in Alabama and Kansas City; now I live on the edge of the Pacific in lovely Orange County, California, where temperature extremes range from, like, 60 to 84 degrees—and that’s Fahrenheit, bub. It is no great sacrifice, then, to hop on the Ridley and take it for a scoot down Pacific Coast Highway on a July Sunday—along with half the other eight million people who live here, roughly one-fifth of whom are on Harley-Davidsons.

I didn’t used to get the Harley thing, but now I do. In fact, it makes much more sense than the sportbike thing in the context of modem America. It’s a fashion parade, but one in which those with little fashion sense are also encouraged to participate. Where do you go to meet women who will go for ride back of ing a sheer, short skirt and strappy sandals, anyway? I mean, did she leave the house that way, or did you two just meet? If she does live with you, what does she wear to the office? And most importantly, does she have a sister?

The question on the minds of all the Harley riders, and many civilians, as they pointed to the small thing between my legs was, of course, what is it? Listen, I’d reply, I know it’s small, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t perform just like a big one. Studies have shown that.. .what?

Oh, the motorcycle...

It’s a Ridley, standing two feet tall at the seat, spanning 52 inches between its tiny 12-inch Dunlops and weighing less than the average Harley pilot, about 265 pounds. It’s produced by Clay Ridley and Co. of Oklahoma City (405/5255400; www.ridleymotorcycle.com). The talented Mr. Ridley is also in the rope-sandal and helicopter business, and I bet is one of those people who can’t sit still. Anyway, the Ridley is a miniature motorcycle that looks like a toy but, as it turns out, isn’t. In fact, the thing’s a bellowing little beast, just the ticket for dropping jaws of people who make it a point to keep their mandibles firmly clamped. Upstanding citizens in big Benzes with dark-tinted windows roll them down to smile and gawk at the Ridley.

This example, a top-of-the-line model costing almost $14,000 (you read that right, though the average bill is about $10,000), is powered by a 625cc 90-degree V-Twin that Ridley calls the Tomahawk-everything’s Tomahawk-this and Sasquatch-that in Oklahoma, if you’ve never been. It says right on the front cylinder cover it makes 42 horsepower (25and 33-bhp versions power the lesser 570cc models), but why look at stuff that’s writ in big letters when you can more easily scratch yourself and wonder aloud, “How fast does that go, anyway, man?”

Whack the throttle open when the light goes green, and the L’il Rid is surprisingly rubber-band quick as the auto tranny engages. I did have ’er up to an indicated 80 on one short stretch of PCH when nobody was looking, anshootdangltellya, that’s a speed at which the Ridley’s okay, but you wouldn’t want to hit any bumps while having to deflect much from a straight line. If you’re only doing 60 and try to turn a little, the hardtail frame can get the fork plunging around in a verging-on-perilous way. And you haven’t got much cornering clearance at all under those solid-mounted floorboards.

Well, what’s your hurry? In the

evening, the beach traffic crawls back up the coast at about the same speed people used to stroll from front porch to front porch to socialize; now cars and SUVs are mobile porches containing seated “pedestrians” who are free to smoke, eat ice cream, exchange pleasantries and bug the hell out of me in the time-honored way. The Harleys, most of which are too big to lane-split PCH even if the desire was there, then become just like the love-seat swing your grandmother had out under the pear tree next to the plaster deer, but with built-in Vibro-Massage action.

“Pleasant evening, isn’t it there, Mr. Mad Dog?” (Well, that’s what his helmet said.)

“HUNH?”

“I said...oh, never mind.”

Personally, I got no time for any of

it. The Hogs are appropriate for Fourth of July weekend, at least, as they all sound like bombs bursting in air. Luckily, the Ridley’s not only small, but skinny too, and so here I go down the middle of the cars and Hogs like a small dog with a big bark under the circus bleachers, making the fat people wobble and causing little kids to spill their drinks. Isn’t this what motorcycling is all about, I ask you?

And speaking of what it’s all about, every backseat Brunhilda who spots the Ridley breaks into an immediate smile, mouths “cute,” and eye-contacts me about a second later. I contain my urge to bite their calves, just barely. I think I could get lucky on this bike, I really do. What greater love than that?

I have to give it two thumbs-up, and a wagging tail.