The Princess & the Peasant
The Princess & the Peasant
CECIL P. MACK
ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a King whose Castle was far away on a high Mountain. Now this was no hardship for him, for in the lofty stables stood a bevy of Yamaha 350s with the odd Honda 750 and Mach IIIs for good measure. For the Peasants who lived in the Lowlands, the wail of the Twin Twos sounded like the Banshees from Hades and not being “hep,” they shunned the Castle.
Now this King had a very lovely daughter, who was not slow at whipping her Mach III around the Castle Grounds. Her smooth change-down as she drifted on the corners brought smiling approval from the Royal Parent. She was an apt pupil, and when she went for the mail the climb from the Valley echoed the rising and falling revs as she changed up and down on the hair-pin bends.
Alas, of late the King noticed a change had come over his talented daughter. Her 0-to-60 now took several seconds longer. Her shifts were very ragged, the clash of protesting gears rending the castle air. She hardly looked at CYCLE WORLD, once eagerly read, now barely noticed.
The King, being quite perplexed, retired to his study and summoned Merlin, his chief Mechanic and Wizard at Higher RPMs. Merlin looked quite unique in flaming red coveralls and golden crash helmet festooned with club badges. A piston and connecting rod dangled from his hand.
“Didst thou send for me, Your Majesty?” Merlin asked, bowing smoothly.
The frown on the King’s face lifted as he glanced at Merlin. “Sure, sure. Have you been holding a watch on Rowena lately?”
“You mean she isn’t up to form, Your Majesty? I wondered only yesterday what’s eating the lass, for she is braking too soon on the corners and overrevving her motor.”
“Okay, Wizard, I have eyes and ears and have seen and heard plenty, and it isn’t good,” the King replied, scowling at Merlin who was twirling the con rod like a drum majorette. “What’s the matter? My daughter is not happy, though she has the fastest bikes, the best magazines and a snappy half-mile track.”
Merlin nodded in agreement, the club badges flashing in the torch light. “Search me, Your Majesty. Maybe she is in Love.”
The King let out such a roar the rafters shook, and Merlin dropped the con rod on his foot, doing a silent one-legged dance as the King pounded the arms of the Throne chair in rage.
“I’ll set you down to grease monkey, if you dare say such a thing!” the King sputtered, his voice choking. “Say, you may have hit the Problem on the head of the burnt piston,” he finished in a faint whisper. “Okay, drag your frame out of here,” the King snapped, jumping to his feet. Merlin whipped into a U-turn and limped away down the corridor.
The klaxon sounded again. “Come in,” Rowena said. “Oh, it’s you, Daddy. Is something wrong?” She dropped the carburetor she was assembling and ran to her father. The King took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, inhaling the 100-octane fumes that rose around her.
“What’s the matter? Something not right, Kitten? Tell Daddy.”
Rowena turned from her father’s arms and flung herself down upon a pleated seat she had been making, the sobs coming like the burble from a reworked muffler. The King gazed down upon the unhappy girl and slowly shook his head. He looked at a tire she had repaired, then left the room.
It didn’t take two waves of the starter’s flag to set the King on the right track; his daughter was in love. Far and wide over his Kingdom the King announced that his daughter’s hand in marriage would be given to the young man who could overcome certain difficulties. This became hailed as the sporting event of the year.
The long climb from the Valley resounded to the snap and snarl of straight-through pipes, as both Prince and Peasant wended their way to the Castle to study the required qualifications and receive a sad smile from the fair Rowena as she leaned out an upper window holding a caution flag.
It was rumored among the frequenters of the Village Petrol Pump that all was not well with the various competitors whose bikes had been blessed by Merlin. None could say positively, but all showed a surprising lack of go, after the Wizard of Higher Revolutions per Minute had passed them as eligible.
Days came and went and the various big race and Grand Prix reports came in. Alas, None of the suitors for the hand of the lovely Rowena figured in the first Ten. Oh! the King had set a stiff Program. So when the Crown Prince of Esso whirled through the courtyard gate and braked hard before the Royal gathering, he was figured to have a betterthan-usual chance to gather in the desirable Rowena and her not-to-be-sneezedat dowry.
The Crown Prince had an enviable record and came from a long line of distinguished racing cylists. His Father, Prince Borgward, had won the Brookland 500 twice and the Ulster Grand Prix once. His Moto Guzzi V7 brought admiring glances, and Merlin gnashed his teeth at being refused his customary examination.
The King, sensing real competition for his daughter’s affections, rose and, in a loud voice, read the required successes for the Royal consent. “Hear Ye! Hear Ye! I, King Siata, do hereby decree that the successful candidate must: 1. Finish not less than 3rd in the Daytona 200. 2. Must not finish less than 2nd in the Baja. 3. Must get the checkered flag in the Capetown to Cairo. I have spoken.” Merlin smirked and whispered to the King, “That’ll fix his shaft drive.”
It had to be admitted that this would be a really stiff one. But the Crown Prince was equal to the test and, to the King and Merlin’s amazement, came down in front to get the nod in both the Daytona and the Baja. But his luck ran out at Bongo Bongo in the Congo when a near-sighted, love-sick Rhino mistook the Prince and the black V7 for another Rhino rival and tossed the Prince and the Guzzi into an adjacent thornbush.
Rowena was now very unhappy, and the King worried over the turn of events. One day, a most unusual sight swept into view from the Castle windows. A chopped and chromed Seventy-Four whipped through the gates and astride it was a tall, lanky, likeable youth, whose honest smile hid his awe and fear of the Royal Group.
“Oh, Your Highness, are we scraping the barrel,” Merlin groaned. A dig in the ribs from the King closed his throttle. The King looked over at the strange sight and recognized the lad as Tailspin, the only son of the Widow Tappet, whose late husband had once run a small garage catering to old and obsolete makes.
“I wouldst try for the hand of the fair Rowena,” the youth said, swinging his crash helmet against his knee.
“Well, what can thou do with yon sorry steed?” the King asked, stroking his long beard.
“Verily mine steed has a heart of steel and high-lift cams,” the boy replied hopefully. “Would his Majesty let me try and win in competition?”
Rowena, to the astonishment of the courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, ran and threw her arms around the lad. Everyone knew at once they were in love, for they had seen much of each other when Rowena had feigned motor trouble on her daily mail run. The King and Merlin held hurried counsel, while the court flunkeys tittered and stared at the would-be suitor.
They came up with a peacherino and decreed that the youth should have three chances:
1. Do better than 150 mph at Wendover Salt Flats. 2. Grab the over lOOOcc spot at the South African GP. 3. Home 1st at Brands Hatch in the Unlimited.
(Continued on page 67)
Continued from page 43
The youth blinked and stammered his thanks, and kissing Rowena fervently, rode rapidly away amid loud laughter.
Bewildered, he returned to his mother’s humble cottage and related what he had done. The Widow Tappet was known for her sharp tongue, and she really did a “wheelie” in calling Tailspin a fool and various assorted idiots. The lad ran out of the path of her fiery tongue and rode down the road.
“How can I win even one of the contests?” he wondered as he braked hard in the shade of the large oak tree. Suddenly there was a bright flash, and on the tank stood a little elf dressed in glittering overalls with a long white beard and a small golden crash helmet perched on his head.
Tailspin was awestruck. “Who, who, are you?” he stammered. The little man went into a fast buck-and-wing, chanting, “Who am I? Hi, Hi. Three guesses, you’d better try. If you don’t miss, you get your wish.”
The lad looked closely at the capering elf. “Dopey!” he shouted.
“Well I should snore, two guesses more.” The nimble dwarf shook his head and did a head stand.
Tailspin thought furiously. “Rumplestiltskin!” he cried eagerly.
“Ho! Ho! You are very slow! There is one to go.” The manikin did a tap dance along the seat.
All at once the puzzled lad yelled, “I’ll win this gam e-Happy is your name.”
The little man stopped and grinned. “Well, son, you didn’t miss, so what is your wish?”
The delighted Tailspin shouted, “I want to win the hand of the fair Rowena.”
The little Gnome smiled and from a small flask came a few drops of a magic potion. In a puff of smoke and quicker than you could say “Aermacchi” the chopper and the elf were gone, and there stood a mouthwatering Egli-Vincent with all the Go-Go Goodies.
So, dear Friends, our hero really had something on the ball and romped home in the gruelling contests as a Triple Winner.
A very amazed King Siata gave the hand of his happy Daughter in marriage—and a sumptuous dowry—to the victorious son of a Peasant. They spent a grand Honeymoon at the ISDT and did all the grand prix races, then returned home and opened a lovely half-mile track and lived happily ever after. g]
