Mayhem and misadventure on a Honda Super Cub

If you have even a passing interest in things two-wheeled, you’ll know the Honda Super Cub is the best-selling motorcycle of all time. Built to provide affordable and reliable transportation to the masses, this humble steed established Honda as an industrial tour de force. Since its release back in 1958 it has sold more than 100-million units.

Incredible sales success not only stuck the Super Cub on the same page as other automotive institutions such as the Volkswagen Beetle and Ford Model T but also cemented it as something of an industrial design icon, one that featured in “The Art of the Motorcycle” exhibition held at New York’s Guggenheim Museum in 1998. A pop culture phenomenon, this little Honda’s name and silhouette went on to adorn everything from watch dials to T-shirts.

Despite its being something of a rarity in South Africa, my best friend managed to track one down in 2008 after months of scouring the Junk Mail (back then it was printed on something called paper). This example, first registered in 1977, was clean, real clean, with only a few hundred kilometres on its teeny 50cc engine and an impressive amount of predelivery protective wrap still doggedly clinging to parts of the bodywork.

God knows where it came from, but the man selling it said he’d found it hidden inside a dead relative’s shed. Obviously it had no papers, but the seller insisted getting papers and thus making it 100% street legal would be no problem at all. Obviously.

A small amount of cash was exchanged and my friend, sans licence, saddled up to ride it from Pretoria East back to our flat-share in Bryanston, an epic two-hour extravaganza on windswept winter back roads on a machine that hadn’t experienced a heat cycle for what must have been at least 20 years. I was driving ahead in a loud blue Audi RS 4 sedan (checking for metro roadblocks) and had bet R200 the Honda would break down on the way. It didn’t.

Over the next few months my friend and I pored over the Super Cub like kids given a new toy. After tinkering with it in the garage for hours, we’d don some suitably mod attire and roar through the Joburg suburbs en route to our next social, raging on exhaust fumes and the thrill we were doing something terribly illegal (suffice to say, getting papers proved impossible and neither of us had the energy to apply for a learner’s licence).

One particularly memorable jaunt involved a Friday night ride to a popular watering hole in Craighall, a nicotine-stained den of iniquity where packs of private school girls and pop-collared jocks would congregate for karaoke and cane.

We were meeting friends at the bar and the Super Cub seemed like the best way to get there, in spite of the fact that its complex six-volt electrical system was on the fritz. This meant no front or rear lights, and a Golf GTI — unable to see us as it crested a blind rise on William Nicol Drive — nearly smashing into the back of us as the driver unleashed the full might of its modified downpipe and ECU flash tune.

Despite the immeasurable adrenaline spike from this near-death experience, I really can’t remember what happened once we got to our destination.

The journey home, however, is a different story. Sticking to quiet streets for obvious reasons, we rode through murky pools of incandescent light as an icy winter night savaged our already-numb extremities. Frozen, we pulled into a lonely petrol station forecourt, zig-zagging between the pumps and up the foot ramp to the glass facade of the 24-hour convenience shop.

Most people would elect to dismount at this point, but once those automatic sliding doors parted way, we continued in unabated, revving and hooting and shouting like some two-man scooter gang worthy of starring in Franc Roddam’s Quadrophenia. The staff on duty were surprisingly unfussed.

While I jumped off the back to purchase several bags of potato chips, my friend took full advantage of the slippery tiled floor and performed doughnuts. To be honest, though, the pattern left behind by the aged 17-inch rear tyre was closer to that of a pretzel — there’s only so much one can do with 3.5kW and a centrifugal clutch.

I hopped back on the saddle and, once those doors slid back open, we sped out into the darkness and somehow made it home without the aid of a police van or ambulance. In hindsight, this was a terrible decision — but hey, folks, I was merely a passenger along for the ride. Besides, the allure of travelling on something as retro cool as a 1977 Honda Super Cub is hard to resist.

Several moons have passed since that eventful excursion and my friend is now living in Australia. Before he left, he gave me the Super Cub under the condition I get those finicky electrics sorted. After many years I finally have, although the lights have blown again and the rear tyre has a flat I’m seemingly unable to fix.

I’ve found somebody who can get me papers, mind, but it’s expensive so until I’ve saved a bit more cash, this storied example of the world’s most popular motorcycle will have to sit outside my back door under its rain cover (it was living in the lounge until the fumes became unbearable).

Although, considering the mischief it is capable of stirring, maybe this is a good thing.