Saigon II – The Most Beautiful Thing I’ve Ever Owned

Off to work

Here’s a trivia question for you. What is the highest selling motor vehicle of all time? The VW Beetle? Toyota Corolla? Nup. It’s the Honda Super Cub. A tiny ‘step-thru’ scooter manufactured from 1958 to, well, now. To date there have been around 65 million built in 15 countries. In Australia we know them as the little red things the postman rides up the footpath. It is estimated – wrongly, by me –  that 56% of people currently own one.

Out of all them, I owned the prettiest. 50cc of pure sweetness and light. But like anything worth having, it took some finding.

Six weeks into my stay in Saigon I was hitting dead-ends in my job hunt. Day after day of pointless interviews and knocking on doors in the million-degree heat. Is there anything more depressing than being rejected? It got to me. Soon I settled into a dreary routine of mornings spent job-hunting and afternoons drinking enormous beers and eating chicken sandwiches. I was so bored that I started writing a silly blog.

One tipsy Tuesday afternoon, a superb baby-blue vintage Cub purred past the cafe and parked across the road – a piece of quiet blue-and-chrome perfection in the stained concrete madness that is downtown Saigon. I was entranced. Chicken fat and french fry crumbs fell onto the table as I stared. I was having a Wayne’s World moment. It would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine.

Phwoooaarrrr...

At the time I was riding a plasticy Chinese-made, Honda-knock-off scooter which was so much like everyone else’s that when I parked it, I had to try my key in every bike in the lot just to find it again. It was reliable, it was easy to ride – I hated it. I’m a mechanic, I grew up driving cars, fixing cars and reading magazine’s with names like Street Machine and Just V8s. Later I became interested in bikes. 8 years working 40 hours a week for nothing more than an old man’s back, scarred black hands and a comically small paycheck somewhat dampened my enthusiasm, but there’s still some love left. To me a car or bike (or a bicycle, or a boat) is more like a friend than an appliance. It’s not just something you use, something that does a job for you. It’s something you have a relationship with. A vehicle should either make you smile or make you want to kick the hell out of it. It should never be just a thing.

My Cub was never just a thing.

            After I saw that first Cub on the street, I was besotted. I tried to buy it off the girl but she refused. I spent a week looking. I made phone calls. I searched the internet. One guy tried to sell me his 1960s Vespa until I explained to him that Vespas were invented when an Italian bolted skate board wheels and a chainsaw engine to a toilet as a practical joke. I’d sooner turn my face inside out than own one.

Late at night I could be seen walking down the street screaming and weeping like a child. I needed this bike. Eventually I got a break. A guy knew a guy who’s sister had one. This was how I met my personal Saigon motorbike dealer, Mr Duong. His sister’s Cub was a 1973 C50 that had been painted ‘hooker’s lipstick purple’ and had no brakes. I fell in love immediately. After a short test ride and some negotiation, we had a deal. For $250 I would get the bike with a new baby-blue paint job, recovered seat, new tyres, working brakes and a service. For $250. That’s value. Vietnamese people equate new with good – It’s only some very  westernized people, often university students, that have any interest in ‘retro’ or ‘vintage’  – so no one wants this old stuff. Combine that with the fact that the average mechanic works on the footpath under a tarpaulin for a few bucks a day, and you’ve got some cheap old restored bikes getting around.

The bike being spray-painted on a busy footpath in the centre of Saigon. If any of my panel-beater mates could read or use computers they'd be horrified to see this.

            Now I don’t mean to say that the mighty Cub was without it’s flaws. 50cc with a three speed gearbox does not add up to a sporty ride. Especially when you’re riding two-up. Also, and I’m being honest now, it didn’t always start easily. Or at all. It had a pathological fear of water and when faced with the weekly Saigon floods it had to be pushed and sworn at fairly often. Because of the leaking fuel cap and the tiny tank, I could only put 1.5lt of fuel in at a time, otherwise it would slop onto the seat and stain the paintwork. Or explode. The front brakes never worked, neither did the speedo. I had to carry a screwdriver to adjust the carburetor on humid days. The headlight only worked if you thumped it and revved the engine. It had an endearing habit of stalling in front of buses mid-intersection. Soon after I bought it the left hand rear indicator fell off. As did the mirror. When some tool crashed into me and shattered the front mudguard, the replacement was both a different shape and a different colour. But it was as pretty as Julia Roberts’ smile and sounded as sweet as a George Harrison guitar solo. It was so light I could lift the whole bike and park it anywhere. I’ve rarely been happier than when clicking into top gear at thirty kph on the sweeping right-hander alongside Pham Ngu Lao park in the sunshine, threading between tourist buses and taxis.

It was a rainy night when I sold it to a workmate’s brother. I hope he loved it.

I hope he didn’t get squashed by one of those bloody buses.

For conclusive proof that the Cub is the greatest thing ever conceived by the human brain, check out the Hondels performing Little Honda.