Welcome to the Cub: One little bike, six new riders

Kate, my son's girlfriend, learned to ride on my Honda Super Cub C125. I may have taught Kate to keep her head up, look where she wants to go, stop, swerve, wear her gear, distrust Audis and Teslas — the basics — but those things don't make a permanent mark. On the Cub she learned to carve through corners, shift gears as the engine note rises or falls, and park sideways, all while feeling the setting sun on her shoulders. The Cub was her willing companion, always ready to cruise the beach road. When she felt ready, she bought herself the Yamaha. Around town, she still takes the Cub.

If it were only Kate who learned on the Cub, I wouldn't have bothered to write it down. In fact, there are at least a half a dozen people who regularly ride the Cub. Some riders have six bikes. The Cub has six riders.

When I got the Cub, I wasn't trying to start a trend. It reminded me of the CT70 my friend had when I was a kid, the one where we would bomb down Tinkham Road then duck into someone's backyard when we thought we saw the cops. I would have bought a Dax, had it been available. The idea was to get around a very crowded seaside town during the summer. As a side benefit, the Cub offered a way to deflect the "Think I could ride that?" questions I get when anyone sees our 1973 Honda CB500. For all its charm, that one is a rolling reminder that old bikes don't have modern conveniences, like brakes.

The Cub's assignment as my private pit bike lasted no more than a week. First warm day, my neighbor's son ditched his Honda Ruckus and jumped aboard, disappearing before I could mention how to shift gears. He figured it out on his own, I guess, because he went pretty far. That's part of the magic of the Cub: Shifting gears makes you a real motorcyclist, while the centrifugal clutch guarantees you're off to the races, right away. It's love at first ride. The bike puts on a little clinic in clutch engagement every time you roll on the throttle, without anyone coaching. When beginners move up, they already know how shifting is supposed to feel. It's like they and their Cub share a secret that nobody else needs to know.

Who else is in the Cub club?

Anthony, my oldest son, is the world's least-mechanically-inclined person. As a teenager, he rode around on an old Kona bicycle. I remember duct-taping lights to the Kona, pointing in all directions, to keep him from getting hit at night. He didn't bother to drive a car until he was 18 — complete disinterest — but when he saw the Cub, he was all in. Now he pops on his Atom Ant helmet and zips around town whenever he can. He says it's exactly like someone stuck a motor on his bicycle. He used to have long hair that would stream back once he found third gear, but that changed when he got a job. His smile remains the same.

Arul rides the Cub. As of last week, Arul stole the Cub. He's a 50-something doctor who rode a Royal Enfield Bullet in Chennai, India, 30 years ago. Back in the day, he told me, he would put the Bullet on an Indian Railways car full of bikes and travel the country. After a few trips on the Cub, he went and bought himself a brand-new Bullet. He stole the Cub to practice, in order to take the riding test at the DMV. He will graduate to his Bullet after a few more miles, and once the weather warms up. Then I will borrow my wife's Hunter 350 and we will take the big bikes to Nova Scotia.

André, another of my sons, chases Kate on the Cub. Those two have been dating for a while. André's a big kid, so his Cub rides look like Mr. Incredible on a scooter, with all 8.5 horsepower blazing away. Predictably, she pretty much leaves him for dead. He's planning to set things right by buying the new Royal Enfield Himalayan the minute the snow melts. The dealer in Bennington, Vermont, has a 10-mile test ride loop. That's what he thinks about when he's walking to work in Manhattan.

My buddy, Neil, rides a Ducati and a bored-out, renegade 80 cc scooter. Every few weeks during the summer, Sarah, Neil's girlfriend, texts me "Can I take the Cub?" That's always welcome, because then Sarah and Neil get to ride together. Not sure which bike Neil is on, but they pick a nice day and go pretty far, all along the coast. Sarah is less tall than most people, but she bombs around on the Honda with a big grin, getting at least one foot down at the lights. The Cub is light enough that she feels OK in traffic. If she drops it, she can pick it up. Last ride, as a thank-you, I got a bag of fresh clams. If you knew what it takes to score a clamming license in southern Maine, you might buy a Cub, too.

Then there's Luke. Luke is my favorite Cub pilot. Years ago, when he was 16, I completely betrayed him by accident. During a cookout, his parents rolled open the garage door to show me Luke's new scooter, the one that he bought with his entire life's savings. The scooter was a Kawasaki Z125. "Oh," I said, "that's not a scooter, it's a motorcycle." "No," they said, "it's a scooter." "Read the license plate," I said.

Bad. New Hampshire motorcycle plates say "Motorcycle" right on them. Maybe I should have read a car plate, instead — those are inscribed "Live Free or Die" — and left the whole "It's a scooter" story alone.

Somehow, "Motorcycle" is worse than "Live Free or Die." They made Luke sell the Kawasaki. He lost something like $600.

Fast forward a few years. Luke has a commercial driver's license. When college is not in session, he drives a bus. He can sail a boat. He's getting his pilot's license. Luke takes the Cub whenever he wants. It's my way of working off the $600 debt. The magic of the Cub works for Luke. He never asks about riding a bigger bike.

Just six stories in hundreds of millions

Those six riders are in good company. Since Honda introduced the Cub in 1958, it has become the most widely produced vehicle in history. The internet lost count back in 2017, when the 100 millionth Honda Cub rolled out of the factory. How many is that? If you lined up every Ford F-150 ever built and stuck two cubs in the back of each one, you would run out of trucks. Of our six riders, three of them went on to buy bikes of their own. How many other people must have discovered motorcycling on a Honda Cub? Did all those Cubs sell 300 million other bikes?

And yet, for all its impact, the Cub gets no street-corner cred. Across the board, bikers ignore it. When I take the Cub into the countryside, I nod to oncoming riders. No one waves back. Even the police disrespect the Cub: It once got a parking ticket with a handwritten note, "Park scooters on the sidewalk." The Honda Cub has been the ambassador for motorcycling for 67 years. Most American riders don't recognize it, or if they do, they don't own up.

OK, fine, I know people say it's a powder-blue four-speed 8.5-horsepower motorcycle. It costs over $450 per horsepower, which would leave some hyperbikes pushing $1 million. It can't go on an interstate highway. If you want cute, get a puppy. If you want to learn to ride, find a used Kawasaki Ninja 400 or a scrappy Suzuki SV650. If you want company, go park with the rest of the scooters.

Here's the thing we forget: Lots of today's riders grew up in a world littered with cheap, low-powered bikes. We used to rescue Honda CB350s that had been abandoned. I would run across free bikes that my dad's generation bought at Sears, then left in a shed. Here's a challenge from the 1980s: Take $100 cash and fail to buy a rusted Puch moped that runs just fine. Growing up, there were countless opportunities to discover the wonder of two wheels and an engine, without scaring yourself or crashing big during week one. Those days are gone, leaving would-be riders with no easy place to start.

These days, a new rider who does find a Ninja 400 or SV650 is in pretty deep, for those first few days. Try to remember how hard it can be to make your first right-hand turn in traffic. A new rider can get a little behind, rev it, dump the clutch, and wind up a foot over the line in the oncoming lane. It's not a head-on, but it is a confidence killer. The Cub will usher them through smoothly, so when they do find that first real bike, they know what to do.

The Cub's appeal goes beyond safety. It's a magnet. It's approachable, so people want to give it a try, and they come back for another go. My youngest, Leo, will park his Honda VFR800 to take the Cub for a spin. He says it's the most brilliant piece of engineering in the garage.

I think Honda should steal a page from the Harley-Davidson dealer's playbook. Honda dealers should set up a barbecue, crank up the music, and invite anyone 18 or older to ride a Cub. But instead of rolling around the neighborhood like you would on a Road King, the Cubbers could ride around orange cones in the parking lot.

Probably won't happen. Honda dealers, I have to say, can be a little dull. Maybe they could take a cue from the Cub, invite everyone, and have a little fun. You meet the nicest people on a Honda.