A Birdy in the Bush.

[Birdy]

Hope this amuses some of you. As many of you may know, I am off to Africa in a couple of weeks, and writing about my travels, this is a little bit of an introduction.


I don’t know when it was that I decided I couldn’t live a regular life. My friends and parents would probably say that I never think before making a decision. I would disagree; I do think. I think, ‘I know this is a stupid idea, but will it give me a stupid story to tell afterwards?’

When I was 17, I was all set to go to university. I was ready to study English and Arabic at Durham, but I woke up one morning with a hangover and had mental diarrhoea. The epiphany sat in the corner of my room, looking at me with patronising eyes, and questioned me, ‘so, why you off to uni then? You think for a second you’ll actually make it through four years of little direction and lots of free time? You’ll be drunk and failing before you’ve even handed your first essay in.’ Then it sat on my shoulder while the world slowly sorted itself out around me, just gently tapping away at my resolve to meet expectations.

By midday, I was in the armed forces careers office, and by tea time, I had my place booked for selection ten days later. My mum cried. A month later, I found myself in basic training, two years later, I found myself in Iraq. My mum was brought to tears again; I’ve never been a great son.

The army, and Iraq in particular, were stupid things to do when there are so many other options available to a not completely retarded young man; but they ticked my second box – they gave me the stupid stories.

I am de-mobbed now, out of wearing combat pyjamas, and back to the real world. But once you’ve been in the army, or in a warzone, you never really leave. The body can come back, but some part of your mind will always be left there.

2.
‘Give me some direction here, I’m flying blind!’ The pilots’ voice was insistent, almost panicked over the intercom. It buzzed and hissed around my helmet like a bee in a bottle. I couldn’t give him any direction, I didn’t know what the direction was myself, and the only person who knew the direction was terrified into silence.

How did I find myself 200 foot up, strapped on to the side of a Lynx helicopter with some stringy Iraqi kid, struggling to understand his terrified breathy exclamations through a static addled intercom, over the pilot’s jargon filled chatter and the constant thunder of the blades; trying to hold a classified map in one hand, my rifle in the other, aiming a torch at the map with my mouth, desperately willing myself not to fall out of the jinking machine? I would probably agree with my parents; I do make stupid decisions. The shy and physically awkward boy who picked up his A-level results on a sunny day five years ago never imagined that this future laid waiting in the short summer shadows to mug him. The August breezes never told that boy, as he sat with his friends in the local park, toasting their successes with warm lager and cheap dope, that five years would roll around in five minutes and see him hanging out of a gravity mocking machine over some Middle Eastern Dustbowl. How do you go from smoking weed and feeling stupidly smug about exam results, straight into manoeuvring yourself into the door of a war going helicopter, dangling your legs on the skids like an extra from Black Hawk Down?

That was then. This is now. All I have now is stories to tell. Apocalypse Then has dribbled into Lethargy Now. I am a civilian. No more pretending to be a soldier, no more chatting crazy fish languages, no more tanks and helicopters. No more combat trousers and rifles. Back to leathers, back to fast bikes and slow days. Back to boozy afternoons telling war stories to strangers in bars who couldn’t understand even if they wanted to. I am the old man in the back of the bar. At 22 years old. Back from sandy countries where people don’t much care for my presence, back into grey and pleasant lands where people don’t much care for my existence.

England. I was born here. She gave me her ways to roam and blessed me with those suns of home. But I can’t love her. It is no longer home. I’ve been too far and for too long. Nostalgia is the closest thing I can get to love; a pallid and oft mistaken substitute. It is cosy, but it is a 3 bar electric heater next to an angry crackling log fire.

Coming back from a country where a riot is a screaming rubber bullet bouncing stone throwing affirmation of anger to one where it is a bunch of spoilt kids having over indulgent house parties is euthanasia for the soul. Coming back to a country where the only crunches are credit or masturbatory self improvement rather than seismic. A country where passions are fashions and love means a mortgage and a lifetime of hire purchase agreements. This isn’t life; it is a wafer thin diversion. Coming from day on day excitement back to this is hard. Deflated and silly, I feel like the man who thought he had pulled a stunner only to be handed the bill after the deed was done.

I made the mistake of returning to the house where I was born, harbouring fantasies of roping in some willing patsy to pretend to be my loving girlfriend to accompany me in looking around it. It’s not for sale. The owners have painted it a sick yellow and turned the green garden into a gravel drive. The storybook apple tree has morphed into a waterless stone fountain, no longer bearing hard little bitter fruits tasting of summer holidays. A curious bug eyes child stares at me from my old bedroom window; it is like looking back into myself. Somehow the kid staring out of a draughty single glazed window became the adult sat smoking soggy cigarettes on his bike, looking up at the window and wishing he was back watching Live and Kicking and eating buttery toast in the house that he couldn’t imagine ever not being his home. The curtain drooped and he was gone, and I was still here. An old man walking a dog shuffled past. The dog was pleased to see me, bouncing on his lead and laughing with happy dog eyes. The old man only looked at the floor when I gave him a ‘morning.’ Maybe it’s me. Maybe it is the bike? Maybe it is the fact I haven’t shaved for a week and I’m wearing a battered combat jacket and boots, a look somewhere in between Travis Bickle and the man who sleeps below the underpass? ‘You lookin at giving me some spare change punk? ’

I know the answer to my inertia. I have to get away. I’m off. No longer a semi willing servant of her majesty, I’m getting out of here. I don’t know exactly where I am going, it is enough to know that I am going. An old before his time giffer patronisingly told me ‘yeah, when I finished uni, I went travelling. You need that time to find yourself.’ Balls, I know exactly where I am. I just don’t like it very much. I’ve always known where I am, I was there. I don’t need to find myself. I need to lose myself.

The plan is loose. But it has bones. Start in Africa, and then go somewhere. Why Africa? Why not? It’s cheap to get there, and I heard Africa is a pretty big place. It may not be the blank space on the literal map that it once was, but to me it is still the blank space. I know nothing of it. It is the biggest adventure left in a world scribbled with asphalt and mapped with GPS. Conrad’s dark heart waits for me, with tinpot dictators and kids with AKs wearing Man United shirts in disunited nowheres. From Africa, hop onto a boat to America, sounds easy when you say it quickly. In my head I’m practically on the road already. It’s tapping at my door with dusty knuckles, whispering through my letterbox, slinging daydreams like bottles slid along cowboy bars, telling me of forgotten towns in nowhere zip codes, populated with simpering Daisy Dukes, manhole hissing urban backstreets with yellow taxis and black kids. Just another flat out burn through Baker and Barstow and Berdoo, and then onto Hollywood freeway and into frantic oblivion. I can hear Bukowski’s typewriter tapping and see Burroughs flowing past on his strands of rancid jissom. Invites wait, to college parties with girls gone wild and American Pies, to have Sex in the City and dine on Gatsby’s lawn. Everything I know about America is from books and songs, films and stories. All my life, watching America. I hear the streets are even paved with gold. After America, who knows? Just keep going, just keep on wandering until the money or the enthusiasm dries up.

Any good cowboy needs a steed, and every Maverick needs his Goose.
Goose comes in the form of my best friend all the way back to school days. Tom. He has the same hankering to get away from the Island, and the sense and maturity to stop me being a knobhead all of the time. He also happens to be an engineer and a mechanical genius. If he can’t fix it, it is probably beyond help. Without his company I would be walking within 10 miles of leaving home, and propping up some needy bar by 12 miles. He also happens to be an ace photographer. I need him. He needs me less; not much call for Arabic speaking ex soldiers outside of a warzone. He still can’t be Maverick though.

As for the steed; since I was 17, I have been riding sports bikes, chasing rev limiters and three figures as if an R1 borne reaper was up my tailpipe. But there is a time for going fast, and time to slow down. A sports bike makes sense in England, for getting somewhere; not going somewhere. You can ride around the world in 19 days, but how much can you see in 19 days? We’re in no hurry. Flicks through HorizonsUnlimited, the motorbike traveller’s bible, show dozens of bikes, all with their own fervent supporters. A fat fistful of salt is needed, trawling through posts from armchair travellers more familiar with spec sheets than foreign streets.

Fat shirehorse GS 1200s are popular, but too lardy and techy for this boy. Might give the impression of being professional or prepared; two accusations that have never been levelled at me. XT600s and DRZs have their supporters. I have had both bikes, and both were capable and utilitarian - and ultimately unlovable. If they were women, they would be called Jane, or Emma, live in semi detached suburbia and get told they ‘have lovely personalities.’ Small capacity trail bikes also have their fans, but I am not one, I don’t want to live with an excitable terrier for months on end. An ADD kid might be fun for a day, but ASBO tendencies are not long term love makers. One bike sticks out over all others.

The Cub. The chicken chaser. The C90. The pizza bike. Tom shares the same perversion. From an idea on one day, Ebay porn the next, straight into standing in day old dishwater coloured Bedford, so dreary and post past it modern it would give Lowry a stroke. In between the locked up lock ups and weed tortured concrete, under a leaking sky the shade of an industrial accident, sat my new love. To anyone else she’s a dog, but to me she appeared a pearl red dressed fox. Only two previous lovers, one old guy, one gay guy. She needs me. Tyres kicked. Bars waggled. Pre purchase checks completed. A monkey changed hands, and this monkey jumped on the back of his cub.
Bedford to Lincoln, flat black slashes of arctic stalked motorway. Middle England; wet and tepid as yesterday’s cup of tea. Not the Cub’s territory. A testing first date. Motorways are less fun in the left hand lane. Being sucked and blown on your first time out with a new lady is normally ‘a good thing.’ Less fun when being sucked in and out of ‘Big Dave’s’ lorry slipstream, and blown into the verge by his wake. Throttle pinned, head down, 45 miles an hour, Cub screaming over the murmurings of my red wine hangover, I’m wetter than a gay fish and can’t see a bean through spray and visor mist.

Blue lights, flashing in mirrors that shake like a two day dry junkie. Shit. They can’t be pulling me for speeding surely. Jerkily clunk down all three gears into a layby, miss neutral and almost lose it, cop parks up behind. I can smell booze and fag breath in my Arai. Excuses already being pulled mentally. ‘Sorry Officer, I dropped a cigarette in my helmet and had to pour in 3 bottles of shiraz to put the fire out.’ Plod walks up to me as I take the inappropriate race repped hat off. What can he want? I am on a bike that is so friendly it has a heel down changer to avoid shoe scuffage. Does he not know that you meet the nicest people on a Honda? ‘Good afternoon,’ I simper like the useless whore I am. Just a nod back. ‘What happened to your ‘L’ plates?’ is his only answer. Sweet Mary mother of Allah, he thinks I am a scooter chav chancing it without plates. He’s so shocked when I show him a full license that he doesn’t even ask to see my insurance. Fortunate really.

First ride shaken down on the Cub. I’m in love. Tom has his ready too. He is equally smitten. For him it is his first; he has virgin love for it, like first fag or first shag, first love; his first ‘big’ bike after passing his test. We now have a pair of braying donkeys just waiting to judder whinnying out of the stalls. A few weeks of partying goodbye, a few weeks of (Tom) fixing up my bike and getting it worthy for attacking the world; then we are off. We can’t stop here; this is bat country. I finally know my direction.

[Birdy]

I’ve been on the Cub for a few weeks now, and one thing has stuck out over all the others.

Proper bikers just don’t wave or nod to me like they used to. I still have two wheels and I still have gears, so why don’t I get acknowledged anymore? I know most kid’s pushbikes have bigger wheels, and probably more gears, but am I not still a biker? I’ve taken to giving massively over enthusiastic nods, spasms like my whole neck is in terrible cramp, but I still get blanked by every biker on the road.

The A52 to Peterborough is always packed with bikers, all of who used to give me friendly nods; the middle aged HardleyAbleSons, the white collar weekend Raineys, the profusion of post Ewbi Boardmans talking a good RTW, one Starbucks at a time; they all acknowledged my existence when I had a ‘real bike.’
While it is common knowledge that riding a motorbike makes you invisible to car drivers, it doesn’t usually have that effect on other riders. Why is it that a C90 works like a hobbit cloak? Why do my lack of capacity and my aging façade make me so ignorable? Is it like being embarrassed to be seen with granddad, just because he talks to himself and smells faintly of wee? Without the Cub, where would all those whining inline four whores be? The Cub made biking everything that it is today. Ignoring one in passing is like walking up to an old war hero and pissing on his shoes. These young whippersnappers need to learn some respect for their elders. Where were they when Nam kicked off?

Not only is the Cub a wise old giffer who demands respect just by virtue of sheer age, but it is also the original hooligan. Ninjas? Bandit 12s? Dukes? Pah, call those hooligans? They have nothing on the bike that inspired a million joyrides. How many people had their first taste of two wheeled freedom in the cockpit of a C90; its steering lock smashed off and bits of condom floating in the key barrel? How many people lifted their first wheelie, in a muddy field on a Cub?

Before climbing on board, I though it would be the perfect antidote to stop me riding like a knobhead. Wrong. Wronger than Hitler. I see why couriers and pizza boys like these things. It is impossible to sit astride it in a busy town and not behave like a complete and utter two hat. Head down, feet out speedway stylee, curb skipping, elbows like Mcgrath. Every half assed gap suddenly becomes a bolt hole, cars are just rocks in the stream to bob around; every set of lights turns into a drag race. Clunkily pulling up to the line, down all (two) gears into first, jerking up to a stop as if the wheels are hexagonal, feet flat on the floor thanks to the tiny seat height. Look to the left; old man on a pushbike, Sturmey Archers, flat cap, smoking. He looks back with steel eyes; looks like a man who is throwing the gauntlet squarely down, either that or he has cataracts. Look to the right; Corsa chav, Alpina sunstrip, baseball hat, smoking. He looks back; his wide eyes tell you it’s on, and that he has been puffing gear far too long. Feed the 3.4 horses a squirt of unleaded, feel her pulling gently between your thighs. ‘Easy my little tiger; easy’ you whisper soothingly, as you absent mindedly fumble for the clutch that hasn’t been there for the last 50 goes and still isn’t there now; just checking. Lights drop to orange, full throttle, green light. Flag down go! 50 years of history squeals off of the line, old man is left to cry into his flat hat, he’s falling back fast through the second and third rows of the grid. Corsa chav got a slow start off of the lights, Cub and twat hat bedecked jockey buzz off like a wayward sewing machine. Crunch through into second gear, 20 miles an hour. Third gear, 25 miles an hour. 30 miles an hour. It’s done, spent. Everyone but the old man rush past in their tanks. In recognition of the plucky Cub’s brave victory in the inaugural Boston traffic light GP, Corsa chav waves. Strangely with a cupped hand, rapidly back and forth. British sportsmanship, wonderful. You meet the nicest people on a Honda.

It almost scares me how much the Cub changes me as a rider. Sportsbike mounted, I am a responsible, considerate, safe rider. Take away one hundred horsepower and apparently, restraint and sense get stripped away too. This kitten is going to put me in hospital before long. With a non-existent nought to sixty time, and acceleration to make slugs laugh, speed has to be jealously held on to. I’ve become a corner speed Shylock, if anyone even thinks of getting in my way and stealing my momentum, my indignation is fired and I start screaming for my pound of flesh. 90 degree corners have become death or glory suicide missions. Braking into them only sends the bike wide as it rears up like a stubborn pony, so do away with the brakes and throw her in, eyes closed, holding and hoping. The tiny tyres and paper straw chassis offer a feel of the road more intimate than I’ve been with most ex girlfriends. Every single bump and ripple is translated into flex and judder. The frame seems to bend at right angles while the wheels fight to go in opposing directions, but this is no lily livered Johnny come lately. This is a bike imbued with the fighting spirit of resurgent post war Japan. This is not just a moped, this is an emblem of triumph out of defeat in the face of adversity. 3(ish) horsepower, drum brakes, bakelite tyres, plastic leg shields, all leak kamikaze juice around the bike. Well, it’s either that or oil. Hamdu Lillah that she is only blessed with a sprinkling of horses; at anything over forty miles an hour this would be suicide.

As it is, it all seems to be a funny joke. Even when cranked over in a corner, centre stand trying to dig a hole in the concrete, bars flapping like beached salmon and plastic tyres ignoring any attempt at grip – it doesn’t feel dangerous. It seems as if the worst did happen, and she spat me off, it couldn’t hurt. It is too silly to hurt. If I do have an accident, it will be accompanied by Benny Hill music, and the ground will be as hard as candy floss. In my head anyway.

Not only has it uncovered my inner scooter chav, it has unearthed a long lost tinkerer. My bikes stay standard until bits start falling off. Services schmervices, fettling and meddling waste good riding time. The Cub has changed me. I can’t stay off of the internet, looking for silly stuff to bolt on. I feel like those men who type quickly with one hand and move the other one faster. I have to sit chewing my fingers until the flopsy leaves the house for fear she might see my dirty little secret. I have no remorse. ‘Hi, my name is Joel and I am a Cubaholic.’ The only consolation is that there is a whole world of like minded perverts out there. Clubs, fanzines, forum sites, tuning pages, blogs and homages; I am not alone. Most of all because Tom has it worse than me. He is an inveterate fettler at the best of times, if it can come off, it will come off. With the Cub this tendency is exacerbated, it is his first bike; like first love, first fag, first girl, first shag, he wants to know her inside out.

My modding doesn’t go that far, the internal combustion engine may well run on nuclear fission for all I know or care. What I can understand is that a granny basket looks cool in a pensioner chic kind of way, and a touring screen might let me light a fag on the move. I’m getting my head around not having a clutch, it gives a useful free hand. The possibilities are endless, especially in conjunction with an open faced helmet. Mcdonald’s drivethrus can be navigated with panache, and burgers eaten on the move. I’m eagerly awaiting the screen to see if it does indeed facilitate en transit cigarettage.

Forgetting blitzkrieg assaults on Boston, the reason we bought Cubs was to go around the world on them. The Cubs are ready, we are ready to go. All we need now is a bag full of pants to facilitate around the world fun. The trip bywords are ‘cheap,’ and ‘cheerful,’ an Aldi carrier bag would take the piss out of us. Oxford ‘First Time’ panniers courtesy of Fleabay are spacious enough to carry everything we are taking, for less than 40 quid for a pair of pairs. We have leather jackets and we have jeans, we have stupid Thai bought cheapo hats, we have clothes for going out in and we have clothes for trying to keep warm in. We have toothbrushes and compasses, we have spanners and condoms. What else do you need to attack the world? Mark at the ever friendly Grantham Honda has kindly offered to provide servicing help and spares for the trip. Even without the kind assistance from the shop, it is well worth a visit, if only to laugh at the hideous DN-01 in the window, gawp at the rows of beautiful Blades or just sit in the car park, natter and smoke, fuelled by good burgers from the lovely Hannah who runs the refreshments there.

We are ready, I am no longer a soldier, all we need to do is wait for Tom to save up enough money from his engineering job and numerous side projects, then Africa beckons. Why can’t tomorrow be today already?

[speedmaster58]

what a great read, nearly spat coffee all over my keyboard laughing so much. Brought back my own memories of riding my mates C90, never could get the hang of the toe & heel gear change, good luck on the trip.

There are quite a few nutters riding C90's around the world, Tim Culins (the Moroccan Sage) met one in Morocco a few months ago from Staffordshire I think as well as 2 Germans on 50cc step-thro's towing bicycle trailers- now there is an idea for your 2 bikes

Looking forward to reading your future exploits

[monsieur]

From a fellow Lincolnian - I also had to surpress some giggles here and there!
Travelling around the world on a c90 - didn't see that coming. Wise choice of steed Sir. Especailly in Africa - lots to see but most of the time no chance of going anywhere fast...C90 suits perfectly.
22 and travelling the globe - wish I'd had the guts when I came out of the army ( before the 1st gulf war) instead I took the comfortable way and settled down with wife, kids. mortgage, credit cards etc, etc.
I don't regret just wished I'd taken the time to look at other options.
Do it, enjoy it and write a blog as funny and informative as your last few posts.
Bon voyage!!

[Frank Warner]

Modern Bicycles have 30 gears .. my old bicycle has 18.

Going around a roundabout I'm fastest on the bicycle - keeps the momentum up. My average speed these days is 18km/h to and from work on the bicycle, 22km/h on the motorcycle... Back when I was fit (and younger) I could average 21km/h on the bicycle .. 35 if I had someone in front!

Bicycles fly free as 'sporting equipment' (or they used to) and there would be little point in a carnet...it is just that you cannot carry as much junk as I need (want .. well I'm spoilt)...


Oh top speed ... 78km/h .. with the brakes on .. downhill with a tail wind!!! See it is even faster than a Cub ... some times.

[Birdy]

30 gears! That is extravagant, if anyone fully uses all those ratios available to them, I salute them. I used to do national level trials, and we only ever had 6.

It doesn't contradict my point that most kid's bikes have more gears though!

Thanks for the comments though, seriously.

From a fellow Lincolnian - I also had to surpress some giggles here and there!
Travelling around the world on a c90 - didn't see that coming. Wise choice of steed Sir. Especailly in Africa - lots to see but most of the time no chance of going anywhere fast...C90 suits perfectly.
22 and travelling the globe - wish I'd had the guts when I came out of the army ( before the 1st gulf war) instead I took the comfortable way and settled down with wife, kids. mortgage, credit cards etc, etc.

Glad you enjoyed it, sorry about your unfortunate extraction - some of us have to bear it though! Do you live in Lincoln now? Thanks, I fully believe it is the perfect travelling bike, despite not yet putting foot on foreign soil. Maybe I will tell a different story in a few months.

Don't think of it as not having the guts, I just don't have the guts to settle down with kids and a mortgage. That to me, is far scarier and much more difficult than fooking all off and taking a bimble around Africa.

now there is an idea for your 2 bikes

As of yesterday, it is looking like it will be one bike. My bike handling skills don't extend to towing a trailer, and my mechanics skills don't extend to fixing an overloaded Cub - so a bag of pants and tobacco will have to suffice for my luggage!

what a great read, nearly spat coffee all over my keyboard laughing so much. Brought back my own memories of riding my mates C90, never could get the hang of the toe & heel gear change, good luck on the trip.

Thanks for the compliments, and especially the luck, I will need it. I still haven't got the hang of the gear change, after several thousand miles! Still trying to hook my foot under the lever to change. Old habits die hard. Ask me again, about Namibia time in 6 or 7 months, and I will see if I have got my head around it by then.

The reports will be coming down by the weekend, I just wanted to see if I could get any feedback on a possible first section of my tale. Glad to see over 100 of you have read it, but before I take it down, please could you take a second to give me some feedback.

Be as critical as you like, if I don't get feedback, I will never improve, tell me what you don't like, tell me what you like. It would be greatly appreciated.

As it is at the mo, I have very little clue on what people want to read, and what I should be doing. For those of you that have read my Tan Hill, and Brighton posts, those are also indicative of the kind of scat I will be writing.

Thanks very much,

Birdy

[Niva Say Never]

Hi Birdy,
Thats a great read, i wish i could write half as well as that.
If the trip reports are anything like that (and i couldn't read them here for free!!) i'd pay to read them. I can't really think of how you'd improve it. Go......Enjoy.....and i for one can't wait to hear about it

Sam

[indu]

Fantastic read! Even for a non-English speaker! Looking forward to your future writings!

[Frank Warner]

Originally Posted by Birdy

30 gears! That is extravagant, if anyone fully uses all those ratios available to them, I salute them. I used to do national level trials, and we only ever had 6.

I think the range (top to bottom) is the same .. so you get a finer selection thus keeping the cadence closer to ideal.. I'm happy with my 18 most of the time. Even the cheap bike nower days have 18...

-----------------
I'd think this CT110 fuel tank idea might make the bike look more like a bike and thus get more waves ? CT 110 ( Postie Bike ) Questions ??????? - ADVrider

------------- Waiting for Tom can be done on the road .. leave tomorrow and you'll be away, he can come along and bring anything you forgot... and you can spend more time - travelling slowly so he can catch up.

[geoffshing]

Hey mate,
Love the stories, you write really well and I admire that. It's not often that squaddies, ex or serving have that ability to write with lot's of enthusiasm and brilliant descriptions.
So many parts of your little adventure so far ring very true in my life, hence I read your bit so avidly. I'm an ex squaddie myself, done the gulf and years doing private work, PSD etc, I remember my first bike ride, on a stolen C90 my brother swiped and am now doing the RTW on my bike.
I'm in West Africa now on my XT600e. I don't regret the decision for the Yam, I love it. But I can say however there's bloody loads of C90's around so getting spares will be the least of your problems. It'll keep loads of attention away from the bike from thieving gits not that so far there's been many of them.
If you want any questions answered give me a shout. I've had a few adventures being here and lots more to come. I'm doing a travelers blog on this site. It may or may not help.

Have fun!

Geoff Shingleton

[Live2Ride]

Good read mate.

[Laura Bennitt]

Last night I was chatting to a guy who used to ride a Cub. He managed to drive into the back of someone's car hard enough that when he got off the Cub stayed upright cos it was so firmly wedged...

Have a great trip and send us lots more stories!

Laura

[JHMM]

Look forward to reading about your adventures.
The bug has bitten me too. Saving and planning for my trip through Africa. The bigger tank idea sounds great and seems really easy to do.