CHAPTER 15 / HEEL BRAKE OR ELSE! Where pain is part of the POH

Okay. The oil temperature gauge has finally twitched. After eight minutes of existential idling, pre-taxi anxiety, and mild tropical hallucinations, it has crawled past the “molasses in January” zone and is now flirting with a cozy 80°F. This is your cue. Not to take off. Not to impress anyone. Just to begin slowly inching toward the threshold of your next mistake. Let the rest of the warm-up continue as you taxi—assuming, of course, you’re not already halfway through merging with a fuel truck, wondering why your aircraft suddenly has the stopping power of a damp paper towel. 

Your toes are flailing. Your legs are convulsing. You’re stabbing into the rudder pedals, desperately searching for a brake pedal that doesn’t exist. The airplane is still rolling. Still accelerating. Completely unimpressed by your attempts to toe-brake your way out of a taildragger.

Let’s pause here.
Because this is the moment reality grabs your rudder and slams you into the hangar of regret:

You don’t have toe brakes.
That’s for Huskies. For the modern, polite, laminated-flight-manual crowd.
This is a Cub. You stop with your heels—or not at all.

Yes, heel brakes feel wrong at first. 

Like dating a stick of dynamite. They’re awkward. They fight back. They demand finesse, timing, and a full recalibration of your anatomy.

But once you learn how to use them—really use them—it feels like strapping your soul to the mechanical will of a war machine.

It’s not flying anymore. It’s conducting violence with grace.

It’s like playing the piano. At first, nothing works. Your brain says “brake,” your feet say “huh?” and the aircraft just keeps rolling toward the fuel farm.

But eventually—through pain, panic, and maybe one minor airfield incident—your body adapts. Left rudder. Right brake. A little rhythm. And suddenly, you're playing a symphony of controlled aggression.

Compare that to toe brakes, which always feel like trying to play Beethoven with two index fingers and a twitchy pinky. Technically braking—just without style, rhythm, or dignity. 

That is, of course, assuming the heel brakes work.

Because here’s the kicker:

They’re either:

So tragically underpowered they respond like a neglected therapy animal—“Brake? Oh… you meant now?”

Or—on the rare occasion they’ve been upgraded with heavy-duty master cylinders, booster pumps, and the fury of a thousand overhauled O-rings—they unleash catastrophic over-performance.

One tap and you’re airborne.
Through the windscreen.
Like a missile fuelled by poor judgment and hubris.

There is no middle ground.
There is only:

• No response
• Or windshield kiss of death

Now imagine this:

You’ve upgraded your entire 1957 landing gear arrangement like a man preparing to land on Mars.
Extended gear.
31” tundra tires up front.
A baby Bushwheel out back.
Your Cub looks like it could crush a Tesla just by taxiing past it.

But down below—lurking in the shadows of all that glorious overkill—is your original 1950s brake system, now less effective than knitting yarn trying to moor a sailboat in a hurricane.

Ask me how I know.

I learned this the hard way, many years ago—during my time in Kenya, chasing poachers like a colonial-era Batman with a David Attenborough complex, a guilt-driven soundtrack curated by Bono, and a Super Cub instead of a cape.

I didn’t upgrade the landing gear for show.
I upgraded it like life insurance with cleats.

I bushflying-proofed everything beneath the fuselage:
Extended landing gear.
Heavy-duty bungees.
A tailwheel assembly built like a medieval siege engine designed by someone who hated fences.

And then I went shopping at Alaskan Bushwheel—back when they were still a gloriously greasy, gloriously broke little shop in Vernonia, Oregon, run by the legendary Wup Winn. A man who could sell you 35 inches of pure aviation arrogance and make you feel righteous about it.

They sold me the dream.
And I bought it.
All of it.

Except the brakes.

Because after dropping enough cash on landing gear to fund a space program or a medium-sized NGO, I simply couldn’t afford to upgrade the brake system.

Which, to be fair, was already wheezing in protest trying to stop the Cub on 8.50s.

Now I had 31” tundra tires the size of livestock, and museum-grade brake cylinders.

So I did what any broke but enthusiastic idiot would do: I leaned forward, tightened my seatbelt, and began mentally projecting my stopping point hours in advance.

I wasn’t flying.
I was forecasting kinetic disaster.

If I wanted to stop at the fuel pump, I had to start braking somewhere around midfield.
If I needed to make a turnoff, I had to visualise it in a dream the night before.

It wasn’t “anticipation.” It was aviation clairvoyance.

And yet… I survived. Mostly by choosing runways with ample forgiveness and minimal spectators.

And that… is heel braking:
A system not built for ease.
Not for safety.
But for the damned and determined.
For those willing to suffer. To bleed.
To “practice, practice, practice”—until their legs cramp, their soul leaks, and the Super Cub finally grants them the sacred privilege of stopping without flipping.

All it takes is pain, suffering, and a thousand hours of bootleg bush therapy. Give it a millennium… You’ll get the hang of it.

Or buy a Citabria. Or a Tricycle. 
And try not to sob when it taxis straight like a Toyota Camry.