FROG BLOG

As well as being a fan of Vincent motorcycles (see previous posting), I'm also a big fan of MZs. This may come as a surprise because the two brands are at opposite ends of the biking spectrum. One's iconic and taken very seriously, the other's considered a joke. Grossly unfair.

My enthusiasm for MZs began way back in the '70s when I first rented a bike shed to garage my trials bike. In the next shed along, a little old man kept his beloved 250cc MZ Supa 5 and on Saturdays, when we'd both be tinkering with our bikes, I'd often pop in to see how he was doing. Surrounded by old Castrol posters and faded black and white biking photos from a bygone age, he'd pour me a cuppa from his Thermos as he started nattering about 'the good old days' of the TT races. Kept me enthralled for hours. When I first asked him why he had a crappy old MZ, he laughed and said "because it's all I can afford!". Then he explained that he'd also bought it because he admired the way a tiny little East German factory took on, and beat, the 'big boys' at the TT. And it was all down to some chap called Walter Kaaden. Who? So he told me the MZ story. There's a lot you can learn from an old man in a shed. Sadly, the old boy died about a year later. But his stories, enthusiasm, and love of MZs never left me. As I said, I've been an MZ fan ever since. Had five so far.

A book has recently been published ('Stealing Speed' by Mat Oxley) which goes into greater detail about the story I first heard from that little old man. Extracts have appeared in one of my classic bike magazines and, for some months now, I've been meaning to order the book. Finally did so this afternoon. Really looking forward to a riveting read.

Even for non-bikers, it's a fascinating tale and a ripping yarn...

Where to begin? Well, perhaps the moon landing is as good a place as any. When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, it was the ultimate step in NASA's space programme of the '60s. Head of NASA at that time was Werner von Braun, a German rocket scientist who fled to America after the second world war. I presume the Yanks gave him an offer he couldn't refuse: come to America and give us your rocket science 'know how' or be hanged (von Braun designed and developed the V1 and V2 'doodlebug' rocket bombs that caused so much devastation towards the end of the war). There's no doubt that von Braun's contribution propelled the USA ahead in the space race, but people forget that they also benefitted from Sir Frank Whittle's jet engine secrets conned out of the UK (along with millions of pounds, land, and heaven knows what else) as payment for the US assistance in WW2. Hah! The Yanks would never have got their moon-landing plans off the ground if left to themselves. I mean, look at their cars and bikes - rubbish.

I digress.

During the war, Walter Kaaden was a junior member of von Braun's 'V' Series rocket team. Working alongside von Braun, Kaaden gained valuable knowledge of jet engine gas flow, resonance, air pressure harmonics and all sorts of other stuff that I don't understand. After the war, he chose not to join von Braun in America, settling instead for a simple life as a carpenter in Zschopau, East Germany. His means of transport was a humble little 100cc DKW motorcycle. In order to make it go faster, he experimented with different exhaust systems that he knocked up out of old bits of tin, utilising knowledge gained from his wartime experience. His test track was the road that went by the DKW factory where his speed and the banshee wailing of his screaming exhaust soon attracted the attention of the factory bosses. Impressed with his bike's performance, Kaaden was invited to join the DKW workforce. To cut a long story short, Kaaden soon became head of DKW's race team, DKW later became MZ (Mottorwerke Zschopau) and Kaaden was tasked by the communists to make MZ a world-beater on the racetracks. Some challenge! Especially with very limited resources.

Until Kaaden came along, the two-stroke engine was regarded in race circles as being uncompetitive. Four strokes were faster, more efficient, more powerful and more reliable. But Kaaden reckoned he could beat them. Working day and night in a scruffy little garage, he soon perfected his theories of exhaust gas expansion chambers and disc valve carburetion, thereby creating the same effect as supercharging. Miraculously, in a very short space of time, he almost doubled the power of his racing engine. Kaaden was now ready to challenge the might of Honda, MV and various other grand prix factories.

(MZ team - Kaaden far right)

While developing the MZ racer, Kaaden had groomed a young East German mechanic named Ernst Degner as his assistant. He was also to be Kaaden's no.1 rider. When Degner entered the grand prix circus, he gradually started to win races which surprised everyone except Kaaden. He saw life in Europe. He saw his competitors' fancy cars and tasted their champagne lifestyle. He thought about defecting but, with a young wife and baby back home, he always had to return behind the Iron Curtain when racing was over.

(Kaaden and Degner)

In 1961, Degner was just one race away from becoming 125cc world champion. The next race was the Swedish round and Kaaden was ready to celebrate. But it was not to be. Degner's bike had apparently broken down somewhere on the far side of the track. After the race, unbeknown to Kaaden, Degner defected. The rumour is that he was whisked away with his wife and kid by the Japanese in a pre-arranged plan, taking Kaaden's secrets and a few vital engine parts with him. Kaaden was devastated. The communist government immediately shut down Kaaden's operation and he became a forgotten man.

However, his legacy continued. Armed with Kaaden's secrets, Suzuki won their first world title: the 50cc world championship. The rider? Ernst Degner. Then Yamaha and Kawasaki began utilising Kaaden's two-stroke theories. Pretty soon Japanese two-strokes dominated racing. Take a look at Barry Sheene's world championship winning Suzuki and you'll see it bears a remarkable similarity to Kaaden's MZs.

The guy was a genius. A true genius.

Walter Kaaden died of cancer, aged 76, in 1996. He lived to see the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of communism. Just before he died, he was tracked down and interviewed by Jan Leeks (author of 'MZ - Birth of the Modern Two-Stroke Racer). Kaaden said he was amazed anyone remembered him or his deeds and achievements at all.

Walter, you'll never be forgotten. You changed the world.

But that's not the end of the story.

Ernst Degner retired from racing after an accident on the Suzuka racetrack when he fell off his bike and it burst into flames. Degner's burnt body was pulled from the inferno and he somehow survived, but he suffered horrific burns. He moved back to Germany. In 1983, while in the Canary Islands (on holiday?), he apparently committed suicide by overdosing on the medicine to ease the pain of his burns OR by slitting his throat OR by shooting himself (seems to be some confusion from the reports I've read - hopefully 'Stealing Speed' will provide clarification, when it arrives!). Inevitably, there's speculation that it wasn't suicide but murder. KGB/Stasi hitman? A revenge killing? Possibly. We'll never know.

(The humble MZ - a proper biker's bike)

I first read 'The Wind in the Willows' aged about nine. 'Toady' became an instant hero. Like him, I used to sniff exhaust fumes in much the same way as the Bisto Kids sniffed gravy. Been addicted to bikes and, to a lesser extent cars, ever since. Not these modern things though; just stuff from the 'fifties and 'sixties. Or, at a push, the 'seventies (you always have to push 'seventies cars - boom, boom!).

My dream machine is/was the Vincent Rapide - the 1000cc 'V' twin motorcycle that's arguably the best (whatever that means) bike of all time. Started looking for one semi-seriously a few years back. Prices were then around 12 grand - twice the price of a new Jap superbike. Astronomical. Then toyed with the idea again when we sold up and moved to France. By which time prices had risen to around 20 grand. Looked at one just outside Bromley, a minter. Tried to convince Georgie it'd be a wise investment, all the time knowing that all I really wanted to do was thrash it through country lanes on full chat. After all, that's what the damned things were built for; not museums or stashing away in heated garages. Almost bought it, but didn't. So near and yet so far.

I keep looking though. As I said, I'm addicted. Prices are now up to about 30 grand. Or more. Way out of reach. Spotted a good 'un on eBay last week. Bidding ended this afternoon. Last night it was up to about 24 grand. Hit 25 this morning. Thought it'd go for about 30. Made 32,100 at the last minute. Worth every penny.

Feast yer mince pies on this eBay beauty (with reluctant vendor who's selling to fund retirement home) while I cry inta me Rosie Lee...

Me and my big mouth. While watching the last France/Scotland Six Nations rugby match on telly round at neighbour Christian's way back in February, I casually mentioned that it'd be rather a wizard wheeze for us to visit Murrayfield for next year's Scotland/France game. Only really said it as a bit of a joke, never once thinking Christian would take the idea seriously. But a couple of weeks ago he mentioned that the game was scheduled for 7th February, thereby suggesting that he was quite keen on going. In order to put him off a bit, I told him tickets were gold dust but I'd look into it. Then, down at the market last week, Isabelle asked if she should find out about getting Christian a passport, just in case I managed to get match tickets. The whole thing had snowballed. Too late to say I wasn't really serious about going. Time for action.

Kicked off by looking for tickets on the internet. Visited a few dubious ticket agency sites where they were asking silly money with no real guarantee of delivery. No way, Jose (where are the damned accents?!). Then accidentally stumbled into the official Scottish Rugby site where I was amazed to find one could book face value ticket vouchers on a first come, first served, basis (I'm a mere novice in this ticket game - I thought tickets were only available to rugby club members). Immediately booked two 70 quid tickets.

Then went to the RyanAir site to book a couple of seats on the Limoges-Edinburgh flight. Disaster! Fully booked a week either side of match day! So checked various alternatives. Snapped up a RyanAir Limoges-Stansted flight, followed by an EasyJet Stansted-Edinburgh flight a few hours later which would get us into Edinburgh at around 6pm Friday (match on Sunday). For the return journey, I booked a Monday afternoon Edinburgh-Stansted flight and a Wednesday morning Stansted-Limoges flight, thus giving us a day in London, staying at Georgie and Don's in Putney.

So, with match and flight tickets booked, I needed to find somewhere for us to stay. Checked out various Edinburgh hotels and b&bs. Seemed all the cheapos were already full (not that there were any cheapos - they all whack their prices up during match week), so I was now faced with the likelihood of booking a room at some posh hotel at a cost of anything up to 250 quid each a night. That could be 750 quid each! No way, Jose; Jock, rather. After much feverish internet surfing, I eventually tracked down a cheapish guest house on the edge of town and booked their last room: a twin sharing. My relief at finding somewhere was only matched by the terrible thought of sharing with Christian. We'd be on top of each other for days on end - enough to drive both of us crazy. Nothing for it but to continue searching for two single rooms. Must be some somewhere at a non-extortionate rate. Eventually turned up trumps at a little hotel in the middle of town: two rooms at 50 quid each a night, including breakfast. Bargain. Immediately booked 'em and cancelled t'other one. Job done. It had only taken a couple of days! Only?!

Told Christian the good news last week. Looked a bit stunned, though excited as well. After all, he's never flown, never been abroad (apart from once when he had to briefly drive his lorry into Germany), never been to an international rugby match, can't speak English, worried about 'English' food, extremely worried about catching swine 'flu and, above all, he's incredibly concerned about not being able to get any of that foul drink Ricard.

Should be an interesting trip.

(Just found this 1990 clip. Great match. Great win. I was there!)

Weather's still glorious out here. Mind you, we could do with some rain. I keep saying that. Bound to regret it. All too soon it'll be raining chats et chiens. Then the snow. Brr. In the meantime, might as well enjoy the sun while it lasts.

Been taking advantage of this meteorological clemency by giving the washing machine a bashing. Washed dozens (well, it seems like it) of sheets and duvet covers plus piles of my festering rags and hung them out to dry. Couple of hours in the sun and they're ready to be stashed away. Brilliant! Ironing? What's that?!

The bright sunshine really brings out the autumn colours. Greens are turning to yellows and browns and sometimes bright oranges and reds. The back track to the granite cross has been completely transformed. Managed to grab a couple of hours yesterday and today (in-between washing duties - not to mention blasted tax form filling-in and posting), so ambled up there with easel and canvas to do a bit of painting. If the weather holds up I'll get up there again tomorrow (well, later today to be exact) to change a few things and add the finishing touches. Amazing how many people stopped and chatted: a family walking their Westie, the mayor farmer, another farmer and the Poussanges gang of holiday kids (they're back in town, er, hamlet). All very complimentary. But it ain't that good. I'm just an amateur artist from the Winston Churchill school of relaxing paint sploshing. I'll keep trying though.

My, how tempus fugits. It's a week ago already that I waved au revoir to Georgie and Helen at Limoges airport after their long week-end visit. They'd popped over to celebrate their birthdays (two days apart) but unfortunately Donnie couldn't make it due to nasty work commitments. Crikey, they were lucky with the weather. Brilliant sunshine for four out of five days. We were even able to have breakfast outdoors. Unheard of for mid-October. Nights were chilly though. Especially for Helen up in the loft. Needed an ice-pick to get her out of bed on the first morning. So we decided to go on a shopping expedition to Aubusson in search of an electric blanket.

Raided a few shops and drew a blank. Maybe the French don't use 'leccy blankets. Then tried a couple of biggish supermarkets. No luck. Then tried a 'leccy shop on the edge of town. Re-emerged in semi-triumph clutching a hot water bottle. Having thus solved the problem of keeping Helen alive at night, we didn't really need to continue our search. But continue we did. We had one shot left: a tiny shop in the middle of Aubusson. Bingo! Spotted one in the window. A double sized one for sixty quid. Bit pricey but needs must. Went inside and asked if they had a single. Lady disappeared out the back and came back with exactly what we'd been searching for. Mission accomplished.

Later that evening, assisted by the French-English dictionary, Georgie read the 'use of blanket' instructions. Apparently it seemed to be an overblanket. Far as I was concerned, this made no difference. Just stick it under the bottom sheet and underblanket as normal. However, the girls seemed somewhat concerned that this might result in Helen being roasted alive due to body pressure compressing wiring - all too technical pour moi. In the end Helen decided to just sling it under the duvet but above the bottom sheet for half an hour before beddy-bos. Worked a treat, with the aid of the hot water bottle. Does anyone know the ins and out of 'leccy overblankets versus underblankets? Maybe it's not designed for beds after all. Maybe it's intended for old people to sling over their knees when watching telly. Must admit I'm a complete novice in such matters.

Anyway, I digress (as usual).

For Georgie's birthday we took things easy. Very relaxing day just pottering. Had planned on booking a table for dinner at the 'Lion d'Or' restaurant in Aubusson (highly recommended by Monsieur Petit the local insurance agent who is a gastronomic expert, despite being spotted doing a six hour shift barbecuing sausages in blisteringly hot conditions at Felletin's recent antiques market day - a nightmare experience that not only turned him into a shadow of his former self but also put him off sausages for life), but, that night, they were having a special six course nosh-up costing 35 euros which would probably last five or six hours and result in a doubling of Georgie's body weight. Also, garlic snails were on the menu. Personally, I love 'em but Georgie doesn't. So, instead, we decided to just stroll the streets of Aubusson and see what happened. Ended up grabbing the last table at the very pleasant gallette (pancake) restaurant up one of the back alleys. Had a marvellous meal and a splendid time (see photo on exiting said restaurant). Driving back through Aubusson and Felletin at about 11pm on a Saturday night, we were quite amazed at how few lights were on. Everyone goes to bed at about nine. Either that or they have very heavy curtains.

For Helen's birthday we had a day trip to Lac Vassiviere. Took a Thermos and the dogs. Lovely day; bright, warm sunshine. In the middle of the lake, there's an island with a chateau, a caff and a modern art gallery (well worth a visit). The girls visited the gallery while I walked the dogs outside. Apparently the exhibition featured works by some architect. Not exactly my tasse de the (pronounced 'tay' but I don't know where the accents are). Then we all sauntered around the woods checking out various modern art thingies. Jock insisted on wee-ing on most of 'em. An excellent judge. Perhaps the most interesting exhibit was an Andy Goldsworthy curved rock wall structure (circa mid-'80s?) at the water's edge. Well it would have been at the water's edge had the water level not dropped twenty feet, thereby leaving the wall thirty yards inland. Rain sorely needed. Would have taken some stupendous photos but..., left camera at home.

Next day, Limoges airport. As I said at the start, that was a week ago. Seems longer.