Sunday, April 13, 2008

The joys of C&R, episode 139.

I've raved previously about the joys of the CZ52. My opinion still stands, though working out almost exclusively with a slightly more modern handgun has reminded me 1) how much ergonomics have improved between the WWII generation and the Cold War generation and 2) how blindingly fucking fast a button magazine release is. My SIG choked for the first time (fortunately, I have a hunch about the culprit - how I fucking hate you, you beautiful, plush Hogue grips - though the solution will take an e-mail/visit to SIG-Sauer), and I decided to warm up a bit on the ol' CZ, in the off chance I don't have the SIG on Saturday.

I finally built some proper frankenmags, and they work...with 6 or fewer rounds. Triple-K (and man that is an unfortunate name for a company) builds a quality product, except they built the follower out of bent heavy-gauge sheet metal, and they evidently didn't bother to run the fucking things through an actual CZ because when I used them the skinny little followers jumped the slide stop and jammed the bloody magazines into the bloody magazine well until I stripped off the bloody grips and extricated the bloody thing. Let's just say I'm a bit peeved by the experience.

CZ-Brno, of course, didn't build magazines with this problem - the Czech followers have a fat lip on them that nothing is getting past.

Since the rest of the Triple-K product is excellent - some very nice two-piece baseplates that are both sproing resistant and easy to disassemble, nice strong springs, and the thickest phospating I've ever seen - you can probably see where I'm going with this.

Only problem is that the Czech followers are a wee bit thicker than the Triple-K ones, and anything past six requires some banging and/or poking with a cleaning rod to get the follower back up.

Here's hoping they run.

Oh, and if you disassemble a magazine upside down and don't bother to catch the recoil spring and spring plate, at least aim it at an empty patch of floor, not three baskets worth of laundry and a heap of boxes that would only in the most nearsighted and charitable corners of Christendom be called a "neat stack."

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