Beyond basic black: takin' Glocks from "ho-hum" to "whoa, Dude!"

Guns Magazine, March, 2005 by John Connor

Okay, I admit it--I was late gettin' aboard the Glock boat. In fact, it had already left the harbor and was steamin' to Bamboola when I swam out and hauled my drippin' butt over the fantail. There were two good reasons and one lame one for that situation. First, the agencies I worked for at the time neither issued nor authorized Glocks. Second, the people I was training didn't have 'em. And that lame reason? I was still young enough--and hadn't been shot enough yet--to care what "older, wiser shooters" said about the "Tupperware pistols" and those weirdopervo's who might carry them.

"Plastic junk," they snorted, predicting, "They'll sell a handful and be gone by spring thaw." A couple million handfuls and many springs later, some of those guys are still snorting--quietly, for the most part. For me, the change came when three important things happened:

First, I got shot enough. This left me caring far more about absolute reliability--with all kinds of weapon systems and gear--than about other shooters' opinions. Seemed like when I was busy scrappin' for my life, I looked around and they weren't there. Presumably, they were hangin' around a rangehouse sippin' fortified coffee and com plaining about stovepipe jams that shouldn't have happened. Second, my theatre of operations changed, and I learned that if you want to work, train and fight with serious shooters south of the Panama Ditch or east of the Ivory Coast, you've gotta walk, talk, and breathe Glock. As one tactical honcho down south said, "For pistols, we shoot the black guns only. Only." A lot of Spanish and Portuguese-speaking folks don't even call 'em "Glocks," just "black guns," and everybody knows what the Black Guns are. "They shoot every time, clean or no, shoot straight, do not break, and all models operate the same." He wasn't smiling, either.

El Jefe didn't add this, but I will: His teams averaged a gunfight a night in urban settings most America-n cops wouldn't enter without Abrams tanks for backup. Just reflect on that point for a minute--a gunfight a night ... See, when the Soviet Union collapsed like a cheap card table, all those well-trained, well-armed murderous Socialist Freedom Fighting bandits got themselves un-funded. They immediately became and remain trained, well-armed murderous EX-socialist bandits. They fight like rats on crack, and those who fight 'em daily rely on the Black Guns.

Third, I picked up a first-generation Glock 17, and it fit. Yup. Never mind the blocky slide and poured-plastic toy appearance of the frame. It fit and balanced and swung and pointed naturally and instinctively. If I squinty-closed my eyes, the handling reminded me of a Belgian-made Browning Hi-Power. That Glock and several others became trusted friends and comrades, quick. And having gained enough scars, I didn't even wince when stateside shooting buddies asked me if I didn't feel kind a stupid packin' a plastic pistol. "Hey," I'd say, "I always feel a little stupid. But I also feel confident, fast, and accurate. That helps, huh?"

But this ain't about selling you on Glocks. You're either sold, un-sold, or maybe it's that plain-Jane all-black, all same-same ho-hum thing that's left you standing on the dock wondering why the people aboard the Glock Boat are gigglin' and dancing. Heck, despite having a ton of confidence in 'em as life-saving equipment, I was pretty much un-thrilled with looking at them until I got circled and sniffed.

They Didn't "Mark" Me

It was SHOT Show 2004, and I was navigating through the wilderness of the Venetian Hotel, looking for the Annual Glock Dinner when I heard stealthy padding of furry feet and snuffling sounds, something like, "Glock-dinner, Glock-dinner, woof-woof-woof" coming up behind me. I stopped, and in an instant was surrounded by a ring of alert, tentative but aggressive critters. "Glock dinner'?" I asked. Noses twitched; tails trembled; a young pup whined nervously. Then the circle opened and the alpha wolf strode forward.

"J.R. Shepard," he said, sticking out his paw. "I run Lone Wolf Distributors, and this is the pack. Goin' to the Glock dinner?"

"John Connor," I said, "Roger on Glockchow, and, uhhb ... One of your pups just peed on my leg."

Yeah, I had heard of Lone Wolf, but had no idea until that night that they were the world's largest distributors of Glock OEM and aftermarket parts and accessories--and A certain services. From ported match barrels to titanium firing pins, extended slide releases and full-house frame modifications, they carry more than 1,000 SKUs for a pistol with only 34 parts. You think there's a little "customization" possible there?

We got to know each other a lot better. First, they sent me three of their "house pets" to play with--a supersonic G-35 .40-cal "Practical-Tactical" race gun, a desert-camouflaged G-36 in .45 ACP, and a G-37 in .45 GAP that you might call "mega-militarized."

They're not hard to spot in the photos, so 'scope 'em out, and you'll know how reluctant I was to give them back. Of course, that's exactly the effect JR was hoping for.