Let's Twist Again...

 Mike Bodnar chooses a lesser-travelled road for a solo ride on his Royal Enfield motorcycle...

A 'buttock-clencher' approaches...

There might have been a slight frost overnight, but now, where the sun has touched it, much of the narrow winding road is dry. Except for some of the dark corners, overgrown on both sides with pines, tree ferns, or other natives, where sunbeams have yet to penetrate. Here the surface is damp, and I throttle down, changing from third gear to second, with an ever-so-slight touch on the rear brake pedal. There are some corners I take a little too fast - buttock-clenchers I call them. This is not a road for cavalier riding, so I slow down even more. There's no rush.

I'm on the Akatarawa Road in the lower North Island of New Zealand. My bike is a 2019 Royal Enfield Classic 500cc, the lineage of which can be traced back to 1901, in Redditch, England, but whose modern pedigree is based in India. It's a story as long and twisty as the road I'm on, but if we take a shortcut we can just say that after Royal Enfield Motorcycles ceased operations in England in 1970, production continued in Madras (now Chennai), India, as India had been assembling Royal Enfield motorcycles there since 1962.

It's a great success story, and today Indian-made Royal Enfields are exported around the globe, and have gathered an almost-cult status due to many of the models looking pretty much as they did in the 1960s. It's often confusing for onlookers who see the bikes outside cafés or in car parks; one of the most common questions is, 'How long did it take to restore?', or comments such as, 'Beautiful bike, looks almost like new.'

The bike: 2019 with a 1960s look - always draws attention

So here I am, worming my way along the Akatarawa Road, on my Classic 500cc single-thumper, which at first glance does indeed look like it's 60 years old. But apart from me there's nobody to look at it, as on this sunny Tuesday morning I have the road pretty much to myself. At the western end of the road, where I joined it, there's a cautionary sign advising that the route is unsuitable for long vehicles, to turn around now, and if you are continuing, not to trust GPS instructions. Consequently I see only three vehicles in the whole 25 kilometres (15.5 miles), but of course you never know what's round the next buttock-clencher, so I'm riding carefully. In my favour, the road is sealed and in overall good condition.

The road borders the Akatarawa Forest, and is lined for much of the route with lush vegetation, which, in places, overhangs the road. Appropriately, Akatarawa means 'trailing vines.' The proximity to the forest is no accident, as the road itself originally provided access for logging. In early days there were bush mills, and even a few industrial tramways to service them, though there's little or no evidence of these now.

An Akatarawa tramway in 1903

In the 1870s the route was briefly considered for a railway line, which would have linked the Hutt Valley in the east with the coastal settlements to the west, however a different route was settled on and nothing ever came of the rail venture. There is, however, as I ride through the twists and turns, a chugging noise - the sound my single-cylinder bike makes as I occasionally accelerate on those bits of road where I can see a reasonable distance ahead. The thump of a big single is one of the aspects of these bikes that endear them to their riders. It's a sound that provides more smiles per gallon.

I glance frequently at my speedo, though not to check my speed; I have another reason for taking note of my progress, and we'll come to that a little further into the ride. But speaking of numbers, the Akatarawa district itself is sparsely populated - there are only 2.1 people per square kilometre, so my chances of finding someone on the road round a corner are slim. I do wonder what 0.1 of a person might look like though.

The roadside bush hides farms and dwellings very effectively. There's the occasional giveaway fence, or a driveway tucked away in the trees, but you could be forgiven thinking that nobody lives here. And yet they must, because, well, the road: there has to be a reason for the road. I ponder what it must be like to live out here in the middle of nowhere, getting home from your fortnightly trip to the supermarket only to realise that you forgot to buy milk. I suspect those who do live here 'in the sticks' are resilient, and somewhat self-contained. Unfairly, the duelling banjos theme to Deliverance enters my head as I turn yet another leafy corner.

Not a place to forget the milk

Slowly the road begins to become a bit wider, the curves less tight, and I'm able to use third
and fourth gear more; the Akatarawa River becomes visible to my right, and I know I'm coming to the end of the valley road. Suddenly I'm in a suburb called Brown Owl, and it's time to join State Highway 2. I turn left, glance again at my speedo, do a quick mental calculation, and realise that I have to abandon my plan to head over the Remutaka Hill to Wairarapa. Instead, with a rumble in my tummy to rival the thumping from the bike, I'm reminded it's time for lunch.

I don't particularly like riding on state highways. My Enfield's top speed is not much more than 120kph (about 75 mph), and while that's not bad, it's not really what the Classic 500 is built for. However, most of New Zealand's open road speed limit is 100kph (62mph), and I don't have any trouble maintaining that - it's just that it's nowhere near as pleasurable as burbling and weaving along country roads at a more sedate pace. But I know of a place for lunch just up ahead, so that's where I'm headed.

Aston-Norwood formal gardens, my lunchtime view

Aston-Norwood is mainly a function and wedding venue, but with a pleasant café, and I find a seat in the sun overlooking the well-tended garden. Here I do some more calculations, check Google Maps, and decide on my next destination, which, of necessity, cannot be more than 15 kilometres away. Not because I'm running out of fuel, or time - I am on a mission. Which is, to be riding in an area where it's easy and convenient for me to pull over when my odometer ticks over to read 123456. Yes, a once-in-a-lifetime event is about to happen, and I want to take a photo to document the occasion. Which is why I've abandoned my planned journey over the Remutaka Hill - it would be too dangerous - if not impossible - to pull over on the side of that hilly, twisty road to take a picture.

A simple thing, but nice

So after a filling lunch of loaded fries and a drink, I find myself retracing my journey by nine kilometres, turning left at Te Marua, and heading out through a rural area called Maymorn. 

Here the roads are flat, largely straight, and clear - perfect for what I want to do. My head nods up and down as I ride, which is me frequently checking my odometer reading, and looking ahead to gauge where the Big Event will happen. Silly, I know, but sometimes it's the simplest things in life that give the most pleasure. And then I have no more than two-tenths of a kilometre to go and I'm approaching a corner with no idea what's round it, so I decide to turn around and slowly go back so that I'll be on a straight stretch for the final click-over. And then it happens, conveniently at a quiet driveway to a rural building complex. I whip out my phone, select the camera app, and shoot at least six pictures of my lovely odometer, smiling the whole time.

As I'm in the rural area north of Upper Hutt I choose to take a country detour to get back to State Highway 2, and prolong my merging with the busy road. Instead I ride mainly flat and clear rural roads, through Whiteman's Valley, and along the more twisty Blue Mountains road, which eventually winds its way smoothly down, twisting and turning, to join the main highway.

And so I head home, the late afternoon sun on my right, the harbour of Whanganui-a-Tara to my left, its blue waters barely ruffling in the light breeze. I'm finally riding top-gear territory, and feel it's almost the equivalent of giving a horse free rein after having it compete in a tight and demanding gymkhana. 

We are  very lucky in Aotearoa/New Zealand that motorcycling can be a year-round activity, unlike, say, the UK where many (most?) motorbikes get tucked up by their owners from November through to April while winter does its worst, and the road crews spread salt and grit on the icy roads. The temperature for today's ride has been about 14 degrees Celsius, with ups and downs to that on the Akatarawa Road. Some dark corners the temperature would suddenly drop, reminding me that it's technically still winter, and yet on the sunny bits the warmth was palatable. Spring is coming.

It must be over 25 years since I last rode the Akatarawa Road, and I certainly won't leave it that long again (I mean, I am 71, so if I did I'd have to still be riding at 96!). If you'd like to do the trip yourself, here's a Google Earth 3D map (above), along with one (right) showing my full journey on the day.

Those who know the region will see that I've done my best to avoid State Highway 1 and Transmission Gully. Coffee was in the sun at Pauatahanui.

Maybe I'll do the Akatarawa trip again when my speedo's about to read 234567.

Go Home, Tommy! Go Home! (A personal account of the D-Day landings)

Mike Bodnar talks to a survivor of the Normandy Landings on D-Day, 6 June 1944, and discovers that not everyone in France was pleased to see the allies arrive...

Private Bill Broad, No.10582516

Fresh-faced Bill Broad was just 21 years of age when he set sail on an American ship from Portsmouth in the dead of night on 6 June, 1944. His destination: France. His mission: land on the coast at a location codenamed Gold Beach, at Arromanches in Normandy, and, along with almost 160,000 other troops, help drive the Germans back inland. It was time for the allied forces to fight back.

Originally from Folkestone, England, Bill was a private in the army back then. He'd been drafted on his 18th birthday, after already having been in the fire service - his voluntary contribution to the war effort while he waited for conscription. Little did he know at the time he joined up that he would later play a part in D-Day, one of the greatest military manoeuvres in history... and would go on to capture a German.

I met Bill in 2015, in Auckland, New Zealand. He had (obviously) survived the D-Day landing at Normandy, and I took the opportunity of his being at his daughter's house - where I too was staying briefly - to chat to him about his part in the invasion.

It's a fact that old soldiers sometimes sanitise their role in a conflict, for any number of reasons. These include: wanting to avoid remembering the trauma of war, the sharp memories of their actions and the battles they fought in having become less focused over time, an unconscious purging of the sheer horror of certain moments, and of course, modesty - that their role played little importance in the overall outcome. Many do not like to be thought of as heroes.

I don't know which, if any, affected Bill's retelling of D-Day and the weeks and months that followed as World War 2 drew to a close, but that day in the kitchen of his daughter's house he was very unassuming and casual in his recounting. 'It filled in a few years I suppose,' he smiles, summarising his active service from 1941 through to the end of hostilities and the mopping-up operations in Germany.

Plan of attack. Image: BBC History Magazine

Go home Tommy!

Bill says there was no sense of excitement while crossing the English Channel, and little appreciation that they were taking part in something historic. He recalls that he and those around him treated it as 'just another exercise,' a phrase he uses a few times. 

His retelling of the arrival at Gold Beach, around 0400 hours, is more pragmatic than emotional, despite the carnage he witnessed after getting ashore.

A landing craft approaching Omaha Beach. Image: Wikipedia

'We were pretty quiet [on the boat] going over... we weren't upset or excited about it really, y'know, we just took it in our stride as though it was an exercise... anyway, we landed, and there was quite a lot of opposition, and the battleships were firing shells over us, bullets flying everywhere, and bodies... there were quite a few bodies around the place...'

Having survived the initial drama of the landings, Bill and his fellow troops headed up the beach and on up a slope, 'Quite a decent slope, probably a small cliff you'd call it,' he recalls. 'And when we got near to the top there were quite a few bodies, mostly our guys, lying around, and there was this lady, pointing out to sea, and she was saying, "Go home Tommy! Go home Tommy!"'

Bill believes she was old enough to have seen a lot of war, possibly even the First World War, and Operation Overlord (as the D-Day invasion was codenamed) with its massive strategic bombardment of the land behind the coast, the tens of thousands of troops swarming up the beaches firing their weapons, the thick smoke, the explosions, and the British, American and other aircraft roaring overhead, was, he says, too much for the French woman. 'She'd had enough.' 

The harsh reality. Image: Britannica

In fact, he recalls, as they made their way through France the woman's standpoint was to haunt them, and far from being hailed as liberators, the allies were treated with a degree of contempt. 'We had about six weeks when [the French] wouldn't even talk to us...'

Training

Growing up on the south coast of England, Bill and his parents had been regularly exposed to the air raids and bombs of the Luftwaffe during the previous five years, so he was no stranger to the chaos of war. 

He says that where his family lived in Folkestone was very close to a tall industrial chimney, and Folkestone - thanks to its being a close and easy target on the south coast -  earned it the nickname 'Hellfire Corner.'

Folkestone bomb damage. Image: Folkestone Museum

'It was only twenty miles from France... and there was always something going on there, especially when the sun was in the right position. Fighter bombers would come down, and we had a big chimney stack... they probably used that as a target. We had all our windows blown out. I felt sorry for my parents that they had to put up with all that.'

On the other hand, it was an introduction -  a baptism by bombing, if you will - to some of the mayhem he would later face on D-Day.

The planning for Overlord began in 1943, and it wasn't long before Bill was sent up to Scotland where training for the Normandy invasion was centred (as well as at a beach in Devon). In Scotland, Bill's detachment practised landings on the Isle of Arran off the west coast, and he recalls training with the commandos, who would be among the first ashore. 

Live ordnance in training for D-Day. Image: Wikipedia

Private Broad and his 10-OBD (Ordnance Beach Detachment) of sixty troops were tasked with logistical support: supplying the forward troops with all the necessary supplies and equipment they would need - including ammunition - as the allied forces pushed north following the Normandy landings. 

Despite the supportive nature of their role, 10-OBD were put through all the same training as the forward troops, including practising the invasion under live ammunition. It was not for the faint-hearted.

'When we were exercising we used real bullets. You had bullets flying over your head all the time, so that you got used to them.'

Rations and Food

'We were lucky, we got through,' he says of the days and weeks that followed the landings, 'and everything seemed to move very well, y'know... we never had any real problems. The worst problems were the vehicles breaking down.'

But even having successfully dodged bullets and explosions, Bill says there was no real celebration of having made it into France. 'We were lucky to get our heads down and have five minutes' sleep. All you had was a blanket, and you had to find a place to sleep if you could, y'know. In the sand somewhere perhaps. But you got used to that sort of life though.' 

Food - of varying quality and quantity - was something else 10-OBD had to get used to. 

A D-Day ration pack. Image: The Keep Military Museum

'All our food came in special packs. We had what they called "the fourteen-man pack" - that was food for fourteen men for one day... there were nice things in some of them and not so nice things in others,' he laughs. 'The ones we used to go for were the ones with the steak and kidney puddings! They were in tins, and you just opened the tin up and that was it.'

There were also, Bill recalls, something called 'emergency packs,' which don't sound at all appetising. 'You could scrape this stuff and make it into a sort of porridge if you put some water with it. And you had biscuits, hard-packed biscuits for emergencies.

'You really didn't bother much about food I don't think; you mainly [needed] to get on with the job and get it done.'

On the other hand, I learned much later that Bill had told his son Ralph about how he and his mates had found - and consumed - cigars and champagne in a French chateau, so for one day at least it wasn't just dreary rations, and it could be argued that they finally did get around to celebrating their successful landing at Normandy. 

Tea, of course, has long been the staple of the British, whether in a theatre of war or at the kitchen table at home, and where there's some tea leaves, a container, water and a fire, tea will be made...

'We used to get an old biscuit tin, light a fire underneath it, put some water in it, a handful of tea leaves - what they called "army tea" y'know - and a tin of evaporated milk, Carnation.'

And having a brew whenever you could was essential, both for the stomach and for morale. 'You'd only get one good meal a day, you wouldn't get many more.'

Bill Captures a German

The advance into Hamburg, may 1945.
Image: QRH Museum

Private Broad and his fellow troops carried on north in their three-ton trucks, through Belgium. It was here that Bill once again forgot to tell me of some drama that he'd previously told his son Ralph: a truck carrying his team and equipment rolled after driving into a shell crater, injuring everyone on board. 

After being patched up overnight by the locals, 10-OBD had insult added to injury when they discovered next morning that their lorry, when they returned to it, had been stripped of all its goods . No doubt the locals felt they deserved some compensation.

And so they continued through Holland (where some of the detachment consumed rather too much potato schnapps on one occasion, allegedly just to keep warm on a bitterly cold night, though apparently some would later have no memory of this!) eventually crossing the border into Germany.  

As in France, the allies received a less-than-warm welcome; like the woman on the cliff at Arromanches, many of the German population must have had enough of war. But only in some areas; in others their arrival was celebrated.

For Bill though, it soon became time to take off his helmet, put down his rifle, and pick up... a clipboard.

'When I got to Hanover, the war ended... they didn't really know what to do with us because we'd been specially trained for that one job.'

However, salvation was at hand - in the need for uniforms. Officers, Bill says, had nowhere to buy their outfits, but of course one still had to look the part, what? So Bill suddenly found himself manager of his own haberdashery business. It was a stitch in time.

Civilians in Berlin watch the Allies arrive.
Image: Imperial War Museums

'So [the military brass] thought that us guys could set up shops for them... we put one in Hamburg, one in Hanover, and Berlin I think had one. When the shops were set up and the goods were ready to be sold, we had to find some ladies to serve these officers.'

The newly-created clothing enterprise advertised the vacancies, knowing they would draw a good response, but not because the German women particularly wanted to work for the British. 'If the German people didn't work, they didn't eat, so jobs were in great demand.'

Thirty women were employed, which is when Bill captured his one and only German. 'I ran the office side, and she was there, and I noticed [her], and I said, "I'm going to marry that girl," and they said, "Oh no you're not!" so they posted me two hundred miles away!'

On the other hand, Bill was promoted to staff sergeant, and his forced exile and posting in charge of a warehouse didn't stop him thinking about the young woman he'd met while recruiting help for the stores. He pursued what avenues were available to get her an official clearance. This meant she had to undertake completion of the Fragebogen.

Page 1 of the Fragebogen.
Image: GHDI

Entrance Exam

'That girl' was Christa. She had spent the war working as a Red Cross nurse, tending to injured soldiers, even playing the accordion for them on occasion to lift their spirits. 

'She wasn't a bad Nazi or anything like that, and I knew that' Bill says. But of course the British and Americans, now in command, didn't know it, which is where the Fragebogen came in. 

The Fragebogen was a bit like an exam paper, but one aimed at eliciting answers from Germans as to the roles they had played during the war: their backgrounds, allegiances, memberships of political parties, and so on, so that their status on returning to civilian life could be determined (or guilt, of course). It was a necessary filter.

Like so many other Germans, Christa therefore had to fill out the six pages - 131 questions - of the document, which probed her life in great detail. It was a controversial questionnaire; many Germans felt it targeted 'the little people' - the ordinary civilians - while many of the bigger fish escaped, and apparently there was some truth in that. 

It's difficult for those of us who never took part in the war to appreciate how surprising, how disarming it must have been for those who'd fought so fiercely over borders and territories, to discover that love knows no boundaries, while all around people were still simmering in resentment, suspicion, heartache, and horror, at what had happened over the previous six years.

But they do say that love conquers all, and it won this battle too; Christa passed the Fragebogen, and her status as a non-threatening and not-guilty German was rubber-stamped. She and Bill were free to marry (which they finally did, in Germany in 1948. Christa's wedding dress was made from parachute silk).

Tommy Goes Home

So the war was over, and Bill Broad finally did as the French woman at Gold Beach had implored: he went home. Now back in England, he was given the requisite 'demob' suit, but even though he was out of uniform he still faced some battles. 

An ex-soldier gets measured up for his 'demob suit.'
Image: Ministry of Information

'I came home about a year after that, and Christa knocked at the door of my house - my parents had been suffering all this stuff in the south-east of England, y'know, bombs falling - and my mother wasn't all that excited about it. My father was all right, he was fairly reasonable.'

But Christa was accepted. And Bill managed to secure a flat in the attic of a friend's house. That was the good news. The bad news was that after the war, jobs were scarce in the UK.

'All you really got out of the army was three months' pay I think it was, and then you were on your own again...

'There was no work in Folkestone, but there was a Marks and Spencers (department store), and the only job I could get was in the store there. I was a staff sergeant in the army, and all I could do was sweep the floor with a broom. Hard going, but you've got to do what you've got to do.'

Bill later went on to find more rewarding employment with a cable manufacturing company, putting his maths skills to use designing submarine cables. And still later, he and Christa emigrated to New Zealand to start a new life, which is how I came, many, many years later, to be chatting to him in a kitchen in Auckland about his wartime experiences.

Don't Meddle!

A Victoria Cross, valued on the
BBC's Antiques Roadshow programme

As lunch was almost ready, and our conversation was drawing to a close, Bill wanted to finish on two things that concerned him: one was the tendency for people to sell medals that their parents or grandparents had won, and the other was the rising tide of opinion against the New Zealand flag, and recent moves to change it.

'There are shows on the TV, antiques-type of shows, [people] come along and, "they were my grandad's" or whatever... terrible that they could even stoop [that] low. That's the lowest form of life as far as I'm concerned: people that sell other people's medals.'

For decades there has been debate about whether it's time for New Zealand's national flag to be changed, driven by a variety of emotions. Some claim the existing flag is confusingly similar to the Australian flag, while others want to see the inclusion of the UK's Union Flag dropped from the corner, partly due to a perceived decreased relevance of the UK to New Zealand, and partly because of its connotations of colonialism.

It was at this point that Bill's own emotions came through, the one and only time in our almost hour-long conversation.

'When I think of all those guys, those New Zealanders, that died under that flag,' he chokes, 'I don't think [then prime minister] Mr. Key's got the right to touch that flag at all really. That's the way I feel about it... I always think, "We shall remember them," y'know, and if you're going to remember them, don't bugger about with the flag.'

Remembering Staff Sergeant Bill Broad

Bill's part in the Normandy landings and the push north in the months after, was formally recognised by France in 2016, when he - along with the other surviving members of D-Day - was awarded the Légion d'honneur, France's highest award for military and civilian service.

Bill died in 2020, aged 97.

This blog, and the ANZAC Day podcast I made of the interview with Bill, are in his memory. 

My thanks to his children, Julia and Ralph, for helping make this possible. 

(You can listen to edited highlights of Bill's story on Spotify Podcasts here) 

One in 4.3 Million

A 'rejuvenated' broadcaster

 Mike Bodnar looks back on a year of podcasting, and reflects on the value of speaking out loud...

There's no shortage of opportunities to get yourself heard these days - social media, as we all know (sometimes to our despair), is rife with gossip, news, opinions, thoughts, anger and, sadly, hate.

AI generated

Trolls used to be fairy-tale beings living under Scandi bridges; today they are vile ranters who yell, swear, and promise fire and brimstone on those they disagree with - those who have dared to post something contrary to their way of thinking. They still live under bridges though: the protective cover that social media gives them in the form of noms-de-plume - behind which they remain safely anonymous. They like to think of themselves as heroes, standard-bearers for those others who share their skewed perspectives. They like to think they, above all others, are right. And they are - usually far right.

So it could be argued that the Internet - and social media in particular - is to be avoided if you want to be heard dispassionately, or at least taken seriously. Not entirely true, because this doesn't take into account the power - and increasing popularity of - podcasts.

Listen when you like

Over the past decade, podcasts have experienced remarkable growth, transforming from a niche format into a mainstream media powerhouse. Advances in technology and the ubiquity of smartphones have played a pivotal role in this evolution. People now have easy access to a vast library of podcasts on a huge range of topics, from true crime and comedy to science and self-improvement. Streaming platforms such as Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and Google Podcasts have made discovery and listening seamless, contributing significantly to the medium's growth.

AI generated

Unlike other forms of media, podcasts are ideal for multitasking - they can be consumed during commutes, workouts, or household chores. This convenience has made them a staple for millions. Moreover, podcasts have given creators an opportunity to connect intimately with their audiences. The conversational tone of podcasts often fosters a sense of community, which keeps listeners coming back for more.

This has given rise to a New Age of broadcasters, and the low barrier to entry means anyone can start a podcast - become a broadcaster (or perhaps a better term for most would be narrowcaster) - leading to a surge in diverse voices and perspectives. As a result, podcasting has truly become a dynamic and influential medium in today's media landscape. But it's not the first.

Back to the Future

The opportunity afforded to diverse voices and perspectives is nothing new, at least not here in Aotearoa/New Zealand. 

As early as 1981, a medium aimed at giving a platform to diverse voices on a wide range of

subjects began in Wellington, New Zealand's capital. It was called Access Radio, and operated on an AM frequency, reaching a small and clearly defined local population. Sure, it wasn't the Internet - that was still over the horizon anyway - but in the 1980s, radio, especially community radio, was still strong, still popular. The arrival of Access Radio however, heralded the emergence of a non-commercial station, one which was by, for, and about its own local community. It wasn't about edgy breakfast shows, or drivetime commute music, or even news and weather on the hour; it was about people.

Image: Deviantart

Leap into your DeLorean and race forward 44 years, and today there are a dozen such Access stations throughout the country, but some things have changed. The stations still broadcast, but now on FM frequencies. More than that though, each station has its own Internet presence, its own website, through which absolutely anyone can listen regardless of distance from the station. So even if you live in Manchester, England, or Little Rock, Arkansas, you can easily listen to any Access Radio programme from New Zealand.

And it doesn't have to be live, because all Access programmes can be streamed as podcasts, joining an estimated 4.3 million podcasts available worldwide, and can be found on accessmedia.co.nz, a site that acts as a collective for the Access network.

As someone who worked in radio many years ago (decades, let's be frank, Ed.) it suddenly dawned on me that there was nothing stopping me from getting back behind the microphone. People had always said I had a great face for radio - here was the opportunity to do it again.

Walking the Talk

So a year ago, I joined Wellington Access Radio and began making my own programme. Better late then never.

Many Access programmes are ethnic, culture-driven productions, or religion-specific, maybe

niche music-oriented (bluegrass fans rejoice!), while some are topic-centric (climate change,  current affairs, local politics, etc). The one thing they have in common is that they are all 'by, for, and about' their communities - a requirement for the Access stations to qualify for funding support from the government agency New Zealand on Air. The viability of the stations is also bolstered through small broadcasting and membership fees (of which, more later), grants and donations, and sponsorship. 

So, if, for example, you visit the Wellington Access 'Shows & Podcasts' page online, you'll find over a hundred things to listen to. Including (promo time here) my own show, 'Mike On...'

At the age of mumbledy-something - let's just say 'a certain age' - I decided to make a fortnightly programme for a more mature audience, but in both senses of the word. Because of course, some people can be old beyond their years, so in my intro to the programme I emphasise that even though it's for listeners 'of a certain age,' it doesn't matter whether you're 16 or 96.

I decided on a chat-show format, and apart from two episodes, each programme has featured a guest who specialises in a certain field, or has a personal story to relate, or has some new and interesting research to share. I have deliberately avoided each episode being about something older age-related though; because while we might be in our (insert age group here)  it doesn't mean we want to listen only to programmes about older folk. So, in the past 12 months I have had guests talking about a wide range of topics, from the value of volunteering, to how the native tuatara (a reptile) survived the asteroid impact, through classic motor vehicle collecting, why New Zealanders avoid the news more than any other nation, to understanding the slang, acronyms and abbreviations of Gen. Z today. For that programme my guests were two 16-year-old high school students.

Image: Flickr

When my 24th episode hits the airwaves on Thursday 24 April (it's an ANZAC Day special featuring an interview with a D-Day veteran), 'Mike On...' will be celebrating its first full year on air. Happy birthday to me. And at my age, one candle is about all I can blow out anyway!

Measuring success

I could, of course, have done all this from my own home, like so many other podcasters, but Wellington Access Radio - along with all the other stations in the network - offers a focal point, a place where I can go and use professional equipment in a proper studio to record (or broadcast live if required) my programmes. I can mingle with other programme makers, and chat to (and get technical and marketing help from) the station staff.

It's not free, but it doesn't cost much, and there's a scale of fees appropriate to your own situation. I can tell you now that it costs me about NZ$52 per month. I could seek sponsorship if I wanted, but I'm trying to avoid a commercial tie-in situation. 

So how has it been going?

Measuring the audience. Image: Wikimedia

Let's put it this way: making a programme/podcast like this is the broadcast equivalent of self-publishing; I have created something, and I'm paying to get it 'out there,' just like an author might. 

Also like a self-published author, it's largely up to me to market my product. An author, for example publishing through Amazon's KDP platform, can spend as little or as much as they like on promoting their book.

With me, it's the same, but as with my two self-published books (to date), I can't afford to pay for promotion. What I do do, is share my programmes via Spotify Podcasts, iHeart radio Podcasts, and Apple Podcasts, in the hope of reaching as wide an audience as possible. I promote new programmes on social media, but I don't have many followers.

A benefit of using Spotify Podcasts is that I can see immediate and up-to-date analytics on my 'dashboard' showing exactly how many people have streamed my programmes. It's not many, I confess.

Access Radio does not get funding to cover annual or twice-yearly listener surveys such as commercial stations might be able to afford (and with which they can attract advertisers), so I have little way of knowing who, or how many people, listen. I need to be self-reliant in that respect; I need to be my own 'fan base.' Because to date I have directly received only one piece of unsought feedback. Just one. So let's talk some more on the subject of self-reliance.

The Role of Ego

There has been many a time in the past year when I've thought, why bother? What's the point of putting all this effort - and $52 a month - into making programmes that hardly anyone listens to?

AI generated

The answer is pride. I am - I have to be - proud of my product. I have to be independent of external acknowledgement and tell myself, it's okay, this is good. I learned about production values when I worked full-time in broadcasting, so I know what makes a good programme, and I apply that knowledge when making mine.

But because nobody else admires the programmes - at least not overtly - I have to do that myself. I have to constantly remind myself that these programmes could go on mainstream radio and not be out of place. (And along with the lack of feedback, I have, importantly, received no criticism either. I know... it could be argued that that just means nobody's listening!). But as I said at the start of this blog, ranters and trolls are always waiting in the wings to shoot you down. The fact that they haven't is at least a positive.

It's obvious from now having made over 20 programmes that the ones that attract the most listeners are those in which the person I've interviewed also promotes the programme to their own networks. For example, last September I broadcast an episode on assisted dying, based on an interview with a man who had been given less than six months to live and who had chosen to legally end his life.

A New Zealand assisted dying support organisation promoted the programme to their network, and hey presto: listeners! Not many, just 90 on Spotify, (although my blog on this blogsite on the same subject was read by over 650 people), and there's an unknown number who might have listened on Access Radio either live or as a podcast.

Ego is a double-edged sword; in the wrong hands, applied at an inappropriate time, it can earn you a reputation for being a big-head. But privately, when I just tell myself that my programmes are good quality, it does the job.

One in 4.3 million

As I mentioned, it's estimated that there are 4.3 million podcasts available globally, and that number will only rise. I have a lot of competition, and I'm not the only one making a chat show. There are even plenty of other podcasts called 'Mike On', dammit. But there are over 500 million podcast listeners, which is a healthy ratio, so I just need to attract some of them.

But now that I'm approaching my programme's first anniversary I can look back on 24 programmes well-made to a high standard. I can be satisfied that I've done it, I've proved to myself that it could be done, and I will carry on.

I know I'm just one programme/podcast in 4.3 million, but 'Mike On...' is damn good.

Have a listen sometime, and let me know what you think.