My brother and friend had been wanting to take me to the gun range for months now after having done it a few times themselves. With nothing to do today and feeling adventurous I decided why not, I'll be an American™ for a few hours. The men running the range were nice enough fellows, although I got to admit the armed officer hanging around the side of the building looked sheisty as hell, and I didn't approve of the "terrorist" target at all, but I'm not about to make a scene in front of a bunch of armed dudes.
I register, watch the safety video, sign up, give them my ID, and we buy the gear- guns, ammo, targets, eye and ear protection. We spent time working on the ear plugs; I was warned that improperly plugging your ears could result in painful tinnitus. Even then that doesn't prepare you for the first time you hear a gun being fired at close range. The moment you open the safety door and someone fires, it's simultaneously like having a balloon popped in your face and having your body shoved in the stereo of an EDM concert. You feel it reverberating through your body as much as you hear it. It's jarring and induced a lizard-brain desire to run, but I merely cinched up before calming down and making my way to my lane.
The guns of choice were a .45 and .9 pistol, a FN SCAR 17 rifle, and a classic six-chamber revolver (yes, we all said "It's High Noon;" fight us.) I was given an overview on the safeties, chambers, and proper handling and posture for each, and immediately understood I would never be able to load these in time during a live fight. Loading magazines sucks. It's like a PEZ dispenser with an attitude.
Shooting was equally intense. The .45's recoil fought back and I was unable to keep the gun steady; got one shot on the edge of the target. The .9 was comparatively a breeze and something I could handle one-handed. The revolver's recoil wasn't bad, but the trigger is five miles long and the anticipation throws you off. Better to just forego squeezing after a point.
The SCAR was the highlight. My brother fired it first while me and my friends were talking. We thought we had become desensitized to the gunfire around us and were hosting conversation. My brother pulled the trigger once and we scattered into the corner. Even from a meter and a half away you can feel the air rushing from the gun as it fires. That thing rocks your bones. I worked up the nerve to fire it a couple of times, and would have done more if the damn rifle wasn't so heavy. That's another thing they don't tell you in the movies: guns are really heavy! Even the pistols feel like sad lumps of lead.
I say all of this to say this: I have done what gun fans have asked of their opponents. I learned proper safety and handling. I have come to better understand the mechanical and etymological differences between different guns. I learned how to properly use the sights. I shot them with an average degree of accuracy.
The experience only cemented my stance to never own one.
I never felt comfortable firing, and I think part of that is because I didn't want to allow myself to become so. The power somehow manages to only become more indescribable and kind of horrible when you actually use one, because then you start contextualizing how it must feel to actually be hit by a bullet rocketing from something that is that heavy, that loud, that explosive. I couldn't imagine. I don't really want to, and it weirds me out to think that there are individuals out there obsessed with owning these things.
So yeah, a bit of abyss staring. I don't begrudge going to the range. It was fun in a daredevil way, particularly with how chickenshit me and my friend were, and I am not ruling out going to there again. But gun ownership? Not for this American. Again, I can barely load magazines. x.x
I register, watch the safety video, sign up, give them my ID, and we buy the gear- guns, ammo, targets, eye and ear protection. We spent time working on the ear plugs; I was warned that improperly plugging your ears could result in painful tinnitus. Even then that doesn't prepare you for the first time you hear a gun being fired at close range. The moment you open the safety door and someone fires, it's simultaneously like having a balloon popped in your face and having your body shoved in the stereo of an EDM concert. You feel it reverberating through your body as much as you hear it. It's jarring and induced a lizard-brain desire to run, but I merely cinched up before calming down and making my way to my lane.
The guns of choice were a .45 and .9 pistol, a FN SCAR 17 rifle, and a classic six-chamber revolver (yes, we all said "It's High Noon;" fight us.) I was given an overview on the safeties, chambers, and proper handling and posture for each, and immediately understood I would never be able to load these in time during a live fight. Loading magazines sucks. It's like a PEZ dispenser with an attitude.
Shooting was equally intense. The .45's recoil fought back and I was unable to keep the gun steady; got one shot on the edge of the target. The .9 was comparatively a breeze and something I could handle one-handed. The revolver's recoil wasn't bad, but the trigger is five miles long and the anticipation throws you off. Better to just forego squeezing after a point.
The SCAR was the highlight. My brother fired it first while me and my friends were talking. We thought we had become desensitized to the gunfire around us and were hosting conversation. My brother pulled the trigger once and we scattered into the corner. Even from a meter and a half away you can feel the air rushing from the gun as it fires. That thing rocks your bones. I worked up the nerve to fire it a couple of times, and would have done more if the damn rifle wasn't so heavy. That's another thing they don't tell you in the movies: guns are really heavy! Even the pistols feel like sad lumps of lead.
I say all of this to say this: I have done what gun fans have asked of their opponents. I learned proper safety and handling. I have come to better understand the mechanical and etymological differences between different guns. I learned how to properly use the sights. I shot them with an average degree of accuracy.
The experience only cemented my stance to never own one.
I never felt comfortable firing, and I think part of that is because I didn't want to allow myself to become so. The power somehow manages to only become more indescribable and kind of horrible when you actually use one, because then you start contextualizing how it must feel to actually be hit by a bullet rocketing from something that is that heavy, that loud, that explosive. I couldn't imagine. I don't really want to, and it weirds me out to think that there are individuals out there obsessed with owning these things.
So yeah, a bit of abyss staring. I don't begrudge going to the range. It was fun in a daredevil way, particularly with how chickenshit me and my friend were, and I am not ruling out going to there again. But gun ownership? Not for this American. Again, I can barely load magazines. x.x
