Home, Home on the Range�
Yesterday I had the opportunity, and admittedly the pleasure of accompanying L, to the Small Arms Firing Range. There were 4 women, and approximately � a dozen men utilizing the firing lanes. L & I, fired 50 � 9 mm rounds, using a Sig Sauer. I took 16 shots; 3 of which were at point blank range and would�ve rendered my would be victim dead on the spot. The last round I fired, resulted in a bulls eye.
Who would have believed that?! I had not held, nor fired a weapon in 12 years.
I arrived at the range filled with a great deal of self doubt, apprehension and a bevy of negative, past mental images replaying, like a scratched vinyl record, inside my head. I took my time and fired each shot. I am quick to admit to you, that I didn�t get comfortable, and only found �my stance� when I had 5 rounds remaining. L issued commands as to where he wanted me to fire, much to my surprise, I was able to fire 2 shots which created �eyes� on my silhouette. I was utterly amazed and wide-eyed, at what I was able to do when taking my time, controlling my breathing and coaching myself step by step, inside my head, as I had been taught years earlier. It was like riding a bicycle, I had not forgotten afterall.
After firing all the rounds I desired to expend, L proudly declared that I was �dangerous� and that HE knew I still had IT.
What L is referring to, was my nightmarishly haunting failings, on the firing range at Fort George G. Meade. While participating in the SROTC Program, and later in the Army I was unable to qualify with an M-16, M-1 and later, still unable to qualify with a .44 and a Glock. Back in the late 80s I was 89lbs. and mortally afraid of weapons. Each attempt to qualify with an automatic weapon resulted in me being knocked off my feet, straight on my back, on the concrete like surface commonly referred to as �the ground�. Recoil was something serious. I had suffered numerous head, shoulder, neck and low back injuries, in my fruitless attempts to �qualify�. Pains the likes of which I�ve never experienced � then, nor since � in attempts to �qualify� as a marksman.
Fast forward 12 years later, and you find me confident, patient and determined, in Lane #9 of the small arms range, in Upper Marlboro, Maryland, of all places, taking deliberate, studied aim at my targets and making the mark.
No one was there to witness my achievement, except L, and the other civilians who watched as I meticulously controlled and adapted my breathing pattern, in order to strike my target. I was able to qualify effortlessly. L could not have been me more proud of me.
Yesterday I was vindicated.
As a result of our activity on the range, I was voraciously hungry and hyped up. I ate the majority of my dinner � I treated L & I to Ribs and Buffalo wings at Famous Dave�s BBQ, in Annapolis.
We chatted into the evening, then later retired at home in front of the t.v. At 0015hrs I realized I needed to make myself go to bed, I had to report to work in the a.m. I�d also made a commitment to do PT in the morning, as a part of my new training. Unable to sleep, I spent the entire 6 hrs. staring at the ceiling and thinking of my time on the range.
I had redeemed myself, f-i-n-a-l-l-y.