This Thanksgiving, we headed south to Virginia, where every year I pick up some new country skills, and this year I learned how to shoot a pistol.
My instructor started me on a .22, a hand gun with a long barrel that shoots small bullets. I started with my elbows on the counter, taking my time to line up the front and back markers on the pistol and position my hands just right. It was like being at a carnival, only instead of shooting water at a dirty old clown mouth I was shooting real bullets at a bust-shaped target. I hit a number of my first shots squarely around the bullseye.
Next up was the .45, and I was warned that there would be recoil. So not only did I have a bit of fear on my back, but the trigger was also harder to squeeze. It was set to 6 lbs. After firing a few shots slowly, I felt I didn’t want to finish the round. I was afraid.
Looking down the line of shooters earlier, I noticed a number of women present, and even a young teenage girl who was shooting with her father. She wore tight skinny jeans and a form fitting black button down shirt and I could tell she had done this a lot. She knew how to load the gun, and stood with her feet firmly planted and her arms fully extended, firing the .45 repeatedly with confidence.
I wanted to be good at shooting the glock, but I knew it would take time. Practice, practice. I could shoot .22′s all day, but if I want to be fierce I’ve got to hunker down and get over my fear of hurting myself trying to shoot the big gun.
