Experiencing an indoor gun range

Last weekend, I experienced another first. My first time at an indoor gun range. 

 

Jack’s dad was in town, had never been to one either, and expressed a curiosity to go. So we went. 

 

I’ve had my fair share of experience with guns, but mostly long guns. I shot my first deer with a muzzleloader, my first turkey with a 12-gauge. And as a smalltown/rural kid growing up, of course I’ve had many experiences with a .22 – anywhere from shooting clay pigeons to a sick raccoon out of a tree. 

 

But I don’t think I’ve ever shot a handgun before. 

 

Growing up, guns were almost normalized. My dad grew up on a farm, my entire family hunted, the gun safe in the basement was known not to be touched unless a grownup was around and my sister and I took the hunter education/firearm safety class when we were about 12 with everyone else. Guns were not regarded so much as a dangerous weapon, but rather something that when dealt with wisely and safely, could be used for protection and even as a hobby. 

 

When I brought this class up during conversation on the way to the range, those with me were surprised. Gun training? As a kid? I then remembered I was surrounded by people who grew up in a city. They had shot guns before and learned how to do so safely, but a fairly universal gun training course growing up wasn’t part of their childhood. 

 

Some things will still surprise me about the differences between the city and country folk and how each grow up in their own cultures. 

 

I bring this up because I thought I had a certain mindset about guns: most everyone I came across knew how to use them safely and for fair enough reasons. It was a hobby, a protection, something I was okay with. 

 

Handguns are a little different for me, I learned. At the first shot fired, I jumped. Even with ear protection on, it was still much louder than I had anticipated. A couple rounds were fired into the target sheet however many yards away, and then the weapon was passed on to the next person. Eventually it was my turn. 

 

After learning proper hand placement, I raised the handgun to the target. Feet set shoulder length apart, knees slightly bent, arms out and in front of me. Breathe.

 

The recoil was large, more force than I had expected, and I felt it as the shell flew up and pinged off my head. 

 

Even though I knew what to expect, I felt myself almost flinching for the next shot before I had to remind myself that I was the one pulling the trigger. 

 

I ended my round and willingly stepped away, letting the others enjoy themselves while I watched. I couldn’t quite figure out what was unsettling me. But then I watched as security guards came into the stalls on the other side and shot rounds into targets with human outlines–complete with a bright red spot for where the heart would be. And I remembered every single movie, every television show, every experience in the city watching those on the street threaten each other and hurt each other with guns. Handguns. 

 

I realized in my mind, the association with handguns held more weight, more concerns for safety and wellbeing. 

 

Standing in the indoor gun range, watching people practice, I knew of course I was safe. These people weren’t bad people, they were practicing for their own safety and for others’. It was just a realization of an association I didn’t know I had. 

 

My Determination: “You can’t help how you feel. Feelings are like breathing, they come in and go out.” ― Stephen King, Billy Summers