Nine months and one week shy of my fiftieth. Sigh...
I went out to a range in a city distant from my home. Impulsively, I rented a Ruger Mark III and bought a box of Minimag.
Everyone else in the range was blasting away with .44 mag, .357 mag, .45, stuff that makes a very loud noise and leaves very big holes. Not so long ago, that was what I wanted too: Deagles, Smith Model 19s, you name it. The louder and more obnoxious the better. I was not too different from these folks, as a callow youth of 45 summers.
But lately, I've been taking a 10/22 ultimate to my home range every week to try to learn how to put as many shots as possible into the 8-ring of a
sporterifle target at 50 feet. It's soothing. At this point in my life, I
need soothing.
But back to tonight. The 25-year-old whippersnappers were making so dang much racket that I couldn't concentrate. Besides that, I couldn't see the front sight with mah dang graded bicycle-focals.
The only consolation is that someday I might wind up as an 85-year-old range curmudgeon. Hopefully not sooner than one would think.
- NF