(all photos can be enlarged by clicking on them)
By the time I got home from work yesterday, I was so excited to go to the range. I had been looking forward to my first real .45 caliber, 1911 experience all day. We had a box of 100 rounds and I couldn't wait. "Are you ready? Are we going?" I asked Mike after I scarfed down some fried chicken and potato salad. It was now 5:30 PM, I had gotten home at about 5:15.
"Okay, okay," Mike said. "But what if they don't have a 1911 to rent at the range?"
I blinked at him. "Not have a...? Impossible. I have all this ammo. Let's go."
So we went and found this, just waiting...
...but the man behind the counter was reluctant to rent it to us. I was just starting to begin negotiations when Mike, (not my Mike, but my buddy on staff) walked out of the range. The man behind the counter said to him, "Do we rent out this Colt? It's pretty expensive..."
Behind his back I made the "Oh, please, please, pretty please..." face at Mike (the range guy). I even did the full-on batting the eyelashes thing. He grinned at me. "Sure," he said.
So, after promising to be very gentle with the Colt, Mike (the husband) and I went back to the range and set up. I opened the box of ammo. "Whoa! These are so big!" I started laughing. "And holy crap - I think I'm kind of nervous."
"Why are you nervous? It's only recoil," Mike reminded me. Right, okay. Only recoil.
I put up a target and loaded the pistol. I got into my stance, consciously controlled my breathing, and thought, "Okay. Strong grip. Sights lined up. Front sight focus." I was having a little internal monologue to calm myself. "Shhhh," I told myself. "Breathe. Slow down." I squeezed the trigger...
...and was rocked back on my heels! The recoil from a .45 is a lot different than say a 9mm or even a .38 revolver. Instead of the sharp smack that I usually feel, the .45 felt as if a big hand gave me a push. It feels like a "whomp!" instead of a "bang!" - I don't know of any other way to explain it.
The pistol felt good in my hand, the trigger was clean and no-nonsense, and the bullets went (mostly) where I told them to go. There were no malfunctions - every round chambered and fired perfectly. "Whoo-hoo!" I exclaimed between shots. "I love. this. gun!" I heard some guy down the line laughing at my enthusiasm. I reloaded and tried shooting one-handed.
A young man in the lane next to me was also shooting a .45 caliber 1911. Mike said I shamed him because his target wasn't as good as mine. It's enough to make a girl feel a bit smug.
Buddha said that desire is the root of all suffering and oh, I know the truth of that now. I have such a deep longing in my heart for a 1911, such a need for that .45, that it pains me. I want.
I suppose if it didn't shoot so well, I wouldn't crave it so much. But John Moses Browning (pbuh) shows me no mercy - a big ragged hole in the center of a target is so satisfying and so very addictive. I know I'll be back for more.