Shot placement

Range day with Mike and THOTpd!

Practiced mostly with my carry gun, the Bersa Thunder .380. This was 3 mags at about 25 ft:


I like to keep my hand in.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

best target for a woman

Well, okay... it could always be better* but this is my target from last Thursday. I was shooting one of those much-maligned snubbies - a Smith & Wesson 642 airweight .38 revolver with a monsterously heavy (no, really) DAO trigger at a distance of about 25 feet.

Mom, who chose to spend St. Patrick's Day afternoon at the range, had read all of last week's snubby blog kerfuffle and wanted to try the little pistol that had caused so much contention and debate.

She hated it.**

My feelings for the 642 seem to have mellowed to a mild loathing. I can shoot it, but I sure as hell am not going to like it.

*I'm fairly pleased with it since I haven't been shooting since...um...I really can't remember. Let's just say I haven't been shooting in months.

** she happily went back to shooting her .22 (quite well, I might add) and even tried out my Bersa .380, which she said she liked. Progress!

Mother daughter day

Mom's been delighted with her first ever gun purchase, but needed to learn how it worked. So a few weeks ago, we went to the range to try it out.

I'm familiar with how the Beretta 70 functions because it's very similar to my Bersa (the blow back design and one button mag release make things simple), so I felt fairly confident showing Mom how to load and shoot. The pistol came with only one 8 round magazine, so we were going to get a lot of practice.

I took the first few shots with it, and was really impressed. I like a bit of recoil so shooting .22LR is disappointing for me. I usually plink for a while and end up getting bored but the Beretta's size offered a sturdy little push and felt fairly substantial in my hand. The trigger was a dream - smooth and crisp, just what I like. And accurate, wow! I could have shot it all day.

Instead, I happily handed it over to the reason I was there. (at the range and, well..on the planet)


Mom did great! She handled the pistol like a pro - loading, unloading and racking the slide - and her shooting was good too. She wasn't getting bullseyes every time but she kept her shots on the target which, considering it was a new-to-her pistol, she had a broken shoulder last year, and she hadn't shot in a very long time, is a huge accomplishment. I'm quite proud of her.

You can see how well she's doing on this target we shared. That's her shots there on the left and my group on the right. I was shooting .380.

She took the target home to add to the growing collection on her fridge.

It was a good day.

tool users

Marko and Tam's recent discussion on the essential usefulness of having a good blade on your person proved to be quite timely...

Seems scientists found that we hominids have been using the sharp & stabbies much longer than previously believed - like almost one million years longer. Naturally, this early tool use was all about obtaining delicious and nutrient-packed animal flesh, which is said to have been an important factor in the development of the modern human brain. (Hooray!)

To celebrate this wonderful, yet not-so-surprising discovery, perhaps we should all do something primal and carnivorous - like roast up some marrow bones and buy ourselves a new pocketknife.

This one holds a prominent spot on my wishlist:

range report!

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of meeting up with fellow #gunblogger_conspirator THOTpd (Ugh, I look so sweaty. It was a million and five degrees on the range) for lunch and some shooting. I hadn't been to the range in...well...months and months but when I walked through the door, I got a big huggy hello from the guy who was working, along with a bit of good natured ribbing.

"What's up, Breda? You haven't been here in forever. Are you shooting somewhere else, don't you like us anymore?"

I mentioned how money had been a little tight lately. "Yay, economy," I said.

That got a sage nod in response - it seems everyone has been feeling it lately. Still, I was excited. All range trips are fun, but this one really felt like a treat somehow - eating cheeseburgers with a new friend and my first time shooting since getting hurt in the car accident.

After a frustrating period of fiddling around with the Ruger Mk II (failure to feed properly) I decided to put it away and shoot my Bersa. I didn't do too poorly, considering my recent lack of practice.

But, of course, there's always one that gets away...

(@ about 25 feet)

THOT brought his own Bersa, which he didn't shoot. (".380 is like gold!") But the two pistols sure look cute together, like kissing cousins. I just wonder why the trigger guards are different shapes.

I shot THOT's Springfield Champion that he brought along because he knows I'm a M1911 fan. (thank you!) It's a wonderful pistol.


I had to quit shooting before I really wanted to because my neck had started to hurt, but I had a great time anyway. I had missed shooting more than I realized.

Get off my lawn.

Well, I finally did it. I shot a Garand. Not well, but I did shoot it.

Stingray was spotting for me as I tried to hit the reduced silhouette 250 yards up the hill. I was getting closer with each shot but, wow - that rifle is heavy. I finished one clip (ping!) and just couldn't do anymore. It's a good thing we weren't depending on petite women with wimpy little noodle arms to win World War II or else we'd all be goosestepping and roasting schintzel over the crematoriums.

zen of the rifle

Prior to Blogorado, (and aside from plinking with a 10/22 at an indoor 50 ft. range) I had shot rifles twice - once at Appleseed and once at my friend Heath's farm. I don't really know anything about zeroing, windage, clicks, or elevation...

I just know I love to shoot. Or rather, I love everything that leads up to pulling the trigger.

(the view through the scope. The target is in the upper left quadrant.)

That barrel was so small and so very far away, even through the scope. I was told it lasered in at 970 yards - but all I knew was that it was somewhere out there on the horizon and I wanted to hit it with a bullet. Somehow.

I tried to get my breathing under control as I searched for my target through the scope. I watched my own heartbeat make the crosshairs dance. I tried to touch the rifle without really touching it. I willed myself into stillness.

(me at Blogorado, shooting the M24, 970 yards)

I exhaled. Readjusted. Ignored the wind that had been plaguing my shooting all day. Tried to find that moment when you know you should squeeze the trigger.

And missed.

I remember watching my first shot send up a big plume of dust somewhere low and to the right of the barrel.

I sighed and began my meditation again. Just me, the rifle, the wind, and a steady slow movement of one fingertip. I sent the last 4 shots through the barrel. Direct hits.

OldNFO told me later that I took too long making my shots and in retrospect, I suppose it's true...I could have stayed out there all day, savoring the process. There is great peace to be found on the high plains, the warmth of the setting sun on your face, waiting for that moment of hush behind a rifle.

Had a ball (part 2)

On the morning following my little, um...testicular adventure, some special targets were set up on the pistol range.

Labrat came over and informed me that LawDog wanted me to have the first go at the "ladies' targets."

"What makes them ladies' targets? Are they pink or something?"

Labrat smiled. "He also says you have to use Stingray's hand cannon."

"Okay..." After having eaten balls the night before, I'd pretty much resigned myself to trying new things without questioning. That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, etc. (Or will at least serve as interesting blogfodder.)

Anyway, we walked down to the range and found out just what ladies' targets were...

Oh.

Heh.

LawDog told me that they all had decided to let me take the first shot, to make up for my culinary surprise the night before. It was something of an apology, at least.

I was handed the already loaded Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum, spied my target through the scope and gently squeezed the trigger.

Wow, what recoil! It's a gorgeous pistol and a lot of fun to shoot but had a bang that rattled right through my bones. I was quite lucky to have had those handsome assistants ensuring that I didn't end up on my butt.

I made the shot, of course. With that pistol and scope, how could I not? The only thing I had trouble with was choosing between left or right...


So I split the difference.

(& shot him in the toodles.)

Hit.

I can't wait to go back to work. Someone is bound to ask, "So, Breda. What exactly did you do on your vacation?"

I fell in love with a sniper rifle.



FarmDad said it got boring, watching me ring that gong.

(& after I watched that video for the first time, I realized that there was all this conversation going on behind me. I was so in the zone, I didn't hear any of it.)

back in the saddle

Well, it seems that shooting really is just like riding a bike after all.

Smith & Wesson 642, at about 25 feet.

My first target was for practice - I had some flyers and a sloppy group, but at least they all stayed in the 9-ring.

But this second target, with all my shots neatly in the red, was the one I had to get a photo of..."before it gets ruined," said my friend, Tourist*.

And sure enough, 10 rounds later a round went wide, landing at the edge of the 8 ring. There's always one, isn't there?

Keeps you humble.


*Tourist joins us in the live Gun Nuts chat every week and has been shooting with me before I could even get my shots on paper.

quite possibly the best range day EVER

Look at how I spent my Sunday afternoon...

All this shooty goodness was for a very special occasion. My friend and #1 fanboy* Mad Saint Jack (nom de blog, of course) was in town with his family and we thought a range trip was definitely in order. Mike and I met Jack and his (absolutely charming) father at our range and brought them in as our guests. They presented me with a little gift of .380 auto snapcaps for my Bersa (which I promise I will use for that dryfiring practice I've been neglecting) and a smörgåsbord of firearms for me to try.

I actually had to make a list of all the things I shot yesterday, so I wouldn't forget.

- Smith & Wesson 625, a .45 revolver
- Springfield Armory .45 caliber 1911
- Glock 17L
- Glock 26
- Walther P22
- Smith & Wesson Chief Special .45
- Ruger 10/22 with a red dot scope
- Winchester 69 bolt action .22 caliber rifle
- Bersa Thunder .380 (mine)
- Ruger SP101 (Mike's)

There were other firearms we brought to the range but just didn't have time to shoot. Besides, I had found and surpassed gunny nirvana somewhere in the middle of all that and was reaching the critical "OMG, I'm so blissed out I need a nap" stage. Ranges are filled with happy, relaxed people of every race, gender and creed- recoil therapy really is good for what ails you.

Jack and his father both took turns with my .380, saying they wanted to shoot "the famous Bersa" and since Jack loves those plastic fantastic semiautos I told him that sure, I'd shoot his guns. I'm not a Glockist, you know. I really do believe in equal rights for all pistols despite the fact I spent quite a bit of time discussing the superior beauty and function of the 1911 with Jack's father, who owns the Springfield Armory you can see in the first photo. So here's proof - I will shoot a Glock. Not well, not with that JMB joy, but yes, I'll shoot it.


My love for .45 was reafffirmed with this beautiful Smith & Wesson revolver. I shot it double action because I couldn't pull hammer back with my thumb without completely ruining my grip - it was big - but it was really fun to shoot.


I shot both rifles that Jack brought, and enjoyed a little bolt action.


Following our time at the range, we went out for a late lunch. There was bacon and good conversation - a perfect afternoon - and I really can't thank my new friends enough.

____________________________

*I kid you not, he truly deserves that title - he was quoting my blog posts to me.

p.s. at one point, there were 4 of my blogreaders at the range yesterday. 4! Makes a girl feel kinda special.Thanks guys!

deRANGEd

I wish I had a more substantial range report to share, because boy, did I ever have plans for all kinds of shooty goodness this week. The stars must have been misaligned and the Gods of Gun must have been displeased with my offerings of dreadlocks (man, those hippie hobos sure squeal when you come at them with a pair of scissors) because things didn't quite go as I had hoped.

I had wanted to take my friend Monica and her roommate Annie to the range Thursday evening. We started plans for our shooting excursion in the midst of a series of commiserating Inauguration Day facebook messages.

It went something like this:

Annie: "I'm a little scared."

Monica: "Me too."

Me: "It's going to be a long 4 years."

Monica: "Yeah. Hey, can we go shooting again sometime? I suddenly feel the need to practice."

Me: "Sure! Anytime!"

Annie: "Can I go too?"

Heh.

But when I got to the range I found only Monica waiting for me, Annie had something unavoidable come up and couldn't join us. Totally fine with me, I said. That means there's going to be a next time.

I really enjoy taking Monica to the range - she doesn't just show up to shoot, she shows up to learn. She asks a lot of questions, wants to be shown how to do everything herself, and will shoot anything you give her. I had a smorgasbord of firearms for her to try (or, as the guy next to us said, "quite an arsenal")...we started small with .22s, shot a few rounds from my Bersa .380, and worked our way up to an H&K 9mm and a S&W .38. Monica loved the Ruger MkII, and asked if she could practice a bit more with that.

She even shot it one-handed, something I love to have new shooters do, especially women. It opens up a world of brand new possibilities and gives them something to boast about to their friends. (I shot a gun! One handed!) I think it's might be one of the things that makes them want to come back, that sense of accomplishment, that feeling of "Wow! I can DO that!" It's only recoil, after all.


I returned to the range Sunday afternoon with Mike, planning on trying a little contemplative slow fire with the Ruger Mk II. I was excited about trying something new. I ran my target out to 50 feet, loaded up my magazines and began. Breathe, front sight, front sight, inhale, exhale, hold, front sight, squeeze...and then someone two lanes over started firing a rifle - BOOM! - and a girl started cussing out her boyfriend and...ugh. Not good for the shooty zen.

Anyway, here's the best of my 5 targets. The red dot is 3 inches across.


I think the one in the middle was pure luck.

happiness is...

An airweight snubnose double-action only .38 caliber revolver was the first gun I ever touched, the first trigger I ever pulled. I practiced with that Smith & Wesson model 642 until I went from not hitting the target at all to being somewhat proficient with it. I shot it, struggling to get better, until my hand was numb from recoil. The epiphany eventually came and I even used it to qualify for my CCW.

But since getting my Bersa Thunder .380 and discovering .45 ACP 1911s, I haven't been shooting the snubby. I set it aside because I felt that it was kind of boring compared to the wonders of semi-auto pistols.

Sometimes, though, when I'm having a not so good day, it helps to put a bit of lead downrange. Recoil always does wonders for my mood and I know the S&W 642 offers that in spades. So I holstered my little revolver, grabbed a box of .38 special, and ended up rediscovering my love of wheelguns...

I made 14 of my 15 shots onto a paper plate - at 25 feet - one handed.

Not a bad day after all.

like daughter, like mother

For a while now, I've been easing my mom into the gun culture. She had shot a gun long ago so it wasn't as if she was afraid of guns, but I think she was slightly hesitant about the idea of guns having a part in my life. But after a few trips to the range, plenty of discussions about shooting and the Second Amendment, an introduction to the gunblogs and her taking part in a basic shooting class at the range my mom has accepted my new found life and has even begun considering a gun for herself.

We took her to Gander Mountain this past weekend to windowshop a bit. It, um...did not go so well. (Read what happened over at Mike-istan. What Mike neglects to mention is that he was so peeved at the twerp behind the counter that he got all red in the face, which surprised me quite a bit. I felt nervous because I was sure that at any moment he was going to unload the verbal arsenal on the poor guy, but as usual Mike was the model of restraint.) But we walked out with some ammunition and plans for a range date..

The next day we walked into a crowded range with a bunch of guns and ammo with the intention of shooting two very special pistols that a coworker had loaned my mom. He had originally promised her the use of his smallest pistol, a .25 caliber Baby Browning...


...but he also included an extra pistol for us to try...


...a .32 ACP Colt 1903 Pocket Hammerless. It was such a amazing surprise when I unzipped the case and took my first peek. "Ooooh. Oh, wow," I said.

"What is it?" my mom asked.

"It's an antique - and it's gorgeous. Wow. Are you sure we're allowed to shoot it?"

"That's what he said. He gave it to us to shoot."

Well, okay, I thought. Who am I to say no? Besides, I've never been one to put form over function. A gun is a tool and I would use it. Just very, very carefully.

I shouldn't have worried, though. The 1903 shot like a dream. We figure it's about 90 years old and the sights are almost nonexistent but still, on a light-colored target, I was able to get very small groupings. There were no malfunctions, it had a nice crisp trigger and it felt wonderful in my hand. It was really an honor to shoot it; I felt like a kid in a junior high string quartet who had been given a Stradivarius.

And my mom, who is a great shot anyway, did very well with it too.

The Browning was next and while it is small and really quite adorable, its just plain annoying to shoot. My mom tried it, Mike kept having to clear jams and then I shot 2 rounds out of it, almost immediately declaring, "Meh." While the design is good, in my opinion the novelty of such a small gun isn't worth the trouble. I moved on to shooting my friend's H&K P2000. (everyone loans me guns, what can I say?) and discovered I shoot it really well one-handed.

And just because I had the utmost faith in her, I had my mom shoot the Colt Officers ACP. After a tiny little grip problem in the beginning, she was shooting that .45 like a champ. She emptied the magazine and got most of her shots on target. I'm very proud.

It was a great way to spend an afternoon...after all, I got to take my favorite chick in the world to the range.

'tis the season for slacking

Amidst the festive blur of last minute shopping, gift wrapping, stuffing my face with food, and lounging around like a slug without anything blogworthy to write about, I was able to work in a little range time.

(Colt Officers ACP)

(15 rounds of .45 at a distance of 25 feet)

This little beauty belongs to my friend Heath who, if I remember correctly, carried it on his wedding day. I'm honored he trusted me enough to loan it to me. It fits my hand perfectly, had a nice solid trigger, conceals well, and shoots...well, you can see for yourself how it shoots.

There will undoubtedly be more photos and a better range report soon, because, really...how could I resist shooting it again?

p.s. thank you, Heath

Ruger P345 range report (finally)

Last Sunday we went to the range and I fully intended on renting a .45 caliber 1911. I wanted something big and shiny - something I'd be left drooling over the rest of the week, pining away, wishing I could win the lottery so I could just take it home and make it mine.

Anyway...when I got to the range and looked in the display case, they didn't have a 1911. Not one. I had a brand new, unopened box of .45 and was being denied. No soft shove of the recoil, no satisfyingly large bullet holes in my targets...tragic. Plus, I really needed some blogfodder.

What to do, what to do?

"Wait," I thought to myself. "They make .45 caliber handguns that aren't 1911s, right? I should try one of those and broaden my horizons a bit. Variety is the spice of life and all that..."

I spied a Ruger P345. We own a Mark II and an SP101 and I enjoy shooting those, so why not? I asked to see it.

Hmm...a little chunky for my taste, and I wasn't fond of the plastic feel, but since I'll shoot anything once, I rented it...

...and I liked it. My first shots were easily near the center of the target, the trigger was nice and crisp and I didn't mind at all that the pistol wasn't a 1911. I suddenly realized that it was the .45 caliber ammunition I had fallen so deeply in love with, not the pistol I was using to shoot it. Now, we all have preferences as to what is most pleasing to our eye, that's only natural. I like paintings by Picasso, the color cobalt blue, guys with goatees, arts & crafts furniture, orange tabby kittens and pistols designed by John Moses Browning. So I will always love 1911s aesthetically - to me, they will always be the most well designed pistols and someday I will have a beauty of my very own. But to shoot? Doesn't matter what it is, as long as it's a .45.

Group therapy

The ritual of shooting is very calming. I tape up the target and reel it back, I load the pistol, get in my isosceles, aim, breathe, hold it, focus on the front sight, very slowly squeeze the trigger and...

...BANG! It surprises me every time.

Alone in my lane with that noise and that shock of recoil, silence comes and I exhale in relief. I pause to look downrange at the target and find that the first shot is always perfectly centered. It's a reminder, a suggestion, and I try and find that moment again and again.

Since peace of mind has been elusive lately, I went to the range and sought out my calm in .357 magnum.

Just me and my gun - the rest of the world fell away.

one-handed, weak hand

With insightful comments, gentle encouragement, and wisdom that can only be gained from experience, Earl is far more than just a library keeper.

So when he suggests I practice shooting with my weaker left hand (just in case), that's what I do...

left hand, 7 yards, Bersa Thunder .380, 9/29/08

Thank you, friend. Let's hope I never need it.

most awesome range report ever! *

As we headed out to the range today, I asked Mike if he had packed any .45 ammunition.

"I have some .45 reloads for that Norinco I borrowed from Ed.** Why do you ask?"

"I'm just wondering. Do we have any regular stuff, a box of Winchester maybe?"

Mike looked puzzled for a second and then he realized what I was up to, "Ohhhh. You want to rent that Colt again...your gun."

I sighed. "Yeah. My gun." My gun that I can't afford, the one that I keep visiting at the range. My bittersweet love affair with a 1991A1. I must be a glutton for punishment because once in a while, when I'm feeling a bit blue, I like to rent it and torment myself. We spend a deeply meaningful and blissful hour together and then I look at it longingly as I leave it behind. "Maybe someday," I think, as I watch the man behind the counter put that beautiful gun back behind glass. Someday.

Anyway, I went to the range quite prepared to wallow in the little funk that I've been in lately but ended up having the absolute opposite experience. Life is funny like that.

I walked into the range, said hello as I usually do to the men who work there, and walked past a customer who made eye contact with me and exclaimed, "I know you!"

"Umm. No, you don't." I continued walking to the counter, getting ready to sign in.

He said something like, "You're on the internet! I read you all the time." (I can't remember the conversation verbatim, because at this point I was freaking out. Everything was lost in the blur of the giant zOMG! going off in my brain.)

I said,"I have no idea what you're talking about," but I'm sure I was blushing like a big goofball. I was also thinking, "Aw, crap. Why didn't I wash my hair and wear makeup today?" I mean, if I had only known...but I was wearing my "Action Hero" t-shirt, so I guess that's better than nothing.

At this point, Mike was so delighted he couldn't contain himself. "Yep! That's her!" I didn't look but I'm sure he had a huge grin on his face.

I owned up to authoring the blog (& by now the range guys were all asking, "Blog? What blog? Wait - are you famous? Why didn't you tell us? Give us the web address!") and talked politics and pistols for a long while with John, a local blog reader. John, an artist with a day job (sounds familiar), is somewhat new to shooting and is working on getting his CCW. I also learned that he has a wife who has never tried shooting and so, being totally shameless in my quest to create more chicks with guns, I immediately gave him my number.

So I've been smiling all afternoon - laughing at my tiny bit of fame, amazed at the wonderfulness of the internet, giddy at the tight little groupings I got from the Colt 1991A1, and just plain enjoying the last official Sunday of summer.

(And to all of you out there who read my blog but I may never be lucky enough to meet...thank you, thank you, thank you.)

____________________________

*I'm so full o' squee that I can't think of a better title. (and you know, often the hardest part of writing a blog is coming up with titles. Sometimes I'm so stymied that I just scrap the whole post.)

** Ed and Mike have been best friends since the year I was born. Ed was also the best man at our wedding, and has since become one of my very good friends too. Ed's father is currently teaching Mike how to cast bullets and reload.

Cooked* - Appleseed pt. 3

I've always been told that all you can do is do your best but despite all of my efforts, as the end of the Appleseed approached I felt a little defeated. I didn't skip any rounds, did the transitions as well as my physical limitations would allow, and kept trying to find my natural point of aim but my targets just didn't seem to be improving.

The heat had gotten to me and I was developing bruises around my arm from the sling, and on my ribs and hipbone from laying prone on the hard ground. (I need either a thicker shooting mat or a stack of cheeseburgers with a side of milkshakes to grow my own.) My muscles were starting to ache and I was exhausted. I had spent 8 hours shooting this rifle, getting excellent instruction and trying my damnedest, but I just couldn't get it. There was no epiphany for me, just a long struggle - with the elements, the rifle and myself. I looked at my targets, and then over at Mike's, and felt frustrated. And embarrassed - all day long I had been thinking of that other petite riflewoman from Ohio and "What would Annie do?" had been my mantra until I felt like I was dishonoring her memory. I sighed inwardly and pushed on as cheerfully as I could manage, preparing for the last target of the day.

And just when I was at my lowest and feeling pretty bad about myself, an instructor came up behind me and said, "In that standing position, you look like a real rifleshooter."

With a few kind words, I had been given a glimmer of hope - but an Appleseed is like that. The instructors are encouraging, knowledgeable and remarkably patient. Their love for rifleshooting translates into hours of consistent positivity and tireless assistance, even for someone as inexperienced as me.

_____________________________

The day after, when my mother saw how tired and beat up I was, she asked if it was worth it.

"Yeah,"I said. "It really was." I had an interesting new experience, learned so many things, met a lot of nice people and perhaps best of all, my husband now thinks that I'm a "tough chick."

In truth, my shooting wasn't too bad...
I started grouping my shots, and since any improvement is still improvement, I'll be proud of that. I can only get better if I decide to attend another Appleseed.

*The instructors at an Appleseed attempt to teach you to shoot accurately enough to score "expert" on the Army Qualification Course. Until you can do that, you're considered a "Cook," unprepared and unqualified to carry a rifle on the firing line of freedom.