home on the range

silver eagle group

44620 guilford drive, suite 100

ashburn, VA 20147

http://www.silvereaglegroup.com/

"The goal is to leave with as many holes as you came in with."  This was the advice given to me by Jason, a wonderful friend and Loudoun County Deputy Sheriff, as he drove me to the shooting range.  I had no idea there even was a public range in Loudoun; lucky me, it is located a mere five miles from my house in Ashburn.

Confession: I've always wanted to shoot a gun.  I don't know why, exactly.  Never was I one for video games or violent, shoot-'em-up movies.  Westerns tend to bore me, and the NRA is an organization I really have no intention of ever associating myself with.  When I admitted my ignorance about handling a gun to Jason, he offered to teach me about firearms and take me shooting sometime, but to be honest, I was skeptical that it would ever happen.  You mean individuals who have never held a gun can just show up at a nondescript strip mall in suburban Ashburn, sign a few documents, and handle a deadly weapon?  Is that in the least bit safe?  Is that legal?  Shockingly, yes, yes, and yes.

On the drive to the Silver Eagle Group's indoor shooting range, I was composed on the outside, asking insightful, detailed questions about the intricacies and handling of weapons to Jason, while on the inside I was a complete mess.  Imagining a myriad of scenarios gone wrong--dropping the gun, accidentally pulling the trigger at an inopportune moment, watching a bullet ricochet off the floor and into someone's face--I only made myself more and more nervous.  What if...what if...

"Everything I learned about shooting a gun, I learned from listening to rap music," I joked, shooting the breeze (pun intended) while we waited for two of his police officer friends to join us.  "Then you really don't know anything about guns," Jason informed me.  Well.  He was right about that.

Waiting for Jenna and Will to arrive with the ammo, Jason patiently described how to load the gun with me--a .40 caliber glock--while sitting in the front seat of the car.  I stared in shock at the Ziploc bag of bullets he had sitting in the console.  The weight of a single bullet was so light, and the magazine reminded me of a Pez dispenser; it seemed unreal, in a way.  The reality of what was about to happen, that I would in mere minutes be handling a device that is capable of doing serious damage to another human being, hit me as I watched him load the magazine; one, two, three bullets loaded.  And then, strangely, I thought of this here blog, and how far I've come from the quaint local farmer's market.  We're still in Loudoun County, but we're sure as hell not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

One of Jason's guns, and the one I learned to use at Silver Eagle.

After shakily signing a stack of forms that I didn't read ("If you shoot yourself, we're not liable.  If you shoot someone else, we're not liable.  If anything bad happens while you are here, we are definitely not liable") the three police officers and I waited in line to purchase paper targets and pay the entrance fee for the day.  (I think it was something like $20/person, but in my jittery state, I really can't recall the details.)  Jason provided me with my "eyes and ears"--protective eye and ear wear--and I was ushered over to a closet-like office where I received a lecture by a fast-speaking and almost unintelligible employee  about the rules of the range.  What I got from his diatribe was basically this: don't point the gun anywhere except down range or I will tackle you.  And then, eyes and ears on, I was ready to enter the facility.

The loudness surprised me most.  Jason warned me that I would have trouble hearing his instructions (just the thing you want to be told by the person who is teaching you how to handle a firearm for the first time) and that I would be shouting for the entirety of the lesson.  I was reminded of a bowling alley; everyone in their own lanes, focused, having a good time, yelling, some cheering each other on, except instead of rolling a small ball down an aisle, they were shooting powerful, deadly guns.  Jason shot first, and I watched him load the gun, get in his balanced stance, and fire at the flimsy target hanging seventeen feet away.  It looked so easy, so natural.

When my turn came, I had Jason explain how to hold the gun about twelve times because I was so worried I would hold it incorrectly and some limb or appendage would be missing shortly thereafter.  He corrected my stance--leaning forward, legs shoulder-width apart, standing steady--and showed me how to aim.  And, after taking a few deep breaths and moving the slide back, I took a long look at the center of the target, slid my finger onto the trigger and slowly pulled.  There was a spark, and a sound, and a slight push of my torso backward.

Holy sh*t.  I just shot a gun.

Once the initial shock wore off, the whole process became more enjoyable.  After shooting the weapon something like 30 times, I became more comfortable with handling the gun and my confidence increased tenfold.  Its weight became less oppressive, but I never let my guard down (rule #1).  By the end of the hour my hands were cramped and my arms tight from the amount of control my upper body was exercising.  I was even visibly shaking at times, Jason said.  There is something distinctly American, something freeing and empowering about learning how to handle a firearm.  I agree with Jason--citizens should understand and respect such an instrument.  I loved the experience, and would definitely do it again if the opportunity arose.

Bob the zombie wasn't so lucky.

After an hour of shooting, we were asked to leave the crowded indoor range.  Upon leaving I felt exhilarated and educated, and I was proud to check something so dangerous and exciting off my bucket list.  And who knew such a place could exist in my hometown?  I had a voicemail waiting for me on my cell phone when we returned to Jason's car.  It was from my dad.  He advised me not to shoot anyone, and then proceeded to quote every Clint Eastwood movie ever made.  "Go ahead, make my day," he encouraged me to tell my friend-turned-firearms instructor.  And, Jason, you did.