This past weekend I had the curious experience of participating in what subscribers to the British country sports magazine The Field would term a shooting party. Along with friends I followed a Nissan Altima out to a patch of gravel in the aptly named "Shotgun Creek" wildnerness area to practice gun safety and take aim at a range of gentle targets: clay pigeons, cardboard boxes and an insulated drink cozy with an extra-terrestrial icon.
For the record, the primary appeal of this event was the opportunity to doll up in fine, purpose-specific hunting clothes (ideally, a tweed jacket and plus fours). Since the day was quite warm, however, I substituted a sporty red Engineered Garments cruiser jacket and distributed Filson and Hunting World hats to my fellow party members.
For the most part, I spent my time during this event (what I mentally termed a gun carnival) giggling at my fellow participants and marvelling at the strange, balanced coexistence between our own group, a secondary party of shooters (teens wearing "police" t-shirts and using long range deer rifles to shoot at paper targets from ten paces) and several motorcross riders who kept circling our impromptu shooting range and popping wheelies.
4 comments:
Mal wants credit for the "popping wheelies" remark. (MLA citation is prefered)
Perhaps Mal actually WAS one of those laddies out popping wheelies.. All that talk of tubular tires and "the worst kind of accident" must have been codespeak for motorcross.
"For the most part, I spent my time during this event (what I mentally termed a gun carnival) giggling at my fellow participants"
--ha! all lies! you were out right in there shootin' 'em up and pressuring the more delicate members of our party to try their hand at it.
Well the giggling part was factual.
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