A few weeks ago, hoping to avoid cabin fever, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I went on a mini vacation. In a random suburb I saw an indoor range. There’s no indoor range anywhere near our house. On a lark we stopped there.
The place was friendly, laid back, inexpensive, and clean. I’ve been to some ranges which are pristine but uptight. This wasn’t like that. It had a welcoming, almost Norman Rockwell, feel.
We did the requisite paperwork and dropped a few bucks on ammo. Don’t read too much into our target. It wasn’t a planned, regular practice thing with accuracy measured in MOA. It was just a chance to shuck off heavy winter coats and use our EDC (that’s all we had with us) to pinhole paper.
From there the fun grew! The range offered “rentals” and the rate wasn’t too bad. Soon we had a little tool box filled with various pistols in various calibers with various sights and various behavior. Some sucked, some rocked, some some made big holes, some made small. I usually fret about grouping and work hard to be awesome, this time I forced myself to relax and happily sample whatever different firearms were at hand.
Some targets had a silly but wholesome valentines motif and I thought that was great. I grabbed one. We took turns making it into confetti. Good clean fun.
It was the most American date ever.
