GUNS Magazine Guns & Cars, Shooting & Driving

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I had shot through my course, and was standin’ around generally feeling semi smug — I had hit the targets more than the hillside — shooting the breeze with a buddy, when he explained his car was defunct with some kinda thrombosis of the transmission, and asked if he could bum a ride home. Not a problem, I told him, even though his place is many miles outta my way, and my dog, Sancho Panza, gets miffed when he’s asked to give up the “shotgun seat.” That is, for anybody other than my wife, the Memsaab Helena. In that case, Sancho turns into a big furry ball of tail-wiggling mush. I can’t blame him — it happens to me too, but, “Hey, I thought you came with,” and I pointed to the guy standing by in “next up” position on the course. “He lives close to you, right?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced, “Nice enough guy, good neighbor. But Connor, I gotta tell ya, that guy drives like he shoots, man. I nearly had a heart attack just gettin’ here in one piece. Watch!” I did.

Sure enough, when the timer honked, he was fiddlin’ with something at the front of his belt, and like so many drivers are, when the light finally turns green, he was caught flat-footed and fidgeting. Distracted, just like the guy who’s always right in front of you at the intersection, he eventually looked up like he was shocked, and then put the pedal to the metal like a kid burnin’ rubber out of a Dairy Queen parking lot! We both watched as he like a jackrabbit, double-clutching and gear-grinding toward the first shooting station, where he slammed on the brakes a second too late, and crashed into the plywood barrier. I couldn’t help but wonder what the front of his garage door looks like at home.

With that “shoots like he drives, drives like he shoots” image playin’ in my head, I continued my observation as the dude blundered through the course. I saw two bad lane changes, a “roll-through” at a stop sign, and one almost catastrophic attempt to take an off-camber turn at excessive speed. The only missing elements seemed to be an over-the-limit blood-alcohol test and the obligatory “two beers, I swear” excuse for his “driving.”

I grabbed my friend’s sleeve and steered him out to the parking lot. “Gotcha covered, pal,” I assured him. I understood. I understood even better when I saw the other dude’s car. The surviving scraps of trim on those side-swiped slabs of scrunched sheet metal indicated it had once been a Pontiac. It is now a Pile-a-Crap. I wouldn’t want a drive with that guy, either.

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After That First Ding, It’s Only A Matter Of Time

So, what would things be like if we truly shot like we drove, and managed our guns the same way we treat our cars? Oh, yeah, I can just see that.

If some of you did that, you’d go out and buy a beautiful new smokepole, say, something like a nice Beretta Onyx Pro O/U 12-gauge, and be bustin’ your but-tons with pride when you brought it home. You wouldn’t let a single soul breathe on it for at least a week, much less “drive” it. Then you’d relax a little and allow selected family and friends to touch it — after you checked their hands for dirt and grease. Maybe you’d even pop the hood and let ’em peek at the “engine,” first assuring they’re not wearing jeans with copper rivets, for fear of scratching the “paint.”

Then the inevitable would happen, and it would pick up a minor, but manifestly irritating “parking lot ding.” Oh, you’d know in your head that it’s a teensy little blemish, but in your heart, the honey-moon would be over. Its hallowed haven in the garage, lovingly cleared and pre-pared for it in advance of delivery from the dealer, would be slowly taken over by your lawnmower and the kids’ bikes. A month later, you’d start leaving it in the driveway overnight.

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When That “New Gun Smell” Is Gone

By the time that “new car/new gun smell” faded away, and you hung the first pine-tree deodorizer tag from the trigger-guard, you’d only frown and mutter, “Dang birds!” when you noticed it was speckled with two dozen sparrow-splotz and blue jay-bombs. From then on, you might drive it through the “Speedee-Kleen” car wash once in a while, but it would never again feel the gentle caress of your hand swaddled in a soft cotton buffing mitt on a Saturday afternoon. Soon enough, the day would come when your kid would timorously inquire about takin’ it for a spin, and you’d casually toss him the keys without a second thought. After all, next year’s models are coming out soon.

When’s the last time you actually kept a pair of gloves in your car’s glove box? And when did it become an “auxil-iary garbage can?” If you treated the buttstock compartment of your Springfield M1A the same way, you’d be rummaging through it lookin’ for that last section of cleaning rod, and coming up with six empty gum wrappers, two mystery keys, a cheap, leaky ballpoint pen with no cap, a DC converter for some electronic device you’ve com-pletely forgotten, and the toothbrush which disappeared during your last business trip — but considering it’s cur-rent condition, it’s more suited for cleaning your trigger group than it is for polishing your pearlies, anyway.

Since that day on the range, I’ve watched carefully, and spotted a half-dozen other gunners who shoot like they drive, drive like they shoot, and presum-ably, manage their guns and gear with the same fastidious attention — or casual recklessness — with which they mumpfuggle their guns. Do you think this might be one of those “socio-cultural evo-lutionary” trends? Is the day coming when this weird transmogrification of behaviors becomes the norm?

When I see some dude yakkin’ on his cell-phone while shooting a round of skeet, that’ll be a clue. If the Rangemaster issues him a citation for not using a “hands-free” setup, I’ll know.

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Guns & Cars, Shooting & Driving

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