Tim Oltersdorf
Active member
And they call the wind #?!*
I went today to Denton to sight in a scope and shoot a little. Near the range I stopped at the local Loves truck stop for gas. The first indication of trouble was that I had difficulty opening my West facing door. When I did get it open and slid out of the seat the wind snatched me and I spun a full turn before the shoulder harness, still wrapped around me, stopped me with a sudden jerk. A strong gust then slammed the door on the seat belt and unwound me like a thrashing top. I looked like Spiderman on drugs. This took about 2 seconds. After staggering around a bit I approached the pump my credit card clutched in a death grip. I slid the card into the slot and withdrew it as always. The screen flashed ERROR INSERT CARD AGAIN. It did this three times in a row. The wind picked up and started howling. My teeth started gnashing. I found another pump with the drivers door facing East and filled up. With an incredible display of sheer lunacy I drove to the range. The rifle range was deserted and continued to be while I shot. The wind was W NW 25 mph gusting to 35 mph. The Denton range faces South. There were no birds but plenty of other things in the air: dust, patches, papers, empty cases and solvent bottles. The entire Denton, Baptist, mature figured ladies, water aerobics class complete with swimming pool, and Styrofoam dumbbells sailed by in front of the 200 yard targets. They were completely safe. Judging by my truly astonishing groups I couldn't have hit them if they were standing still. The wind flag propellers were starting to make that noise you knew as a kid. It was the noise your first small, string controlled, gas propelled, model plane made on its maiden flight straight up and straight down. It was the noise the propeller and engine made right before it impacted the unyielding earth and disintegrated. It is a noise you always remember and associate with impending doom. My sensei Speedy had a technique called tuning in the wind. As any excellent teacher his secret desire is to have his student surpass him. This was my chance. I would market my own technique. I will call it "Tuning in a Gale". I will be the first to state that this is not my original idea. It reportedly has been practiced for years by an insular, savage but cunning, evolutionarily regressive group of shooters based in Oklahoma. There is a splinter group based in Seymour, Texas that was banished from the original group. Knowing the base level of existence among the Oklahoma BR shooters one could only speculate on the unimaginable thing the Seymour bunch had to do to get ejected. All of these and a few snake eyed, leather faced loners scattered about the West routinely tune in a gale. I'll bet if they lived in Alaska they would be the bunch in speedos jumping into ice containing bodies of water in the dead of winter. Its the same mentality. Not being one with this philosophy I packed up and left clutching my targets in my trembling hand their tear stained groups looking more like the patterning board of a shotgun then a benchrest target. At least there wasn't a tornado like the one several years ago that demolished the roof over the firing line and speared the poles into the rancher's field next door like so many javelins. Ha! Now those were rough conditions. Tim
I went today to Denton to sight in a scope and shoot a little. Near the range I stopped at the local Loves truck stop for gas. The first indication of trouble was that I had difficulty opening my West facing door. When I did get it open and slid out of the seat the wind snatched me and I spun a full turn before the shoulder harness, still wrapped around me, stopped me with a sudden jerk. A strong gust then slammed the door on the seat belt and unwound me like a thrashing top. I looked like Spiderman on drugs. This took about 2 seconds. After staggering around a bit I approached the pump my credit card clutched in a death grip. I slid the card into the slot and withdrew it as always. The screen flashed ERROR INSERT CARD AGAIN. It did this three times in a row. The wind picked up and started howling. My teeth started gnashing. I found another pump with the drivers door facing East and filled up. With an incredible display of sheer lunacy I drove to the range. The rifle range was deserted and continued to be while I shot. The wind was W NW 25 mph gusting to 35 mph. The Denton range faces South. There were no birds but plenty of other things in the air: dust, patches, papers, empty cases and solvent bottles. The entire Denton, Baptist, mature figured ladies, water aerobics class complete with swimming pool, and Styrofoam dumbbells sailed by in front of the 200 yard targets. They were completely safe. Judging by my truly astonishing groups I couldn't have hit them if they were standing still. The wind flag propellers were starting to make that noise you knew as a kid. It was the noise your first small, string controlled, gas propelled, model plane made on its maiden flight straight up and straight down. It was the noise the propeller and engine made right before it impacted the unyielding earth and disintegrated. It is a noise you always remember and associate with impending doom. My sensei Speedy had a technique called tuning in the wind. As any excellent teacher his secret desire is to have his student surpass him. This was my chance. I would market my own technique. I will call it "Tuning in a Gale". I will be the first to state that this is not my original idea. It reportedly has been practiced for years by an insular, savage but cunning, evolutionarily regressive group of shooters based in Oklahoma. There is a splinter group based in Seymour, Texas that was banished from the original group. Knowing the base level of existence among the Oklahoma BR shooters one could only speculate on the unimaginable thing the Seymour bunch had to do to get ejected. All of these and a few snake eyed, leather faced loners scattered about the West routinely tune in a gale. I'll bet if they lived in Alaska they would be the bunch in speedos jumping into ice containing bodies of water in the dead of winter. Its the same mentality. Not being one with this philosophy I packed up and left clutching my targets in my trembling hand their tear stained groups looking more like the patterning board of a shotgun then a benchrest target. At least there wasn't a tornado like the one several years ago that demolished the roof over the firing line and speared the poles into the rancher's field next door like so many javelins. Ha! Now those were rough conditions. Tim
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