'The Ballistic Pendulum' (Continued)

by FOG, Tuesday, January 15, 2013, 06:23 (4333 days ago) @ FOG

Sadly, the fog of creeping middle age precludes even a winsome recollection of detail at times, but I do remember the powder was 2400, the charge was 15.0 or 15.5 grains, the primer was a CCI 550, and the bullet was a 158-gr jacketed number. (If it eases your mind any, I meticulously weighed each and every charge. What's that? It doesn't? Ha! Why do you think I waited over 30 years to come clean?)

For those who neither reload nor remember that revolvers need 'friends' too, this combination wasn't exactly a ticking time bomb, but it wasn't a powder puff, either.

Now, all I needed was leather. I hied myself down to the local gun emporium and picked a spiffy new Roy Baker Pancake to fit the Python. Seeing that I chose one in black basketweave, but perhaps not realizing it was the only one in stock, the clerk cheerfully asked me which 'department' I was with. Not taking the question seriously because of my age, I named my nearby hometown. The clerk replied that was a nice place, so to be polite I inquired about grips for the Python and was shown a pair of Herrett Troopers.

Ever willing to exercise my one-track mind, I made a half-hearted attempt to rationalize the purchase of both items from the rapidly dwindling reserves in my so-called 'savings' account, then grabbed them and ran, not walked, to the register. At checkout, the clerk inquired again about my 'department' and mentioned they gave a police discount.

I replied that I wasn't a cop, just a kid interested in guns. Well, the clerk thought that was just dandy and gave me the discount anyway, thus proving, I think, that 'those were the days.'

They also let kids into gun shows back then, but I digress...

I also needed speedloaders to 'compete,' but was just about tapped out cash-wise, so a friend leapt to the rescue by loaning me his, and it was all downhill from there. (Er, so to speak...) It was like destiny calling. (Or something...)
I was just sure I would become the next rising star of IPSC competition around the globe.

At long last, Game Day arrived and found me facing the subject of this windy tome: The Ballistic Pendulum.

Earlier in the day, the ever-helpful match officials had whacked the thing right and proper, thus setting the bar. Now it was my turn. Stepping up to the line, I prepared myself by doing my best imitation of the Weaver Stance, awaited the command to fire, then...

BLAM!

The 158-gr projectile took the paddle squarely amidships, neatly tore it off the arm of the demonic device, and launched it into low-earth orbit.

There followed a hushed silence among all assembled, then after what seemed like an eternity, the range officer stepped up to the line and said,

"Son, I think that makes Major."

Epilogue

So how did I do in the match itself? Let's just say that - this was by sheer coincidence, you understand - I was compelled to clean out my bank account the very same afternoon in order to cover the 'tab.'

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