Shooting and Horses

They shoot horses, don’t they?

Actually, I don’t think they do anymore. Seems an odd title for a post here, but it will become at least somewhat clear…

Considering the Memorial Day weekend’s de facto status as the beginning of the summer recreation season, the pressure is certainly on to deliver weather conditions appropriate to the tasking. Often, the entire operation is an abject failure, but not this year. The Saturday morning Weather-out-the-Window(tm) forecast looked extraordinary, and even the supplemental sensors failed to detect even a glimmer of a problem. A wide-open day with great flying weather: what to do, what to do.

I had printed a series of pictures (http://picasaweb.google.com/HogarthKramer/KilKare) taken Thursday night at Kil-Kare Speedway where my brother was running a test day with his Nascar Modified and needed to deliver them in person, my past experiences with the US Postal service’s distinct lack of concern with the overly optimistic “Photos – DO NOT BEND” stamp on the envelope being that they tend to view it as more of a non-binding suggestion than something to actually, you know, do. As luck would have it, good flying weather has a lot in common with good shooting range weather, and an impulse buy of 80 more rounds for the SKS a couple of weeks ago put me in a pretty good position to combine the photo delivery job with a shooting day.

I’ve been promising Co-pilot Rick a trip to said shooting range for an appreciable measure of time, so I’d even have company for the trip. A phone call to the farm to arrange for transport, and we were on our way. What little wind there was to deal with was coming out of the north east, so I knew we’d have the long taxi down to the far end of the runway. The ground controller cleared my “to runway 4, follow the Cessna.” Maybe the Cessna got the “via Bravo to Alpha” language they’ve been using lately, but I didn’t hear it. In any event, following a Cessna is easy enough.

In fact, what with it being one of the rentals, the trick when following one is usually to keep from running into it as students tend to taxi a little more slowly than I do. They also tend to take a very long time doing their end-of-runway run-up (not inappropriately in a rental, to be fair) so I considered stopping at Alpha 5 rather than going th next 500′ to Alpha 6, the taxiway at the very end of the runway. Turned out, though, that I taxied slower than the Cessna, so I figured the pilot to be more experienced and that maybe the run-up wouldn’t be a drawn out affair, and it seemed kind of rude to take Alpha 5 in a very transparent effort to get to the runway first. Well, I guessed wrong; it was a lengthy spell at the end of the runway, but at least he pulled off into the back corner of the taxiway and I was able to get around him. We were at least five miles west of the airport before we finally heard him call the tower for takeoff clearance.

The air was clear and calm, and having stuck the co-pilot with the bumpy flight back from Portsmouth a few weeks ago, I let Rick fly this one. Throttled back to 2,200 RPM as part of my new fuel conservation scheme, we still scored 135 knots on the GPS. By the time we got to Darke Co., the wind had picked up a little, but not enough to really matter. Being at least a few degrees out of the east, the runway of choice was 9. That’s a good thing, because I have never had a good landing on 27. Even using the other end of the runway, I still managed to catch a gust of wind just as I was feeling my way down the runway, but it only caused a little bounce. I decided to buy gas there since they were only charging $4.55/gallon, which is a bargain in today’s market.

I brought the SKS and the Beretta NEOS, leaving the BB gun strength Marlin 22 at home – I figure Co-pilot Egg to be the only one that enjoys shooting that one. My brother had made all new targets, but saved on of the old ones just for use with the SKS. The targets that he makes are cut out of 1/4″ steel and are great for .22s, but as you’ll see, they are essentially one-time use for the SKS:

Rick with the SKS

Me with the Beretta Neos

The SKS makes a cleaner hole than a unibit!

You still have to de-burr, though!

We ran through the ammo in a little more than an hour, took a tour of the farm, and headed into Greenville for a visit to the Darke Co. fairgrounds where my Dad had one of his young horses running in a matinée race. We couldn’t leave without visiting at least briefly with Harvey Six, a name that I prefer to pronounce using a faux Cockney accent to arrive at a gratuitous ‘Arvey Six. You know, RV-6.

Harvey Six

We met this big fella too, but due to his failure to be named after an airplane, I’ve already forgotten his name:

Not so much a race, really, more of a practice session. The young horses have to get used to the starting gate, the noise and distractions of a race, and the proximity of other horses and drivers. It seemed an opportunity to get a few pictures, especially so since my Dad would be up in the timing & scoring booth and we would be able to go up there for some pictures:

The booth is up at the top of the grandstand, the grandstand itself being fairly photogenic in and of itself:

Take a close look at those two pictures. They’re the same picture, cropped in different ways. I thought the first one would be a good entry in the annual photo show that I enter, but I didn’t know what to do about that awful yellow sky. I didn’t want to lose the older guy sitting down there all by himself though, so I was resigned to just living with it. I caught Rick Lee sitting at his computer and asked for a little advice. That advice (paraphrased) was “ditch the old guy, he doesn’t bring much to the table, and the bright sky draws the eye away from the seats.” That result is the second picture, and by golly if he isn’t right again!

Here are a few pictures from up in the booth:

On the way back out to the airport, I diverted through the town of Greenville to see how the restoration is going on their beautiful Carnegie Library, where I spent hours and hours during my annual week long summer stays with my grandparents, who lived right across the street. Can’t tell much from the outside, but according to the sign they’re just about done:

I flew the homeward leg, and sure enough it was a tad bumpy. Windier on the landing, too, but only a little bouncing.

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"Don’t Get Eaten!"

With the airplane still out of commission but a beautiful Spring day to spend, Co-pilot Egg and I decided to load as much of our arsenal as would fit into the trunk of the Miata and drive to the farm to do some good, old-fashioned shootin’. She’s not a big fan of the Miata, and I’m the first to admit that I probably wouldn’t be either if the roles were reversed – it’s a far funner driving car than it is a comfortable riding car. It’s driver’s prerogative, though, and it was selfishly exercised in my favor.

Something about the Miata encourages me to view the same old pieces of road that I’ve driven over time after time with a more attentive and discerning eye, even when the top is up. About mid-way on the outbound trip, we caught sight of a couple of large birds (vultures??) perched on top of what appeared to be an abandoned house. The calculus of the situation (abandoned house = little chance of being accosted by irate resident) was rapidly calculated, and before you know it we were stopped in the driveway. As I started to get out of the car to retrieve my camera from the trunk, Egg (whom I think watches far too much TV) helpfully provided me with some last-minute advice, laudable more for its succinctness than its applicability to the situation: “Don’t get eaten!”

The birds were, in fact, far more afraid of me than I of them (perhaps naively on my part, but all’s well that end’s well, eh?) and threatened to fly away as I made even the smallest movements towards them, but I was able to get a few shots before they finally decided that discretion was mathematically and statistically the better advised option over valor:

After a quick lunch at McDonalds, notable only for the exchange with the order-taker (those folks ought to get a loftier title, like the coffee-servers at Starbucks did when they self-aggrandized themselves with the ludicrous moniker “Baristas.” Or, perhaps they have and I just don’t know it.) when she failed to accurately enter my order for a double quarter pounder with cheese. She arrived with two quarter pounders on the tray, and I was faced with the dilemma of trying to determine if this particular McDonalds had adopted some quirky method of providing the mathematically equivalent of two single quarter pounders, or if our entire order was supposed to consist on one single and one double. I gracefully addressed that quandary by demonstratively asking my father if he had also ordered a double, or some similar query intended to prompt the sandwich sommelier to verify the accuracy of the order.

“Oh”, said the burger-barista, “I didn’t charge you for a double. Do you want me to change it?”

I replied along the lines of “I don’t care if you change what you charged us or not, but I do want a double quarter pounder with cheese.” An eminently fair compromise, I maintain, what with the customer traditionally always assumed to be right, and one getting what one asked for not really being an unexpected or overbearing demand.

A double quarter pounder with cheese, I’m happy to say, was quickly provided without an accompanying adjustment of the bill and we each went our separate ways, firmly convinced that the other was an idiot. I can live with that, I suppose. An equitable outcome for all involved.

Back at the farm, Egg industriously set about preparing our weaponry:

We usually shoot at flat steel targets, but for the sake of increased entertainment, my brother brought out a cinder block for me to shoot at with the new SKS. Oddly enough, he also brought out some wooden panels that he insisted that I shoot at first before I would be allowed to shoot at the cinder block, ostensibly to first prove that I could hit something else before actually being allowed to shoot at the cinder block. The logic of this escaped me since I figured that were I to actually miss the cinder block, the very act of missing it was very likely to leave the block completely intact and undamaged, waiting for my next attempt with the infinite patience that cinder blocks are simply legendary for:

The entire question was moot, of course, since I hit it on the first try. And the next, and the next, and the next. It eventually got pretty challenging since the remaining pieces just got smaller and smaller. Eventually, I was pretty sure the cinder block was sufficiently dead for me to approach it and assess the damage, but I wasn’t taking any chances that the wounded block would make a last gasp lunge at me. I approached it with bayonet extended:

Having fully ascertained its demise, I posed for the requisite “kill shot,” unfortunately sans the equally requisite can of Bud Light:

Note too that at one point I did completely miss the cinder block and shoot down the practice board. I did not point that out to my brother!

After my having demonstrated the awesome stopping power of the NATO 7.62×39 Full Metal Jacket round on an inert and immovable object, Egg took a turn with the Beretta Neos pistol:

She doesn’t like the pistol very much, which is not surprising since she misses far more often than she hits. While I took a turn with the Neos (hitting maybe 7 out of 10, on average) she helped out by loading magazines for my brother, who clearly is compensating for something with his taste in handguns:

She’s a big fan of the Marlin 925, though, and hits a target (presumably the one she was actually aiming at, but she’s non-committal on that question) nearly every time:

I took a few turns with the Marlin too, but after shooting the SKS I don’t like it very much. It fires with not much more oomph than a dry fart, and the bullet flies so slowly to the target that you can actually hear it. I think I could probably throw one faster. That said, I’m pretty accurate with it and can hit the target nearly every time, but it really is a damp paper towel of a gun:

I use the “swinger” targets for the Marlin, and just round robin between targets and try to re-fire quickly enough to keep them all moving:

After burning through 60 rounds of 7.62 and a couple of hundred .22 longs, we loaded everything back in the Miata and headed home. I stopped and took some pictures of the little water fall that we go past, something I’ve wanted to do for years, but always seemed to be in the wrong car. There’s just something about that Miata:

Everything is field stripped and laid out for cleaning:

The cat (who apparently has never heard the conventional wisdom that curiosity killed the cat, but a gun killed it quicker) is investigating the baggage:

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Because I get asked a lot….

Here’s the latest (heavily editorialized, I’m afraid) on the accidental discharge of a firearm on a recent U.S. Airways flight:

It was only a matter of time before there’d be an accidental, non-negligent discharge of a Federal Flight Deck Officer’s weapon. Saturday a U.S. Airways pilot’s gun discharged on Flight 1536, which left Denver at approximately 6:45am and arrived in Charlotte at approximately 11:51am. The Airbus A319 plane landed safely and thankfully none of the flight’s 124 passengers or five crew members was injured

The insane procedures required by the TSA demands that our pilots to lock and then un-lock their .40 side arms was and is a solid recipe for disaster. Did the TSA deliberately create this bizarre and unconventional Rube Goldberg firearm retention system hoping for this result? The sordid history of the FAA and TSA’s total resistance to the concept of arming pilots to protect Americans is in itself a scandal.

Putting a gun into a holster and then threading a padlock through the trigger and trigger-guard is required every time the pilots enter or leave the cockpit. This kind of silliness has never been forced on any law enforcement or security officers anywhere in the world until now. Before this holster padlock procedure pilots with guns were forced to carry them around in a cumbersome 22 pound vault. The vault caused problems in the confined space of most cockpits.

Here’s the goofy holster they are forced to use:

The writer has a point – the FAA and TSA were dead set against allowing pilots to carry guns, but appear to have found away to salve the ire of passengers that demanded that extra measure of security while simultaneously ensuring that we remain defenseless. And that, I must say, is pretty much what government does.

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A number of updates…

As a public service for those readers that I just know are on the edges of their seats wondering about the status of various open issues, I hereby present a collection of updates:

– the Canoe Project: when I last spoke on this topic, I was at a loss as to how to get the lower and upper side panels to meet. I’m not so worried about the gap between the two; the bigger issue is that I can’t get them flush. My efforts to rectify that had been concentrated on getting the lower panel to move inward to match the edge of the upper panel, but no amount of coercion could convince it to do so. I was down in the Boatworks a few days ago on an unrelated mission, and took the opportunity to take a fresh look at the problem. Now I grant you, this is going to seem painfully obvious in hindsight, but it appears that it will be quite easy to shim the upper panel away from the temporary bulkhead such that it moves outboard enough to line up with the lower panel. Yeah, like I said: “Duh!”

– the Miata: if you recall, it nearly left me stranded clear across town when the clutch wouldn’t disengage enough to allow me to get it into gear. I made an adjustment to the length of the clutch pushrod in order to get home, then stuffed the car back in the garage behind the snow plow and decided to just leave it there until, well, yesterday afternoon. I figured that maybe it was low on clutch fluid, so the first thing I did yesterday was pop the hood and check the level in the translucent plastic fluid reservoir. Which, thankfully, wasn’t back in the trunk with the battery. The level appeared to be mid-way between the Min and Max marks, but since I had needed a jump start again to get it started, I figured I could eradicate two avians with one projectile with a drive to the auto parts store to secure a container of DOT 3 brake/clutch fluid, which would also serve to push a new reserve of electrons into the battery. When I got back, I popped the lid on the reservoir, only to find it nearly bone dry. The reservoir was stained with the remains of fluid past, which presented a false level reading when viewed from the outside. Sigh.

– the Annual Condition Inspection: still waiting on the new gascolator. I ordered a new one from Aircraft Spruce last Friday, but cancelled the order when I received a very generous offer from an RV builder that had a gascolator that he would not be using. Many of you that attend Oshkosh each year will recognize the name of the donor, Mr. Bob Collins, as the driving force behind the annual BBQ. I had to renew the order for what turns out to be my old Model GAS-1 gascolator once I found out that the donated gascolator, a Model GAS-5, won’t fit the mount on my plane. That’s unfortunate because the newer model is much nicer than the old one, but I don’t want to have to refabricate the mount, at least not in the short term. Maybe when I replace the oil and fuel hoses later this year, though. In any event, thanks Bob!

– Shooting with my brother: finally having had all I can stand of the emasculating effect of showing up with .22 rimfires as he pulls out his gazillion caliber bazookas, I decided that I needed a grown-up rifle. But… I don’t hunt. I just like to make the thing go bang, and I like the mechanical precision of firearms. I enjoy the challenge of trying to consistently hit a target, and I like the congeneality I share with my brother when we have co-interests. With that in mind, you won’t be surprised to learn that I wasn’t keen on the idea of spending $600 – $800 for a new rifle. I have a friend at work that collects old military surplus guns, and he suggested that I look for one of those. I decided on a Chinese SKS. They’re commonly available at gun shows, moderately priced, and parts/ammo are cheap and also commonly available. I took it out and shot ten rounds through it last week to make sure it works, and found that it’s more pleasant to shoot than I had expected. It jumps a bit when you shoot it, but there is very little recoil that gets as far as your shoulder. In other words, you can shoot it all afternoon and not come home sore and/or bruised. I took a few pictures of it, if you’re curious:

http://picasaweb.google.com/HogarthKramer/SKS

It has a ten round internal magazine that loads through the top, but that’s kind of a pain in the nethers to do. I ordered a 20 round removeable magazine to replace it, and I found that it is much easier to load. Worth the $18. Oh, and if you must know, the gun itself was $265. They can be had far cheaper, but most of them at that price point look pretty ratty and run-down.

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