See Tales from the Range: Chapter Zero for context.
Among the most common type of person I'd encounter on an average visit to the public archery range were old men. These were hefty white guys with gray beards that I'd put between the ages of 60 and 75, if I had to guess. Most wore nondescript outdoor gear and baseball caps and sipped from thermoses of hot coffee or cocoa as they sat on overturned plastic buckets and calibrated their bow sights.
I'm not casting aspersions. God willing, someday I will be a hefty old white man, and it's likely I'll have a beard and a plain jacket and even a hot cocoa in certain situations. I already own several plastic buckets and can attest to their utility.
But the thing about America in the 21st century is that the more you superficially resemble someone the more likely it is that they'll lob a truly unhinged take your way, expecting you to volley back. The number of times in my life I've been groused to about bike lanes or vegetarians only to dismiss it with a very midwestern "Oh, I don't know about that" are too numerous to recall.
Anticipating more of this, I mentally rehearsed a steely response of "I don't talk politics at the range" - something I imagined I'd say in a low, dry voice whenever conversation got too spicy. I pictured myself being the immutable voice of reason, keeping a row of grumbling boomers in check, reminding them that we're all there to relax and breathe fresh air.
The thing is, it never happened. Not once did I ever have to admonish anyone for saying anything out of line. Most of these guys hardly even spoke.
I pretty quickly slid into the understood etiquette on these days. A general warm 'hello' to alert others of your presence, a little performative commotion as you stretch and get set up, and then you gradually join the satisfying, repeated chorus of SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. as a handful of arrows hit dense foam targets.
Every couple of minutes the SLAPS would die down and nods and harrumphs signaled retrieval time. No one gets up to fetch their arrows unless everyone is done shooting. And you wrap up your shooting if everyone else is waiting patiently to retrieve. No one had to explain this, we all just fell into a rhythm. Trudging through the muddy grass is when most of the limited conversation would happen. I think, as one of the younger guys (I was just about to turn 40) I'd be peppered with the most questions.
"A recurve bow, eh? You like it? What poundage does it shoot at?"
"Are you hunting with that thing? How long have you been at this?"
The questions were generally light and genial and almost certainly intended to express camaraderie more than to gather any real information. Occasionally someone would ask for help finding a wild arrow or to admire the clustered shots in someone else's target.
As autumn pressed on and the evenings grew darker, a flock of wild turkeys would often parade along the edge of the woods at the top of the hill beyond the targets. the SLAPS would pause momentarily as all the archers stopped to admire nature, before someone would inevitably crack "Should I tell my wife I'll bringing home dinner?"
I liked that joke. Sometimes I'd be the one to make it.
The thing I feared most about taking up archery was having to explain the sudden interest in it. I never wanted to have to get into, 'no, I'm not hunting...I just like Robin Hood' or God forbid "There's this movie with Nic Cage..." and for the most part this never happened. I just wanted something to do in the crisp air and the waning daylight. Something where I could be mostly silent, escape the stressors of the world for a little bit, and just focus on the bullseye and the SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
Why did I ever think I'd be the only one?
Comments
Post a Comment