The last night's absynthe binge left me absent minded and quiet on the ride up to the range. We made good time on the highways and I enjoyed staring out the window into the grassy valleys as the road wound through the hills.

Rifles barked at random down the firing line. The shotgun in right most lane sounded more like a dry cough. It was loud enough to punch through my earplugs and hit me in the side of the head. Absynthe is a cruel mistress.

I settled in for a few hours of shooting. The Enfield was clean and ready. It felt heavy and good and we wanted to shoot well. It took me a while to relax and get into the pace of firing. The bolt slid smoothly out of the barrel and tossed each round a foot to the right and slammed back down with a satisfying snap. I tried not to rush and do things badly but they were done badly anyway.

I threw out the first three targets and kept the last one. I finally put twenty shots in the rings at 50 yards and felt good. My arm was tired and shoulder was sore.

I stopped for a burger on the way out of the hills on the way to the freeway. It was a good burger joint and I felt content after eating.