frosty mornings at 7am
all groggy and crusty eyed with sleep
wearing too large clothing of the boyish persuasion
the cloying taste/smell of expended gunpowder, cigar smoke and endless ancient pots of coffee.
Damp cement walls of the pit
grease on ball bearings and chains
the smooth heavy roll of targets and the rhythm of pulling
it all blurs into one smooth motion until all rounds are expended and the competition is over.
The sound of Megadeth pounding through our earplugs and the wry grins shared with the pit master.
The rain on our faces as we looked up to watch new holes being pierced into and through paper and wood.
It's always the simplest routines that we miss later, the ones that we took for granted or even complained about. I'd pay good money now to pull targets the way I did then.