Gunshots thundered around me as my instructor, Rob Doar, loaded a clip into 9-millimeter Glock 19 and handed it to me. It was lighter than I thought it would be, but my arms felt weak. The extent of my exposure to handguns growing up was the holstered pistol my cop dad told me never to touch. Then a decade as a reporter showed me — sometimes up close — the damage they could do.
Yet here I stood, gauging my aim while pondering how bizarre it was that my safety and that of everyone around me at Bill’s Gun Range in Circle Pines depended only on mutual trust and responsibility.
I was snapped back to reality by a gentle, repeated reminder from Doar to get my thumb out from behind the slide, unless I wanted to wear a deep railroad track-shaped cut from the shell ejection. Focusing on the mechanics I’d been taught instead of my existential angst, I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
Read more at the Star Tribune.