“You see, this has got to be learned; there isn’t any getting around it.”
Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi
Don’t you just hate those old-timers who go around muttering, “Things ain’t like they used to be.” I always did, and still do, even when I’m the one doing it. So what is the curmudgeon crabbing about this time? It worries me so many people seem to have forgotten how to learn a new skill. They seem to think there’s some magic trick or inside tip, and it will all be easy.
This may not be want you want to hear, but becoming a good shot takes time and effort. Real improvement doesn’t come easily, nor does it ever get easier. To add a note of encouragement — it doesn’t get harder either.
It takes me a lot of training to acquire a new skill, but on the plus side, once a skill is learned it tends to stick. I can maintain a reasonable skill level with 20 minutes of dry fire two or three times a week, along with 25 or 50 rounds live fire monthly.
To improve, though, I find it more productive to train fairly intensively over a shorter period of time. Let’s say we can afford the ammunition to fire 50 rounds a week, 2,600 rounds annually. My experience has been I’d see considerably more improvement using my 2,600 rounds in sessions of 200 rounds, three times a week, for a month (2,400 rounds). Through the remaining 11 months of the year I could retain most of the improvement with dry fire and 20 careful live fire rounds a month.
I’m not recommending this as a training schedule, as it would take several years to reach our goal. The idea is to get the best return on the investment of resources we do have. When I was competing regularly, I used to average around 25,000 rounds annually, but not spread evenly over the year. As weather and work permitted I’d shoot 200 rounds a day for 10 or 12 weeks. When time and weather was against me I’d use dry fire and shoot a couple live fire sessions a month to maintain what had been learned.
Where’s The Magic?
There’s no magic in 200-round sessions. I’ve found 50 rounds doesn’t show much progress, as it isn’t enough repetitions. On the other hand going much over 200 rounds leads to lack of focus. If I want to shoot more in a day I’ll split the day up into two or more 200-round sessions. Again, what works for me may be too much or not enough for you.
I begin and end every session with precision slow fire, 10 rounds at 25 yards, two hands unsupported. It serves two purposes; it confirms the gun is sighted in, and it reinforces focus on a perfect sight picture and clean trigger break. The last 10-shot group should be roughly the same size as the first. If it is noticeably larger it likely means you’re getting mentally tired and losing focus.
What to practice? I suggest training in one skill at a time. After the ten precision shots, move to a specific skill. Have a written goal and keep a record of every session to track progress. Without a record there’s no way to measure progress.
The goal might be to draw and fire two A-zone hits from seven yards in two seconds, five times in a row. This would not be too hard from a speed holster, but tougher from concealment or a police duty holster, so tailor times to your equipment, needs and the level of skill at which you start out. Set realistic goals. They should make you work, but be achievable within three or four sessions. As skill level improves goals can be set higher.
It never hurts to start at the beginning. Learn to keep your eyes open as the gun fires. Sounds simple? Hardly anyone can do it all the time; many can’t do it at all. Learn to fire one shot accurately. If you can hit an 8″ circle every time at 25 yards you might not win any bullseye matches but you are better than most of the people I see at ranges.
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The Cutlass
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Sunday Shoot a Round # 170
I absolutely despise cigarettes. They kill 478, 000 Americans
per year, roughly the same number we were losing at the
height of the Covid pandemic.
“I can’t breathe, doc,” the man said. Dave is 56 years old and a lifelong smoker.
Vitals were pretty decent. No fever. I could smell it when I walked through the door. He is nicely dressed but smells like a stale campfire mixed with feet. He looks 25 years older than he is.
“Hey, bro, what can I do for you today?” I already knew the answer. This was not the first time we’ve had this conversation.
“I got the crud again. Happens to me this time every year. Coughing’s driving me crazy. Can’t sleep. That’s driving my wife crazy. She’s driving me crazy. Can’t get any work done. Nobody wants to buy a car from somebody who sounds like he has TB. I want a shot.”
He stares at me quietly now. The look in his eyes communicates that the fact that he is sick is somehow my fault.
“Any fevers?”
“Nope.”
“Coughing anything up?”
“Green crap. Looks like rotten peanut butter. Tastes like hell.”
“You don’t have any sugar problems, do you?”
“You never told me I did.”
“Any drug allergies?”
“I’m allergic to clams and ugly women. They both make me swell up like a toad.”
He smiles. He’s told me that before. I smile back just to keep him happy.
I put my stethoscope on his chest and ask him to hold his breath. His heartbeat is sinus, and I don’t hear any murmurs. I press my scope against his back in half a dozen places. His lungs sound like a harmonica factory — soft musical wheezes but no crackles. In the absence of fevers or more troublesome lung sounds, he likely doesn’t have pneumonia. I put my stethoscope around my neck and take a glance in his mouth. His tongue is brown. I study his hands. His fingertips are yellow.
“You know it’s coming, don’t you?” He slumps his shoulders and looks deflated but doesn’t say anything.
We invest ludicrous amounts of time and treasure on survival.
A fraction of that effort spent on healthy living would pay
much greater dividends.
“When you gonna to put ’em down, buddy? They’re killing you right before my eyes. I don’t think you have pneumonia today. Four months ago, you did. Remember that? Nearly killed you then. You spent what, four days in the hospital? Let me help you with this, brother. I got all sorts of tools that can help get you off those things.”
“C’mon, doc. Just give me my damn shot. I got a stressful job. If I don’t sell cars, I don’t eat. If I didn’t smoke, my wife would strangle me. That time two years ago, you talked me into quitting, she went out and bought me a pack three days into it just so I wouldn’t be so bad to be around. I just caught something.”
“Listen, stud, I tell people they are going to die from lung cancer about once every six weeks, and I deal with the stress of my job without cigarettes. You can, too. That’s an excuse. Be a man.”
He didn’t say anything, but he was clearly ready to move on.
“Help is a phone call away anytime, and you know it. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you in some medicine to help you put them down. For now, I’ll send you some antibiotics for 10 days and some of that nighttime cough medicine that helps you sleep to the pharmacy. I’ll get you a prescription for a puffer that will help open your chest up as well. My nurse will be here in a minute with a shot of steroids. You know how that’ll make you feel. Come back if you’re not better in four or five days, and we’ll do a chest X-ray. Go to the ER if it gets worse. You got any questions?”
He spunked up when he realized his sermon was over. Now, he was a salesman again.
“Nope. Thanks, doc. Tell your wife hi for me. You ever want to trade in that antique jeep you drive for a proper set of wheels, you come see me. I’ll make you a good deal.”
He meant that. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I genuinely like this man.
“You tell your bride hi for me, too, Dave. Holler at me if you don’t get better.”
I was in and out in seven minutes. It took me longer than that to write about what we had discussed, order his shot and send his prescriptions to the pharmacy electronically. Smokers are great for business. We ought to put a big bowl of Camels in the waiting room with a sign that says, “Free, Take One.”