I found peace at the gun range

I like ice hockey, 7-Eleven Big Gulps and the choice of six lanes on the Interstate. I like almost everything about America except the guns, which is why I decided to challenge my prejudices at a pistol range in Fresno, California. Walking in, I was welcomed by ‘Don’t tread on me!’ stickers and signs in military stencil fonts. I had anticipated hearing gunshots, but the irregular, endless bangs were worse than I’d expected. 

‘We’re from Britain and would like to try a gun,’ explained my friend. We signed some waivers and a friendly assistant called Tom reached back to the pistol rack behind him and replaced one of the handguns with my driving licence. It felt like we’d opened a bar tab.

A tutorial ensued and I absorbed roughly half of what Tom said, worrying instead that the pistol would fire randomly while bouncing around in his hands.