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.
I loaded the magazine with five bullets, pulled back the slide and felt an unnatural sense of gallantry
‘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.
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