Practice for Air goes quite well. I find that the best way to deal with the scoring screen is cover the shot values by hanging a sheet of paper over the right side of the monitor, leaving only the shot group display in sight. This discourages me from keeping a running tally of score. The last shot hole flashes, so it is possible to be only vaguely aware of the rest of the group. The worst part is adjusting to the fact that I don't have to wait to change targets between shots. This upsets my rhythm, so I work on pacing myself to a familiar tempo.
The photo I most regret not taking on this trip is a sad looking Renault van outside our lodgings at the University. I suspect it met it's doom during the Soccer World Cup, which wound up just a few days before we arrived in Barcelona. I do get the general idea that most of Spain supports Brazil (it may have something to do with the 15-storey high banner of Ronaldo on a cablecar tower). Anyway, this van is absolutely stuffed. Every window smashed, every tyre slashed, it sits forlorn in the carpark the entire time we are there. Nobody can even be bothered towing it away. I wonder if it has paid for its national allegience after the World Cup Final when France upset Brazil.
Since the competiton is getting close to the end many of the competitiors are partying hard. Our shotgunners in particular are doing a good job of keeping the local breweries going, not to mention one likely young lad who takes a fancy to one of the cleaning girls. It must be something in the water, Kiwis are normally such shy retiring lads.
I must say that this day starts with such promise I have to pinch myself. Cold hard reality soon sets in, but I have some hope for the future.
Warmup and preparation for my air match go very well. I arrive on the line in plenty of time, set up my gear and follow my routine for prep time. I have no real nerves, everything is going just as I've rehearsed it for the past six months. Into the match itself, just three sighters punching the x-ring, I start my scoring shots. For nine shots my technique is flawless, shots that feel nothing special are easily holding the 10-ring. My tenth shot starts the downward trend, is a poor nine, and I lose the plot.
There follow thirty shots of poor control and little confidence. By the fifth 10-shot string I resurrect some dignity, and but for a 7 would have shot a great final series also. The final result, 98-90-92-91-96-94=561 may have scraped an A Grade score, but this is not the result I was looking for. Realistically I could not expect to challenge the big boys, but a 570 plus would have been nice, especially in the context of team selection.
I have nothing else to shoot, so watch the Final unfold. Wang holds out for a win quite comfortably. It is of note that of the eight finalists there are seven different brands of pistols represented. Scores range between 585 and 581. I believe any one of those guys could swap pistols and achieve similar results.
This is my last full day in Spain. A group of us go in search of the other pistol club in town. We have located the general area on a map but have no idea of how to get there. Our method is to take the train, then the metro to a point nearby and hoof it the rest of the way. It appears it is located on a fairly sizeable hill. A couple of our group climb through a break in the fence of some botanical gardens while the less adventurous of us retire to the metro to take the fernicular and reach the summit in comfort.
I find our two intrepid explorers waiting in a cafe outside the station when I arrive. They found the club. A group of rifle shooters were firing 7mm Mausers at targets. They were told we could have easily used the club to practise at any time over the past fortnight. This is a valuable lesson for the future. Never assume management has made the best arrangements. I will certainly take a more active interest in such matters should I ever make another national team.
With nothing much else to do a couple of us decide to play the tourist. The others have gone back to the range for their afternoon practice session of Rapid Fire. First on the agenda is a ride on the cable car suspended several hundred feet above the port area, through a mid point tower and ending on another tower near the beach. Great views, but not for the vertigo-impaired.
From here we wander up a kilometre or so of Barcelona beach. Despite it being a week day there are plenty of sunbathers and swimmers taking advantage of the balmy conditions. I wonder if smog is sufficient protection from extreme sunburn? I'm too much of a gentleman to notice that many young ladies have mislaid their bikini tops, but my compatriot is kind enough to make this point to me on several occasions.
We leave the beach before injuring ourselves from walking into some solid object. Taking the metro again, this time we head for a church on a hill to the north. A tram packed full of Aussie and Kiwi backpackers takes us up the hill to yet another fernicular. At the top is an amusement park, a cafe and an extremely impressive cathedral. The haze is so bad we can barely see past a few kilometres. Tired from walking and rubbernecking we head down to catch our homeward bound train, pausing only briefly to imbibe a quick ale.
I spend the morning packing and go to the range to pick up my guns from the armoury for the last time. Briefly I watch some of the world's best Rapid Fire shooters complete their first half. European shooters are so far ahead of our shooters in this match it's not funny. Schumann has such a gallery watching it is difficult to catch a glimpse of him.
Midday comes and goes, our time to catch the bus for the airport is nigh. One of the shotgunners has decided he has one too many bottles of red wine for his luggage, so he pops the cork as we wait at the bus stop. Much to the disgust of his wife. Like a couple of winos we pass the bottle back and forth, I'm the only red wine drinker he can find to share it with. This becomes a little more surruptitious in the airport itself, but we're becoming quite unconcerned with any possible consequences as the bottle empties.
The police check out our pistols before we check in our baggage. Then the fun starts with British Airways. Some bureaucratic dunderhead wants to scan all of our bags before they are checked in. We're declaring firearms, the x-ray machine confirms that yes, there are guns in the bags, and a green sticker is duly attached to each case. Brilliant way to spend an hour. Our fellow travellers suspect us of being terrorists and resent us holding up the checkin counter. At least two of us are too pissed to care.
Eventually we flap off to London for a quick changeover before taking the long flight to Singapore. I have just enough time to buy something for the headache I've induced from drinking rough red in the sun. An uneventful trip follows, the stopover in Singapore is less than an hour, and Brisbane emerges at the other end of an eternity that only long-distance travellers truly appreciate.