Atomic Nerds

“I know you’re gonna walk, but what’s the horse gonna do?”
–Katy Beth, adorable daughter of Ambulance Driver

FRIDAY
In Secret Location, CO, there are train tracks. There are crossing arms that go across the road for the times when a train must cross the street. The trains themselves, presumably, have lights, and being trains are not possessed of any particular subtlety. Have you ever been confused, when out on foot, as to whether or not there was a train passing you? Me either. Apparently everyone who is not us has the mental power of a lobotomized sea cucumber though, because the horn on the trains have been automated For Our Safety. They go off in a set pattern no matter what. Thus, at what-the-fuck o’clock in the morning, after tossing and turning through hours jesus-haploid-christ thirty to I’ll-get-religion-if-I-can-just-get-some-sleep:15 as truck after truck blasted through town leaning on the engine brake as hard as mechanically possible to transition from highway to city speed, the train arrived.

I’m not sure if I was just much more awake than I’d have liked to be at the time, or if I have a streak of pragmatism deeper than expected, but after verifying that the number showing on the clock face was one not normally seen in nature, I reached the conclusion that yes, I probably could stop the train whistle through some means or another, but that doing so would only mean I would hear sirens, and for much longer than the accursed horn.

Five minutes later, Jim knocked on the door to remind us that we were gathering at the FarmFam house at 10. Rolling over and attempting to go back to sleep until it was light out, we drifted fitfully off as the non-stop serenade of engine brakes continued.

With the time fixed firmly in mind, and distances from motel to breakfast to FarmFam all easily walkable, we allowed ourselves what seemed a more than generous 90 minutes to rise, shower, and prepare to face the gunblogging world. Shortly after the alarm went off, Jim knocked on the door to remind us that we were gathering at the FarmFam house at 10, and oh, folks are starting to head down.

After some argument with what I will very generously describe as a lock on the motel room door, LabRat and I grabbed a quick bite at the greasy spoon across the street. I will note that their biscuits are freakin’ delicious. We headed for the FarmFam house, and found that at a whopping three minutes after 10, we were not only the last ones there, but they were apparently preparing to send Jim out to knock on our door again. I made a mental note to acquaint the other participants with the NIST Atomic Clock.

Plans for the day began to gel. With the shooty bits reserved for the weekend proper, I moved the armory to someplace with a lock, and we made our way to the town library/museum. Unfortunately, I forgot my camera, but if you check any of the folks linked yesterday you can probably find something soon, including Breda with a two-headed calf.

After this, we broke for lunch. Since breakfast contained roughly 40,000 calories, and we were both tired from listening to That Fucking Train and the truck parade all night, LabRat and I retired for a quick nap, with everybody agreeing to reunite at FarmFam’s at 1. Jim knocked on the door to remind us that we were reuniting at FarmFam’s at 1.

Leaving a little more time to fiddle with the motel door “lock” (after Jim reminded us that we were reuniting at FarmFam’s at 1 again), we pulled in a few minutes before 1300 to find ourselves again the last ones there, and Jim preparing to come knock on the door for good measure. I thought about collecting everybody’s watches.

Gathered, we put ourselves out to pasture. No, really. FarmGirl took us out to see her beloved horses, and put the various and assembled greenhorns and city slickers a chance to get up on one of these strange and mythical animals of Yon West (and in one case try to kill the poor creature). Alan had an attack of look-at-meitis, and donned curious garb, despite the fact that there wasn’t a sheep for a dozen miles in any direction.

Then the fun began. I’ve done the dude-ranch “See the horsey? Niiiice horsey. Horsey friiiieeeennd!” routine a few times, so I tried to make myself useful hauling shit around. I may not be able to put the saddle on by my lonesome, but I can at least pick things up and move them from point A to B.

Breda and Christina took the first turns, though the horses clearly had in mind that lounging around like a herd of lazy asses was the order of the day. Breda’s horse was most inclined to turn circles and walk backwards, steadfastly ignoring the instructions of the rider. When Christina got on, Joan (the horse, named after the Grand Dame of Rock Ms. Jett herself on account of headbanging when herding cows) eventually figured out that things were not going to go her way that day, and that compliance might make things easier all around.

Midway through all this fun, Ambulance Driver showed up with his daughter Katy Beth in tow. After initially being a little overwhelmed, Katy was convinced to climb up on a horse and we were all treated to not only the cutest cowgirl in town, but also perhaps the most prescient.
“Is the horse gonna go fast, daddy?” she inquired.
“No, sweetie. We’ll go nice and easy,” replied the doting father.
“‘Cause I’d be scared if it started to run,” continued the budding equestrian.
” It’s ok, your daddy and I will be walking right along side you and the horse to make sure,” our hostess weighed in.
“Ok, well, I know you’re gonna walk, but what’s the horse gonna do?”

When I get serious and knuckle down to taking over the world, I’m gonna have to borrow Katy Beth so someone will be around to ask the important questions to keep me from fouling it all up. Seriously, smartest question I heard all damn day.

At this point things headed a little south. That bit about someone trying to kill one of the horses? Yes, that would be the fault of your dutifully typing idiot. After everybody else finished up (with LabRat still ambling around atop the now fully compliant Joan) I was convinced to climb atop Rebel, one of FarmGirl’s slightly-more-spirited-but-still-very-docile steeds. We moseyed off. I’ve always been a little uncertain of the quality of my mosey, but it was at least decent enough to navigate around the corral. We checked out the badger burrow at one end and after a little trotting, I came to the conclusion that I was tired of the dude ranch experience, and it was high time I finally got to experience the fun horse owners enjoy of having the creature stretch its legs and get up a turn of speed. I gave a prod with my heels, flicked the reins, leaned forward, and informed the critter “Let’s go.”

Have I mentioned that Rebel was a rodeo horse used for steer wrestling, and is very sensitive to the position of the rider in the saddle? It was news to me too.

With the last lingering bit of the “o” in go barely past my teeth, there was a stiff breeze in my face. Looking about, I ascertained this was because the horse was now traveling at approximately 87 mph, and was on the verge of leaving flaming hoofprints and depositing me neatly back in 1955. This was fucking fun. Looking at the layout again with the new speed-distorted perspective, I came up with the plan of rounding the corner we were headed for and reining in up at the gate. I figured no sense pushing my luck too far. We rounded the first corner without a hitch, and I adjusted my weight a bit for stability. This meant a bit further forward lean, which again in the information I did not have at the time category, meant I was leaning on the gas harder. I noticed my over-shirt was flapping straight out behind me. This was really fucking fun. Only, um, that gate is coming up kinda fast. No, really… you see that don’t you, Rebel? The gate? Solid thing? People behind it? We’re gonna slow down, aren’t we? We ARE going to– aw, fuck. I hauled back on the reins and tried to lean back. Not knowing about the saddle position thing, and combined with the momentum flinging me forward, I didn’t lean back far enough to convince Rebel, who only moderately slowed. With about ten feet, the horse realized there was a gate in the way and began trying to go from 358mph to 0. The plan did not entirely work.

A short skid later, the gate was ringing a bit, Rebel was shaking his head, and the general clamor of a near miss washed over the folks standing on the non-horsed side of the gate.
“Did he spook, or did you kick him up?” FarmGirl asked. Being used to horses it was clear nobody was seriously hurt, so the order of the day was figuring out just who the dumbass in this little equation was.
“That was me.”
“Your heart going about 300 miles an hour?”
“Hell no! That was FUN!”
I dismounted Rebel, who shook his head again, clearly less enthused about the ride’s conclusion. I began re-evaluating my mental map of all the tales of “horses are so clever” to take into account “but not clever enough to see the gate” while our extremely benevolent hostess told me the trick about the position of rider in saddle. Lesson learned.

From there we all trucked out to inspect the range we’d be sending several thousand rounds down over the next few days. It looked… range-like. More importantly, however, the FarmFam had more food ready, so we gathered up and hauled ass back to town.

To Be Continued…

Posted Ballistic Mood Improvers, Booze and Fine Hooch, Food, Friends, Wildlife Interface, japery |