Posted on 04/15/2003 12:10:12 AM PDT by JohnHuang2
I've beaten down a few women in my time. I'm not writing metaphorically here. I'm talking about punching a girl in the face, doubling her over by kicking her in the stomach, then putting her down on the ground with a right cross to the side of the head. I can't say I didn't enjoy it an adrenaline rush doesn't know gender.
Now, before my inbox overflows with outraged accusations of criminal Neanderthalian misogyny, I should probably point out that this all took place in the brutal full-contact martial-arts dojo that was my home away from home for almost six years. I still remember my first day there, seeing all the fighters in their black robes and the savage gleam in their eyes as they warily circled each other before exploding in a paroxysm of violence. It was truly a place apart a broken ankle was a cause for mockery and uproarious laughter, and if one was so unfortunate as to get knocked out during a sparring session well, to that ignominy was added the expense of buying the victor's drinks that evening.
Of every 10 newcomers, one remained a month later. Few very few ever reached the highest level, as the punishing belt tests were not so much sought as fearfully avoided at all costs. They were tests of skill and discipline, but more than anything, they tested one's willingness to get back on one's feet after being knocked down, again and again.
There weren't many women in our midst, understandably enough. But I was close to one in particular, we called her "Penthouse" because of her long, flowing mane of hair and her not-quite-ready-for-Playboy prettiness. She was a single mother who'd been pushed around by her ex-husband one too many times and she was determined to learn how to defend herself. After three years, she was called on the carpet to test for her green, and I was one of those selected for her sparring test, which consisted of six consecutive two-minute rounds against three high-level fighters, none of whom had just been through a grueling three-hour demonstration of every strike, kick and kata in our repertoir.
By the fifth round, she was exhausted and bruised, barely able to keep her hands up to her chin, much less defend herself. She was nearly helpless, but she must have sensed my desire to take it easy on her, because she snarled at me not to dis her like that, that she'd earned the right to be treated as a fighter and a Dragon. And she had, so it was with genuine affection and admiration that I dropped her twice in the next two exchanges, leaving her with a black eye and a bloody nose. It was a wonderful performance on her part, as she never hesitated to pick herself up, unaided, from the concrete floor. A few months later, the entire dojo cheered her on as she mercilessly destroyed the competition and won her first tournament never having fought a woman before, she said afterward that she couldn't believe how weak and slow her opponents were, how easy it had been when compared with her training.
But if my time in the martial arts taught me to respect the inherent toughness and mental resolve of women, it has also taught me that combat of any sort is no place for them. It may be easy for a woman who hasn't taken a straight-line headshot from a 200-pound man to spin airy myths of martial equality, but no woman like "Penthouse" would ever believe them, and only a man who hasn't felt for himself how easy it is to smash a woman to the ground would take them seriously for a second.
Modern combat may be less strenuous than it was in the age of the heavily-armored Greek hoplite, but it is still physically punishing. The fluid nature of America's new uberblitz tactics means that the attacking forces must carry more of their own supplies on their backs, and indicates that the supply lines will often be operating behind enemy lines.
The capture of Jessica Lynch and Shoshana Johnson and the fact that a significant percentage of our casualties came from a maintenance company does not support the foolish myth of the American Amazon. Instead, it proves that women should be excluded from far more elements of the U.S. military than they are today.
It turns out that an amateur boxer is more likely to come out the winner in a real street fight than a karate black-belt who trained in a "dancing academy", as the boxer is actually used to full-contact, and dealing with pain.
I call most martial-arts places "dancing academies" in that they train people to deal with very artificial situations: Judo moves that rely on the other person wearing a judo outfit to grab onto, absolutely no practice done on anything other than a padded mat, pulling punches (which totally changes the timing), etc, etc
Because, as my dear old dad says, I hate like hell to shoot a man and then stand there and argue with him. :-D
.38 is marginal for self defense, even with the +P rounds (let's not even talk about the .32, that's marginal for field mice). The .45 is a trifle on the heavy side, but you get used to it. And, God forbid you should actually have to shoot somebody, they will go down and stay there. I have never actually had to shoot anyone (on two occasions simply assuming a Weaver stance was enough to make the assailant beat feet, and I won't shoot a man in the back) but my dad once had to, and a single shot from the .45 knocked the man sprawling. (He saw a lot of GIs who survived 9mm Luger wounds, but he never saw a live German with a .45 hole in him.)
When I'm carrying I usually wear a Bianchi shoulder holster under my jacket, which distributes the weight very nicely. The 1911 is a difficult "summer carry" if you wear your shirt tucked in, not because it's heavy but because it "prints". The new "pager holster" and fanny pack with integral holster are not bad (I won't carry in a purse - it just gives a purse snatcher a free bonus.) But I got the P245 for a little less obvious carry. And people see what they expect to see anyway - which is not a matronly 48 year old packing a 1911.
My lady is 5'2" and 115, and so only a little bit smaller than your daughter. She isn't particularly recoil sensitive and will shoot anything you give her, but one of the problems she had with shotguns was that the 12ga were too heavy for her to use regularly. Her arms would get tired very quickly.
I have a shotgun for just this situation that slight women seem to love: a Remington Model 17 I picked up several years ago (picked out by an ex-girlfriend at gunshow who insisted that I buy it). The Model 17 is a 20ga pump, and they haven't made them in 75 years, but the design is superb. They are very light, have a wonderful trigger, and they don't cost too much even though they do have some collector value. I picked mine up for $175 and it gets a lot of use because half the women I know love the thing. I've thought about picking up another.
I wish Remington would make another shotgun like the Model 17 that was slightly modernized. Their current line of equivalent 870s just don't compare, though I have one.
You obviously need to move up to a bigger caliber. LOL.
I have my mom's old dove gun, an 1148 in 28 gauge. It is light, a great natural pointer, and you can literally shoot it all day. I once shot skeet round about with two friends from about 10 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, with a short break for a Coke and a sandwich. I'm looking for the same model in 12 and/or 20.
I also have my grandfather's Browning "Mankiller" in 16 ga., and it's a punisher. I can't shoot more than a couple of rounds of skeet without feeling like I'm getting beat up. It's not the gauge, because my dad's Parker is a 16 and if it wasn't for the "bang" you'd think it was a 28.
Yep, several companies made shotguns of that design in the early 20th century. It comes from the same design family as the old Remington Model 17 that I have found to be simply wonderful. I think the design was originally done by Browning, but made by Remington, Ithaca, and one other company.
What I want to know, is why can't they make pump guns that nice today? The whole action of that series was wonderful, much nicer than most of the more "modern" shotguns I have purchased.
(honest).
Did your mom actually BUY that monstrosity, or did she inherit it from a nutty goose-hunting uncle?
kAcknor Sez:
Three and a half inch magnums? Steel butt? Whoa... Last Monday I took my Mossburg 500 to the range and needed a few extra slugs. I stopped into a local Wally-World clone and they had 3" mag slugs on sale so I picked up a few boxes.
I shot 2 loads of 5 of Wolf standards, then loaded up the magnums. In a word: OUCH. One shot and the entire line stopped and looked to see what had made all the noise. :)
I still have the remains of the bruise on my right arm for not having it tucked up properly. I did fire the remaining four shells, but the rest came home to await a winter day and a heavy coat.
"tIqIpqu' 'ej nom tIqIp" (Hit them hard and hit them fast.)
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