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The Early Days of IPSC


Patrick Sweeney

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Those not at Second Chance really missed something. For nine days you were fed, allowed (for a small fee) to shoot machineguns, compete, talk, camp on the grounds and even drink.

Man, Second Chance. I was always so excited to get there... and was sooo sad to leave. And I'd usually even stay around Central Lake for a week or so after the match was over, Area Match's schedule permitting.

Thanks for the story Patrick. Cheers to you and Second Chance. This pic might make you shed a tear or two. Me and David Ryan set up the tables like that one night, just so it would look so awesome when everyone showed up the next morning.

be

post-171-1171428931.jpg

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Were there that many more ? (awesome)

Yep, on the shootoffs, we'd start with the outermost banks of tables, A and J, and then move in toward the middle, where Richard would always say: "E and F....are the only ones left....timers ready...."

Each shootoff began with 30 shooters on the line at once. Talk about your "rolling thunder."

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  • 3 weeks later...

Hi All,

I have some photos from a club I used to shoot at in California in the early 1980's (my 1st exposure to IPSC). Lots of SS .45 in cross draw holsters. The photos are so old the color mask is fading. I think a trip to the local Walgreen's is in order for "historical reasearch". :P

Ken

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  • 1 month later...

Not so far back, but still a fun time. The World Shoot in 1999 was held in Cebu, the Philippines. The range was so strange you wouldn't believe it without photos. Originally a limestone quarry, it had stopped being used for that some time before. the yellowish low-grade limestone wouldn't slump in the rain, but crumbled under gunfire. So in the course of the match we bored tunnels into the sheer walls of the ex-quarry.

some time along the way, a shantytown sprang up around the quarry. So there we were, shooting into the sidewalls, with fences and shacks 50-60 feet directly above the impact areas. In one corner of the range, the occupant had turned his radio up real loud, to drown out the sound of gunfire below.

Since we were at the bottom of a hole, rain collected quickly. I took this photo right after a shower. Not to worry, it was so hot it all evaporated in short order.

33n8286.jpg

Just past the tents, we're shooting directly into the wall underneath the structures you see. We did that in a 360 degree arc.

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OK, a Second Chance photo. (I can't seem to find the bin with the bale of photos, though.) I'm on the line, getting ready for the commands. That is the start position: "Gun on the rail." You could stand anywhere, but you couldn't use the rail or posts for support.

Since I have a comped .45 in hand, it's pretty clear (and the number of shooters) that I'm shooting the Main Event, Pin Gun.

3532pz5.jpg

The name badge on my hat identifies me, and shows I'm a Master Blaster. The patch on my belt is that year's SC patch, and I'd need it to get chow in the chow line. Every year's patch was a different color scheme, so if I drag them out I can tell you what year this was. (I happened upon that patch while doing some straightening in the shop. 1997.)

Now we're off to Dallas, 1986. Skinny waist, surplus tank commanders hat, single-stack comp gun. Oh, and real leather belt, holster and mag pouches.

33blr3s.jpg

You know the hardest part about having other people take photos of you? Convincing them to actually zoom the lens, and not take a panorama. This is a scan that takes up less than a quarter of the photo.

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Not so far back, but still a fun time. The World Shoot in 1999 was held in Cebu, the Philippines. The range was so strange you wouldn't believe it without photos. Originally a limestone quarry, it had stopped being used for that some time before. the yellowish low-grade limestone wouldn't slump in the rain, but crumbled under gunfire. So in the course of the match we bored tunnels into the sheer walls of the ex-quarry.

some time along the way, a shantytown sprang up around the quarry. So there we were, shooting into the sidewalls, with fences and shacks 50-60 feet directly above the impact areas. In one corner of the range, the occupant had turned his radio up real loud, to drown out the sound of gunfire below.

Since we were at the bottom of a hole, rain collected quickly. I took this photo right after a shower. Not to worry, it was so hot it all evaporated in short order.

33n8286.jpg

Just past the tents, we're shooting directly into the wall underneath the structures you see. We did that in a 360 degree arc.

Hey Pat,

Is this the same World Shoot that I heard Robbie talking about where the rain washed all the raw sewage into the quarry. He said all of the "waste" from the town above was washed down, because the village above didn't have any indoor bathrooms? Sounded kinda gross to me! Said it stunk and you sure as hell didn't feel like eating at the match!

Edited by Barrettone
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At one point, our squad (I shot Modified, with the Czechs, Ukrainians and Slovenes) was going for one stage to the next and we bump up behind the Standard Super Squad.

Mike Voigt looks at me, looks at the mud, and remarks "If we're lucky it's only mud."

That was before my nasal surgery, so I couldn't smell a thing.

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OK, a tale much newer, from the 2002 3-Gun Nationals. I had flown in, with a ton of gear, rented a car, and had finally hauled all my stuff up to the hotel room. After my gear check, dinner and some dry-firing, I settle in. In the early morning hours I'm awakened by a pain.

Now, I'm what you'd call "pain-tolerant." Maybe even pain-insensitive. I've broken fingers and toes in martial arts training, re-set them myself, and motored on. I've had root canals and nasal surgery. Nothing fazes me.

The pain is so bad I wake up fighting, sure I've been attacked and stabbed. Then the pain really hits, and I'm on the floor. It feels like I have a nuclear-powered red-hot knife stabbed in my lower right back, and some sadistic tax accountant is twisting it.

I figure "muscle cramp" and take a hot shower. No-go. I get dressed and stagger out into the hall, and there's Mike Gibson, up early to setup his gear for the match. Bless his heart, he wants to help me get to the ER. "No, just get me to the lobby and I'll catch a cab."

At the ER, I can't speak. All I can do is gurgle and moan, point to my back, and hand them my insurance card. They put me on a gurney in the ER, and leave me there to thrash about, moan and leave my fingerprints indented in the stainless steel rails. After what seems like forever, a Doctor finally comes by. He rolls me on my side and starts poking me in the back. "Doesithurthere? Doesithurthere? Doesithurthere?" I guess my screams and moans made sense, for he dropped me back and said triumphantly "You've got a kidney stone."

"Nurse, five milligrams of Morphine." Which did practically nothing for the pain. So they gave me another five. By now I'm supposed to be floating on cloud nine, but I'm not, so they're getting worried. Time for a scan.

I'm wheeled off to a huge machine. What kind? I have no idea, as between the pain and the drugs you could have told me it was a Starfleet shield generator and I'd believe you. It's all I can do to get myself off the gurney, and I almost fall on the floor in the process.

Big problem: I can't get myself onto the loading tray. And then there are my clothes. I'm wearing a steel-lined belt, and my shirt has metal buttons. My boots have metal shanks. I have pocket change and a Benchmade folder. All very bad ju-ju for the machine. The nurse says "stay right here" (Like I'm going anywhere?)and leaves.

She comes back with three more nurses, one of whom looks as if she could have been a definite asset to any Big 10 football team defensive line. They process to strip me to my shorts, pick me up, and stuff me into the machine. Under different circumstances that might have been kinda fun. I was in such pain I tried to do as little thrashing as possible, which wasn't much help. Scan negative. (So much for medical science.)

Then, something happens and the pain subsides enough that I can actually talk. Which they take as a good sign. They leave me to get dressed, collect my dignity, sign the paperwork and collect my prescriptions on my own.

I still have a match to shoot.

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I love this thread.

I went to second chance in the early to mid 80,s. I was a poor apprentice gunsmith at the time so I was carpooling with a couple of guys from here in Louisville. Mike Gleason, Chris Edwards and I borrowed a van and headed for Central Lake. Now this van was a cargo van and because it did not have a back seat so one of us brought a recliner for the back. Chris was playing Capt. Kirk for most of the trip bellowing orders. I at the time was building Guns for Ken Tap and Bobby Carver so Ken was paying for me to go to second chance to see him shooting the guns I wrenched for him. It was a fun trip till I got sick from a slice of that whole beef they had on the spit.

We were traveling on the cheep so we were camping in the van. After a few days there we were getting looks from everyone and being avoided so we went to the hotel in town to rent a room and get a shower. All we could get was a single. So we said OK Chris could have the room and then went around to the entrance at the north end of the place. I had to have a shower even if I had to sleep in the Van. Well we slept in the room but I slept on the floor.

The back range was great and I bought as much .50 ammo as I could afford from the concession stand before we went. They had about 3" thick steel plates hanging from chains to shoot the .50 into that I remember. The night shoot on the back range was a hoot with the .223 tracer going up off of the ground.

Fun remembering all this and the trip is usually as good as the shooting.

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