So many thoughts buzzed in my head but with every draw of the string, another useless thought went whizzing down range, quieting my mind. Arrow, string, draw, hold, breath, hold, aim, release. So much to worry about in a skill that has been around since forever.
I am standing in a freshly plowed field of mud and thirty yards away, a french duke labors to reach me. If he does, he'll slice me like a holiday goose, protected in his invulnerable shell. I have to hit him dead on with a bodkin, or aim for the tiny slits in his visor.
My target shudders from the impact.
My vision isn't what it used to be and instead of aiming for the center of the target, I'm only aiming for the target itself and my carelessness shows.
My excuse is that it's been a year. I'm rusty.
Fourteen shafts out and my quiver is empty. Sixty Five pounds each draw isn't a bad work out, especially when I start rapid fire. Draw, fire, draw again. Fourteen shafts out, all hits. At thirty yards that isn't bad for a girl scout. I'm hitting a man sized target, but it's a shotgun pattern.
Not good enough.
A few more rounds and I am beginning to center again. That's important. At point blank, you have to hit the breast plate dead on or it will glance off. Can't have that.
The last of the light fades and I pack up. I still have a few rounds in me, but now is not the time to push it.
As I haul everything back to the barn, I wonder why I don't do this more often.