My dealer is 3 hours, 45 minutes away. My wife thinks I'm nutty.
So did mine (not because I had driven a great distance to get it but because I had ordered it after seeing the prototype unveiled at SHOT 2002 and waited two years for it to arrive). But all that changed one evening shortly after I had taken delivery of my R9. We were driving down a deserted mountain road when a carload of stupidly belligerent drunks drove up behind us and began acting like . . . stupidly belligerent drunks.
Then, said she, "You
do have the Rohrbaugh with you, don't you?" To which, said I, "Of course." To which, said she, "
Good!"
As it played out, the drunks, although belligerent, weren't
totally stupid. They careened on by us and down the mountain, waving their fists and shouting obscenities out the windows of their vehicle, after we had suddenly pulled into a scenic overlook and spun the car around to face them. By that time, unknown to the carload of inebriated clowns, the R9 was being held, discretely but firmly, in my right hand (forefinger along the slide, of course).
Ever since that time, my wife expects me to have the Rohrbaugh in my pocket at all times and in all places when and where it is legally permissible to do so.
