I might have thought I was lost had there not been a sign on the door, wedged just slightly ajar thanks to a rubber stopper, that read "Follow all the way down the hall to Bad Axe Throwing. See on Instagram. I took countless left and right turns before arriving yet another notation: "Open to enter Bad Axe Throwing.
I had checked the site earlier in the week and knew that Bad Axe welcomes solo throwers from 4 to pm. Mary smiled a broad grin and nodded, explaining that I could pay to "throw" in half-hour or hour-long sessions. But I, being an internet sleuth, also knew that Bad Axe offers freebie hours to birthday boys and girls, and mine just so happened to be just six-hours away. In no time, I was filling out the company's online safety agreement, pledging that I alone would be responsible for any severing of my digits or limbs.
My off-brand running shoes now hugged the blue painter's tape that marked my spot from which to throw, about 30 or so feet from one of eight large wooden boards that hung on the opposite wall. A hatchet of considerable heft soon found itself within my grasp; my dominant right hand poised inches below my cumbersome left hand in recommended axe-throwing-form. Mary, who has worked at the Daly City location since it opened this summer, instructed me step-by-step on how to properly and accurately catapult the sharp piece of high-tinsel steal toward the bulls-eye.
Pull the axe above your head, arching your back slightly. Think of yourself as a bow. Then, with the axe still steady in your hand and upright, thrust it back over your head, making sure to use the force of your body weight to propel it, just before releasing your firm grip when you meet your line of sight again. And, stunningly, so did I. A hyena-like cackle strummed from my vocal cords as I realized my cleaver's head had firmly wedged in the center of that red-painted circle; I was flabbergasted, dumbfounded, a bit dizzied from the inciting episodes of exuberant, but shallow breathing.
It was an intoxicating and suffocating euphoria, one I repeated only once more during the evening, presumably by happenstance. Interestingly enough, the bulls-eyes aren't actually the hardest targets.
