“Is this Doug?”

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to field that question when answering my telephone. No, I’m not Doug. And no, I can’t book you in for next Wednesday.

Doug, it turns out, runs a clay-pigeon shooting school, the telephone number of which contains exactly the same digits as mine, but in a slightly different order. On the regular occasions that I have cycled past his facility — where gunshots ring out from beyond a thin stand of trees — I have found myself praying that Doug’s clients are more accurate with their guns than they are with their dialing fingers.

Noise, erroneous telephone calls, and potential stray shotgun pellets aside, the clay-pigeon shooting school has been a pretty good neighbor for the past 20 years, and it was in the spirit of neighborliness that I finally decided to gain firsthand knowledge of what goes on there.

It turns out that I live in one of the heartlands of clay-pigeon shooting. The sport began in England in 1921, when competitive shooting of live pigeons was made illegal. In place of the birds, clay targets were devised, and a mechanical device (known as a “trap”) was invented to hurl the targets into the air at adjustable heights and speeds. The target looks like a Frisbee, and when hit it shatters into fragments rather than a puff of feathers. Even so, much of the old terminology has been retained. The disc is often referred to as the “bird,” and shooting it is a “kill.”

The gun is still an actual gun, however: In this case, a 12-bore shotgun. Doug showed me how to load two cartridges, which, within their plastic outer casing, contained the small pellets that would hopefully bring down the target. He then checked my stance, and made sure that the wooden butt of the gun was wedged securely into my shoulder.

When I was ready, he shouted “Pull!” and a target was released from the trap. My intention was to aim slightly ahead of the target as it arced across the sky. But I was too slow. My aim trailed behind the whole way, and I watched the target plunge to earth in silence.

“Bang?” said Doug, laughing. “Unless you pull the trigger, you definitely won’t hit anything.”

We tried again. This time I knew roughly what route the target would take. I maintained my aim, squeezed the trigger, and felt the gun kick into my shoulder. The red target dissolved into pieces against the blue sky. I whooped in triumph.

With my first shot, I had exposed one of the shortcomings of clay-pigeon shooting. No matter the height or speed of the target, its trajectory is predictable. It inevitably behaves like the inanimate object it is, rather than a live bird. A variation of the sport addresses this issue. Helice, also known as ZZ, uses a plastic target fitted with propellers. Its passage through the air mimics a pigeon in flight, providing a more authentic challenge for the shooter.

Over the next half hour, the traditional targets proved to be more than enough challenge for me. My initial success turned out to be a fluke. It took another half dozen attempts before I managed to hit another target. But the euphoria was addictive — similar to the rush you get from hitting a great golf shot; a sense that, in that instant, you are a match for anyone.

For more information, including a state-by-state directory of clay-pigeon shooting clubs and venues, visit the National Sporting Clays Association Web site at http://www.mynsca.com