Monday, August 09, 2004

Sore and sunburned

Went for too long of a run this morning and I think I hurt my knee, but not bad enough to keep me from meeting Ray for lunch ("Burger Buddies" served in the original packaging, with shoestring curly fries, fried shrimp, and skirt steaks with mashed potatoes) and a round of golf. Due to the heat we got a cart today (I was already feeling heatstroke from earlier) ...I don't know if I could have lasted 18 in the full afternoon sun. I'm pretty woozy even now and have a wet bandana wrapped around my head.

What with the sore legs my downswing weight transfer was a little behind, and I was skulling it something awful, hitting the thinnest tee shots you ever saw. It didn't help that Ray had decided to play the entire round in traditional attire, including tasseled spikes, argyle knee socks, baggy knickers, sweater vest, and tam-o'-shanter. He was even calling his clubs his "mashies," "niblicks" and "spoons," sort of at random. He did at least manage to call his putter his "putting cleek," though, which was historically accurate for his getup. I guess he'd been trying to learn more of the history of the game as a way of lowering his score, which definitely doesn't work.

Ray insisted on driving the cart, which was fine with me, except that he kept dipping into this cooler full of icy Amstel Lights and by about the ninth hole he was pretty saucered. On the way between the 9th green and 10th tee the scorecard blew out of the cart and he said the second half of the round would just be "drinkin' golf." That was fine with me, as I was pretty parched and hadn't thought to bring any water. Plus, I was already up $580, not bad for a couple hours' work. He handed me a cracked Amstel and we clinked.

Alcohol definitely doesn't do anything for my swing. You'd think it would smooth things out but it just throws my timing off. It did wonders for Ray, though. By about the 12th hole he was swinging like Bobby Jones, and making some beautiful shots. That lasted for about one hole, at which point he started having to close one eye and stick his tongue out every time he tried to focus on the ball.

Then things got ugly. After the 13th tee there's a big downhill slope that leads into a lake, and at the top of it he looked at me and said, "Think I can jump this?" I said no, because there was no ramp, just a slope leading down into a lake.

"I think I can jump this!" he said, laughing.

Before I knew what was happening, he had floored it and we were shooting down the hill directly at the lake. There was no physical way for us to achieve loft and fly over it. We were going too fast to jump out, and pretty soon we were going too fast to turn or hit the brakes.

Needless to say, we did not manage to jump the lake. We slammed into the water and flew over the hood at about fifty miles an hour. While we were under I looked over at him—through the murky water he was looking at me with a big smile and yelling, "Let's look for some shrimps!"

After we pushed the cart out of the water and let it dry for a while, we got it started and I drove us back to the clubhouse. Next time we rent carts, I'm getting my own.