At Least I Was Walking

 ("Spoiling for a Good Walk, Golfers Cut Out the Carts")

My game was in tatters. I had four putted the third, missed a one footer on four and hit out of bounds on thirteen. My score was moving in the wrong direction with relentless precision and my mind was racing with myriad unfounded excuses. But at least I was walking.

It was not a panacea, at least not for this round, but it helped. I was able to join a local club in the early part of 2020, just as the reality of Covid was descending upon us. It proved a tremendous outlet, a way to escape the brutal awfulness for a few hours. We were all given certain restrictions, no rakes in the sand, no ball washers, don't touch the flagstick. And the use of carts was (if memory serves me) initially prohibited and then, for the longest period, limited to a single person occupancy.

For the past year and a half I have walked up and down the hills and valleys here, in search of a swing and the ever elusive birdies and pars. But despite the travails that seem to be the 15th club in my bag, I can unequivocally state that the miles I have logged while yelling at my ball, myself and even God on occasion, have been some of the happiest I have spent in over six decades on the course. 

There is a small centering of self that occurs in the time it takes to travel by foot from one errant blow to the next. A calming of the nervous system. And a feeling that, even on the worst of days, in those times where the club resembles nothing so much as a slithering snake in your hands, that you are doing something good for yourself. Exercising your legs, at the same time you are attempting to exorcise the demons that force every putt wide and every swing to be uniquely aberrant, is a small victory of its own.

So, yes, abandoning the golf cart is something I would recommend for everyone who chases after a little white ball and momentary glory. At the least, it can help make your path to the 19th hole a more pleasant journey.