Most of my fun when playing golf comes from driving the cart, I reflect, barrelling through the pro shop with my nitromethane-fired Briggs. Caddies and pros alike scatter, finally equalized under the threat of an external aggressor, as the chromoly tube frame bumper bites into the throw carpet under hard braking as I bus-steer the ship around, pointing it directly at the foremost plate glass window, and pin the throttle.
Angry barks emanate from behind me, both from the de jure citizenry of this fine country club and the now-overwhelmed Briggs, its ridiculously overbored diaphragm carburetor vibrating so quickly at the demand for aspirated fuel that the entire gas tank is fighting its mounts. The Cub Cadet (Model 70, of course, who do you think I am, a poor?) frame harmonizes with it as the fiberglass replica panels shake at the extent of their dzus connectors. Holding back 175 wheel horsepower on any lawn tractor is no mean feat, but the Cadet does it admirably.
Stepping out of the cart, shod in reflective safety orange tartan, I arrive at the green perfectly coiffed beneath a jaunty golf cap. Naturally, I apologize to the players who are already there. My ball went a little wide, I explain, and I just had to come over here and play it as it lays. I hear throats clear, and some rumbling about what is to be done about this infuriating gearhead rabble.
“Fore!” I scream, as I nail a line drive directly through the heretofore-unbroken pro shop’s windows, perfectly restoring my game to the fairway of the hole I was playing.
When I returned to my own game, they were waiting for me, standing atop the origin of a 250-foot-long divot which was produced by the Cadet’s launch control module’s heinous but mathematically sublime burnout. How was I going to set FTD with them standing in the way now?