And so although it was a lovely, dry morning, I figured that the gym -- despite its still, hot air -- was the safer option. At the very least, in my sleepy state and with tired legs, I knew that I’d be forced to run my prescribed pace on the treadmill, while I couldn’t be so sure that I wouldn’t slow down considerably if it was just me versus the open road. And I was right. By the fourth repeat, my HR was climbing to strangely high territory. By the fifth 1200 m repeat my legs were beginning to burn, and I began counting down the remaining time by the second. By the sixth repeat, I could barely go quickly enough to prevent myself from flying off the back of the machine altogether. And when I finally started my cool-down, I kept the pace a tad higher than I should have because, I figured, the faster I finish this workout, the faster I get to go home, drink a cup of coffee, and eat my cereal (and by this time, Zdenek was already complaining on the treadmill next to me that he was hungry). In running, it seems, quickness helps not just when you’re working hard, but also when you want to stop working. Quickness is everything.
The same cannot be said of other sports -- in particular, golf. This past weekend, Zdenek and I flew to Canada to spend Easter with his parents. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we stayed up until (relatively) late, drinking, eating, and talking with my in-laws. It was good to be with family, and we seemed to cover every subject under the sun. It was exactly the way I would have designed the weekend. But when I am with my in-laws, I know that a golf game is always on the table. On past visits, I have run 18 miles while the rest of the family golfed 18 holes, but this weekend, we had only an easy 13 miles on our Saturday schedule. The weather was beautiful, and we had plenty of time for nine holes in the afternoon.
To be clear: I am most definitely not a golfer. Although I’m not very good at it, it doesn’t leave me frustrated or cursing on the green as it seems to do for those who truly love the sport (a perverted love indeed). It does, however, bore me. I find that on the first couple of holes, I’m relatively focused. I concentrate, take note of my stance, and practice my swing a few times. By about the sixth hole, however, I start to lose interest. I just want the game to be over as quickly as possible. I don’t return my club (one of only three that I use) to the bag between turns. I forgo practice swings in favor of connecting with the ball -- however poorly -- more quickly, which just leaves me chasing it down the fairway in ten foot increments, thus wasting even more time. Towards the end, I sometimes don’t even finish the hole at all, instead opting to take whatever score the scorekeeper decides I might be worth. I just grab my ball and head off to the next hole, ticking them off like miles in a marathon.
Something about golf just bores me and strikes me as a waste of time (and money and water and green space). I may not be quick enough to be a great runner, but I surely lack the necessary focus to ever become a great golfer. Golf just isn't challenging for me in an adrenaline-rushing, heart-pumping kind of way. I don’t grin from ear to ear like I sometimes do when riding my bike. I don’t enter a zone the way I can while running hard and long. It doesn’t even seem good for my body in the way yoga or swimming does. And it most certainly does not reward speed. To attempt to play quickly will certainly just backfire and end up prolonging the game. In golf, unlike running, to be quick is to suck, and I am definitely not cut out for the patience demanded over nine or 18 holes. Eighteen miles, on the other hand, is a different story.
My kind of golf
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