Death at 5 MPH

If you ever get the chance to volunteer at a golf tournament for charity, you should decline with outright rage and with great vehemence. Throw things to punctuate your complete and utter outrage at the prospect.

But Rob, why? (You are saying that, right?)

It's for a good cause (that too, yes?).

Ahhh, my friend, of course it is. But that doesn't change the fact that you are most likely being asked to commit a rare form of seppuku.

What will invariably happen is that out of the “goodness” of the administrators “hearts” (any resemblance to a real human heart is purely coincidental), and in order for you to best serve them in the volunteer capacity, they will loan you a golf cart.

Or, as I prefer to think of them, a DEATH TRAP ON WHEELS.

These little carts are innocuous enough, but once you grasp the basics of driving them, you will suddenly find yourself wishing that you could shift gears, as you careen around tight corners, put the cart on two wheels, and invariably pull a three-sixty olly with a kick flip (I have no idea if this is an actual move, it just sounded cool to say it).

Maybe it's just me.

My experience on one of these WHEELED TERRORS FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL followed these lines exactly. Now, my father states that I am “hard” on vehicles, whatever that means. Apparently, if you can blow two transmissions, most of the shocks and struts, a few bearings, rims, and drivelines, as well as all but the left-rear brake (pads, rotors and all) in a 1994 Ford Taurus, then this qualifies you as being “hard” on vehicles.

I just don't see it.

Perhaps it's something of the Highland Scot (yes, that's my REAL FIRST name) in me that simply insists on the daring. As most people know, the general Scottish culture was based on a dare. After all, who else would stuff sheep intestines with cabbage and an assortment of meats (which will remain nameless to protect the innocent), BOIL IT, and then proclaim it not only edible, but a delicacy? Who else's male population would wear shorter skirts then their females, proclaim them “traditional dress” (yeah, no kidding) and then wear them openly in battle?

I reason that kilt-wearing and haggis-eating offered more opportunities for fights, both on a small and large-scale level.

But I digress.

Whether it was my Scottish heritage or not, there I was, there I was, there I was in the jungle of the Old Mill Golf Course, volunteering my time to help raise money for scholarships. I know that you are shocked to find an altruistic streak in someone who is generally as self-serving and ego-centric as I am, but you will be relieved to learn that BOTH breakfast and lunch were provided.

And I got a nifty shirt!

I was given golf cart number five, henceforth known as The Widowmaker. It seemed so innocent at the time. I mean the top speed in a golf cart can't be more then five miles an hour. Having never operated one of SATAN'S LITTLE GO CARTS I was understandably apprehensive. But, after an initial shakedown cruise out to my designated hole (lucky number 13) I found the craft was deceptively easy to handle. You simply point the cart in the general direction you want to go, press on the accelerator pedal and off you go. If you need to backup, you simply press the Reverse-Forward button, and while it emits a piercing scream to, I assume, scare away other golf carts, you back up.

Or so I believed.

As I was turning my cart around on a small hill (think Mt. McKinnley) I switched the MACHINE OF DOOM to reverse not fully understanding the complexities of golf-cart physics. I backed up the hill, placing me at an angle that would make Evil Knivel shudder with apprehension, returned the cart to the forward operating position, kept my hands and legs in the cart at all times, and was suddenly plummeting down the hill at a fantastic speed toward the “rough” and certain death.

If I had been able to slingshot around the sun, I would have enough speed for time travel (bonus points here for the character who said this).

As I screamed like a panicked school-girl, my arms and legs flailing independent of my body (more points here) the cart catching air from every divot and break on the course, my foot inadvertently hit the brake, the airbags exploded outward, emergency thrusters fired and I careened to a rough stop on the brink of what can only be considered the Grand Canyon's older and meaner big brother.

Certainly, some divine hand must have played a role in my salvation that day. Anyone know a good religion I can convert to? No hints, Lillian.

Fortunately, this little departure from my normally calm, cool James Dean-esque demeanor was only witnessed by two or three dozen golfers who later passed the story on at the clubhouse over lunch, and which was then whisked magically away by the mysteries of the internet. CNN called that night, but fortunately I was away on “other business.”

My reputation is intact.

This is why, if anyone ever asks you to volunteer for a golf tournament, SLAP THEM SILLY. And NEVER let me borrow your car. Don't even let me borrow your shoes.