Morning Drive
By Motor Chip
“Hey Chip, why don’t we have hela-taxis from SFO to Poplar Creek? Imagine never risking missing a tee time or being stuck in gridlock traffic,” stated Randy G. “Uber Copters, their time has come,” replied my attorney Blue Moon Retainer. The more the drive dragged on, the more fanciful the ideas. It was at this junction that I began to study my car radio, its dial positions and how it represents the golf games of our membership.
Confused, trust me, it is less confusing than Bill Feeley’s underground express tubes and autopods idea. It all hinges on your clubhead speed and the existing radio programs at that level. If your clubhead speed is in the low eighties you fall into the NPR zone. National Public Radio. Your game is radically unpredictable off the tee. It is uncommonly left and almost certainly out of the money. A telethon is not an option.
Just up the dials are the sports talk shows and the Spanish language stations. Your game looks and sounds good on the range and you have great rhythm, but it somehow doesn’t translate to the course. “Y eso no es bueno mi amigo”. It boils down to too much talk and not enough game in any lingo.
Next comes the transition channels on your dial ruled by rap and pop music. Your game trends to the latest fads and what’s hot with the golf channel hipsters. You will find in your garage at least one flat billed Puma cap, an alien wedge, a white belt, a belly putter and one black and red collarless shirt. Luckily you will get older and outgrow this silliness. We, here at Chip, hope you never know the pain of sub fours.
At 100 or so on your dial, we enter the adult contemporary and cool jazz section. The middle of the road is where your game should be. The jazz adds swagger and a calming element that is not seen at the lower levels. Your game is effortless and boring, bordering on indifference all the way to your opponent’s ATM.
Top end is where hot country and packaged religion shows meet. Farm strong and religious purity, when your game is on, the angles join to sing in golf harmony. Long towering drives, majestic iron play, you have thoughts and dreams of course records. When your game has strayed from the flock, its all fire, brimstone, and
damnation. This music sounds more like a five-hour, fifth-grade band rehearsal.
I was snapped out of my silent reverie with a sudden break in traffic. As I sped up to cruising speed, I found myself tuning the radio to 101.5 and steered to the middle of the road.
Editors Note: Willie Nelson released a new album two weeks after the last column was published. Coincidence?
