Pace of play.............

This is the term crotchity (Old, retired guys who 'Marshall' on golf courses use [in return for free play] ones use to tell foursomes "Hurry up", the faster you go, the mo' money the owner makes.

Life too, has it's versions of pace of play. We go from plopping out, to turning over ("Holy crap, would you look at that? Is that the sun/moon/leg/my sister/hound dog?")... we crawl. Tepidly at first, then full force run into the corner of the coffee table soon.

Bear walk.  I actually skipped crawling, was kinda a forecast of my life, skipping stuff (homework, 8am courses in college, forgetting to zip up my zipper, skipping Friday classes from faraway when I wanted to come home and see my girlfriend)...  

Next, we teeter, we totter, we 'take the training wheels off the bear walk' and Katy bar that door, put up a gate, put foam noodles on any/everything the kid can fall on............. we're upright.  For the next twenty some years, we "go like sixty"... Our 8th grade teacher said that all the time. I knew it meant 'very fast' but why 60?  Sixty ain't very fast, at least for me it wasn't..... anyways, we go go go go until we then drop.

Upright. It's kinda known that candles that burn on both ends don't last long, but yum, sucking up as much of this nifty thing life at breakneck speed, why not? The more ya pack into one day, the yummier, better, funner, happier...tireder ya get.

For a long, long time, we walk upright, as in horizontal. Paces vary. Vary due to heredity, disposition, want, goal (or not), affliction (or not), height... once we're decent at walking perty fast for awhile whilst not getting a fat lip from running into anything - they take the training wheels off.

We learn.  Downhill is fun. Sometimes, we run too fast, bike too fast, uh oh, now what?  We tumble. There ain't no "run off's" like they got for truckers when their brakes fail on a big hill.. we skin our knees, hit our teeth on the handlebars, laugh at ourselves, get body painted with mercurochrome. Careful, don't do dat again. Some listen, some go faster. Moms, dads soon learn the shortcuts in getting to the ER.

At some point, we smooch, a lot, same person, long time, pace of play similar, decide, hey, wanna have a baby. I repeat, we repeat.  We go thru all of the above again.

Safer to hold the kid from the car to the Piggly Wiggly than let 'em walk, perhaps get flattened by onea them Tesla's ya can't hear coming.  Kid grows. We grow older. "Up daddy", ahm, ok, but you're getting pretty big, sooooon, ur gonna have to walk on your own into the Piggly Wiggly cause I ain't getting any younger and you're getting heavy. "Well mommy always carries Jimmy", ahm, yeah, that's because he ain't heavy, he's your brother.

So, kids get too old to be carried.  It ain't cool. Much about parents ain't cool when one is 13.

Drive to Granny's house. All this time we've delighted in going like 60, but when we get to Granny and Grandpa's, there's something really soothing about the slower pace. Like, their 60-something ain't going like 60. Grannies (and Grandpa's) assist, encourage our fast pace. Blanket forts, obstacle courses, sitting on porch swing whilst we run the bases again and again, ride our bikes downhill... walk 'em uphill.. then, we getta eat any, everything we want and we getta do it in reverse order if we please, "sure, here's a piece of apple pie." Grannies are like that, yeah they are. They know all about pace.

We're at that place. Grandma's house?  No, we're at that age.  Slower.  Ya think, when wet behind the ears, the faster ya go, the more you'll see and maybe our ears will dry. Older, wiser?  When older, we think wiser, so we go slow to look out, hopefully not miss a thing.  This is fancy for BS, we just can't go at a fast pace any more so we stake claim to "I just wanna make sure and see, experience it all" insteada "damn my (bursitis, arthritis, hip, back, belly, neck, knee) hurt, THAT's why I'm slower.

So............when the grands ain't around, when we've reached the take this job and shove it point, we play golf.  Many different paces in golf.  Range 'too fast' to 'tedious for the resta the foursome' slow. Band camp, I once played with a guy, I swear you could sing the entire Stars Spangled Banner whilst he stood over the ball readying to hit. There were 18 holes. 3 to 8 shots per hole, bingo, at some point ya just wanna scream "Come on, just hit the damn ball!" Butya don't.

Instead, as we were walking back to the clubhouse (was a tourney for us airline dudes), most are finished, sitting on the deck watching us.  As we approach, one of 'em hollers "Hey (enter slow golfer's name here) how come your pantlegs ain't wet from the dew like all the other guys?"  Was true, we looked down, it was kind of a misty day... three of us were soaked about the bottom 4 inches of our pants..  slow golfer wasn't. Some wiseacre in our group (I can't imagine who that would be) answered "Because his damn pantlegs dried off while he was addressing the ball!"

The #1 golf ball, Titliest Pro V1, costs what, $3.50 each?  Ya hit one in the woods, ya wanna search. Then there there's that pace of play thing again. Tightwads will look forever and ever, making the other three's tummy churn, worry about holding up the group behind... so we, without saying so, hope maybe some little snakey will move about scaring the tightwad back to his golf bag to grab another ball, give up and take a penalty stroke. (This timea year, the baby copperheads are born, come out.  They're the ones that don't know how much venom to give when they bite, so they don't save none, supplant it all into your leg. Not a good thing, but sometimes the suggestion of improves the pace of play.)

We range, in life, from bebop (everywhere we go, we go fast) to that's Uncle Joe he'sa movin' kinda slow. It's a choice, or a mandate given one's condition, age, yada.

Pace is why there are three lanes on Interstate.  Online courses. SlimFast. Jets. Lazy rivers. Blimps. Bumper cars. Demolition derbys. Grandmas, grandpas, newborns, siblings, cousins, country roads, parents, friends, hot air balloons, earplugs for blocking ones with hot air, soap box derbys, text messages, easy chairs, abbreviations, porch swings, drive thru's, lots.

Pace is life. Unique. Uphill, downhill. Lucky if we still can have an upright pace. Roll with it if we don't. Body, slow. Mind, fast. Platter of BBQ ribs, damn my tummy hurts.

Have a nice day.......... at your own pace. Gentleman (ladies too), start your engines, life's a helluva ride.

Forward by AJ Foyt and Otis of Mayberry fame.

Love, Victurd