Stroller nightmare.
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Ever had the feeling on a golf course, where you suddenly freeze and turn ashen grey as if you’ve seen a ghost and your whole past life flashes in front of your unbelieving eyes?
You haven’t? Well it happened to me less than 24 hours ago – and it’s not recommended.
I’d been having trouble with my Kaddy Stroller trolley – a unique three-wheeled ‘contraption’ well known to visitors to this website.
It’s a foldaway model that demands a ‘push me’ rather than ‘pull me’ technique, with three pneumatic tyres, one at the front, two at the sides and resembles the illegitimate offspring of a child’s pushchair and a supermarket trolley!
Suffice to say my fellow golfers can spot my presence on the course from clubhouse balcony from a distance of over half a mile!
Despite the heckling, I’m very attached to it and all those who have given it a gentle shove admit that, on the flat, it gives the impression of being so light, it appears motor-powered, which of course it isn’t. We’ll what do you expect for £99?
I must admit I’ve been meaning to get the brake fixed for some time – several months, in fact – but instead have tended to park it across inclines and against waste bins, small trees and other players’ bags to avoid it escaping in anything but a light zephyr.
However on Sunday one of my playing colleagues who will soon be off to the sands of the Middle East to serve his country, remarked that my unusual trolley merely needed a small sail erecting on its handlebars and it would be quite competitive as a land yacht.
I laughed it off as yet another jealous remark at my unusual bag-carrier and proceeded to roll in back-to-back birdie putts.
I was still feeling self-satisfied when we approached the final hole, usually a mere flick with a wedge or sand iron from an elevated tee to a green, cut into a hillside and perched above a small lake teeming with carp and populated around its edges by swans, mallards and moorhen.
It’s a 100-yard trek up to the tee, so park the trolley in a rut in the path, reached the summit and inserted my tee peg. I turned to survey the shot in front of me and immediately was alerted by a sickening cry "Bob…your trolley!"
This mechanical ‘bastard’ was on the move and heading for the lake.
No one was within 50 yards of it – and as described earlier - the nightmare was so vivid as it careered 20 yards and toppled into the steep sided lake, resembling an Olympic tumble turn by Ian Thorpe.
For a few seconds it floated on the surface, oozing a few bubbles from the six pockets in the black Wilson bag before sinking majestically, just out of reach of the shore.
My first thought was ‘Christ! My car keys! How will I get home?’
I was not amused, which is more than can be said for my playing colleagues, whose immediate concern turned quickly to great mirth when I wondered aloud if anyone knew where I might find a boat in a hurry.
With a coastguard SOS out of the querstion, mere rope was required and I raced off to find some. It's not an easy piece of equipment to lay your hands on in a hurry at a golf course though I’ve heard of dozens threatening to make a more sinister use having carded a triple bogey finish in the club championship!
Fortunately they’re completing building alterations to the pro shop at Greetham Valley so the area was roped off to avoid accidental collision with bricks, planks and a cement mixer.
Not for long it wasn’t!
I headed back and was breathlessly alarmed to discover that my three colleagues were back on the tee playing out the hole.
My trolley had been abandoned, though fortunately – and possibly thanks to its pneumatic tyres and a brand new Pringle waterproof jacket that had inflated in one of the pockets – two wheels had just broken the surface.
Two of us, performing a bizarre type of cattle lassoo-ing, managed to snare the axle and drag the trolley to the bank while by now two more fourballs gathered to watch, hardly able to contain themselves.
A quick inventory of equipment revealed that the seven Bay Hill by Palmer irons, the 52-degree Vokey Oil Can wedge and the new King Cobra 430 SS unlimited driver I had been testing were present and correct, so was my Big Bertha 3-wood, Steelhead 7-wood, waterproof jacket and my car keys.
Still at the bottom of the lake is my 29-inch putter that has been a faithful friend for over 30 years.
I talk of it in the present tense because one of my regular playing colleagues is an amateur diver – that’s with aqualung and not ‘top-bombing’ from the high board – and has promised to recover it later this week before the forecast Arctic weather closes in again.
Much relieved but still shaken, I was the toast of the clubhouse yesterday lunchtime as my story quickly spread and no doubt will be talked about in anecdotal form for years to come.
One wag even suggested that when it is eventually recovered, I should re-name my putter ‘Excalibur’!
Now that is funny.
