Walk It Off
“We're walking because we are men.”
That was my nephew's response when he was given the choice between riding in a golf cart or walking during his latest junior championship. While the other parents and little golfers in the “Scheffler” flight loaded themselves and their clubs into carts, my nephew decided he wanted to do something different. He wanted to walk. He wanted to be the only one really doing the work.
It gave me hope for the future of the game.
Since the beginning of golf, walking was the only way to get around the course. Golf bags didn't even exist in the way we know them today. Most golfers carried their few clubs under an arm, with a “feathery” ball in their pocket. There weren't many options for transportation. Maybe you could find a mule or a sheep to help carry your equipment, but considering there were only a handful of clubs, your back probably survived just fine.
Over time, however, we have accumulated things. Fourteen clubs, rangefinders, multiple packs of balls, snacks, drinks, jackets, speakers, towels, and every other accoutrement the modern golfer can convince himself he needs. The bag gets heavier, until walking from the car to the clubhouse feels like a chore.
Then came the golf cart.
Golf carts began appearing in the 1930s after J.K. Wadley saw elderly people being transported in carts to the grocery store and wondered if something similar could help golfers who struggled to walk the course. By the 1950s, electric and gas-powered carts had become practical enough to use regularly. What began as a vehicle for golfers who were arthritic, injured, or simply unable to make the walk slowly evolved into the primary form of transportation for the modern American golfer.
And I understand why. A cart conserves energy, gets you around quickly, and provides a social experience when you're sharing one with another golfer. Modern carts can have GPS, food ordering screens, sound systems, and enough technology to make sure you don't accidentally drive into a lake.
But walking gives you something a cart never can.
The flow of the game is different. Contrary to what many people believe, the pace of play can remain remarkably similar. Each golfer simply walks to his or her ball, assesses the shot, chooses a club, hits, and moves on. You don't have to drive across the fairway, search for the next ball, drive back again, and repeat the process eighteen holes in a row.
Outside of the United States, walking is still the normal way to play golf. In many places, a cart is the exception rather than the rule, sometimes reserved for golfers with a physical need for one. Even in the cold, rain, and wind, golfers head out with rain gear on and a push cart in tow, ready to test themselves against the course.
The push cart, which came later in the history of the game, might be the best compromise. You can bring all the modern nonsense you've accumulated without carrying it on your back, while still getting the cardiovascular benefits of walking the course. The golf course also takes less of a beating without heavy carts constantly moving across the turf.
For me, though, walking is about more than exercise.
Walking gives you a window into the past of the game. It connects you to the round in a way that riding sometimes doesn't. You have time between shots to think, to calm down after a terrible swing, and occasionally to look around and appreciate where you are. In an age when our phones rule our lives and we seem incapable of sitting still for five minutes, walking eighteen holes gives you permission to slow down.
There is probably a reason the professionals still walk every tournament course, caddie in tow. The walk has always been part of the game. Caddie culture, too, has suffered with the rise of the golf cart, along with the guidance, relationships, and jobs that once came with it.
I'm not saying everyone should walk. Some people physically can't, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with taking a cart when you need one. Sometimes, after thirty-six holes or a long day, I don't particularly feel like carrying myself across a parking lot, let alone walking another seven miles.
But when you can walk, I think you should at least give it a try.
My nephew already understands something that took me years to appreciate. At ten years old, surrounded by golfers happily riding around in carts, he chose to put one foot in front of the other and carry himself around the course.
“We're walking because we are men,” he said.
I suppose that's one way to look at it.
For me, we're walking because that's how golf was meant to be played.
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