I’ve recently discovered that I have a dark side to my personality: I’m a masochist.

While on vacation recently in Maryland, I chose to play the PB Dye Signature Course, recently voted the 26th toughest course in America by Golf Digest Magazine. And I scheduled a round there knowing full well that my driver and fairway woods haven’t been cooperating.

There was just something thrilling about the prospect of going up against one of America’s toughest courses. I particularly liked PB Dye’s comment on his course design: “I’m a golfer’s worst nightmare– a bulldozer operator with a scratch handicap and an Irish sense of humor.”

Just to make things tougher, I also decided to play from the blues instead of my usual whites. I was prepared for a massacre and expected to enjoy every moment. Mrs. Golfblogger pointed out that there’s something twisted about that.

But upon reflection, I find that my favorite rounds have been the ones where I’ve had to fight for par and bogey.

For me, a round isn’t fun unless I have to extricate myself from a couple of really tricky situations. Not that I actually try to get in those spots, mind you. That happens all on its own. But once there, I love the test.

My favorite shot in golf is not the nine iron from the middle of the fairway. My favorite is the out-of-the-rough-under-the-overhanging-branch-over-the bunker-run-it-up-to-the-green shot (I had one of those at the PB Dye. I popped the ball with a five wood and it worked perfectly).

With those shots, it’s all about imagination. Pulling the 120 club and hitting from the fairway on every par four: that’s repetitive and tedious. Studying the bag, trying to figure out which one and what kind of swing is going to do the job: that’s entertaining.

I also enjoy scrambling for par, or more often, bogey. I had a lot of those at the PB Dye. I wasn’t getting any distance with my driver, so my second shot often was a layup to a hundred yards, where I was reasonably certain I could hit my gap wedge into the green. Sometimes I’d take a long shot at the green with a wood and then have to putt, chip, pitch or lob my way on. Of course, that kind of play means that every putt is made under pressure. A one put is a par; two is bogey. Nothing dull about that.

Blind shots on an unknown course are another kind of thrill. The PB Dye had a lot of those. I’d study the yardage book, take aim at the recommended landmark and let it rip. Since I couldn’t see where ball landed, I’d rush forward, practically holding my breath all the while hoping that everything was okay.

It was a tough day and a lot of fun. And I didn’t do as poorly as I thought I might: my final score was a 93. Not bad for the first time through the twenty sixth toughest course in America.

I’d love to try another on that list. I admit it. I’m a golf masochist.

Mrs. Golfblogger is, I am sure, glad that my dark side applies only to my golf.

On the third hole of my round on Monday, my playing partner got the shanks.

I’d just met Tim—we were paired as walk-ons—but I’m certain that shanking is not his usual game. His first drive was a beauty, flying for two hundred fifty yards right down the middle. He hit an iron close and birdied. On the second, he missed the green, but got up and down for par.

Then off the third tee, Tim popped his drive straight up and right. For a moment, I was worried that he wouldn’t carry the women’s tee. Playing his second from just in front of the red markers, Tim took a mighty swing with a fairway wood—and the ball shot dead right into the woods.

He found the ball and managed to chip out. His next shot—with an iron—headed right back into the woods. After several minutes of looking, he declared it lost and dropped a new ball in the middle of the fairway.

I didn’t blame him. Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the reset button.

After much preparation and several practice swings, Tim took played another shot. Barely clearing the grass, the ball shot about fifty yards forward at a forty five degree angle to his line—right back toward the woods.

My goodness, I thought. He’s got the shanks.

I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to watch. Shanks are the worst shots in golf, and I’m sure they’re communicable. If I watched any more, that swing would ingrain itself into my brain, and I would subconsciously start imitating it.

So as he continued to flail away toward the hole, I busied myself with my laser rangefinder, checking the distances to various trees along the fairway.

Hmm. Fifty yards to that one. Wow. Seventy yards to that one over there. Twenty yards difference. Who’d have thought it.

Tim in the meantime had lost another ball in the woods and was cursing a blue streak.

Forty five yards to the rock. Interesting.

Finally, he passed my ball and I hit my second. It was off-line, but not a shank. Thank heavens.

The rest of the round was a struggle for Tim. He’d hit a couple of good shots and then shank one. His wedges around the green were the worse; he finally gave up and started chipping with a putting motion

A couple of times, Tim asked me what I thought he was doing wrong. I lied and said I had no idea. In the first place, I have a strict policy of not giving advice on the course. And in the second, I really didn’t want to speak the word shank.

No sense calling in the demon by speaking its name.

Riding a cart is NOT faster than walking. Walking with a partner at a local course, we recently finished in two and a half hours.  And when walking a few days later with two guys in a cart, it was me waiting on them, not the other way around.

Every serious golfer knows that, for healthy people, walking is faster than riding. You take your shot and walk directly to your ball, and everyone else is doing the same. It’s a continuous flow. In a cart, you drive to your partner’s ball and wait while he hits, and then drive to your ball and he waits while you hit.

But shop pros and managers insist on perpetrating the lie that carts are faster. It has nothing to do with carts, though. It’s all about making some extra money.

The biggest evidence for this has always been the “mandatory carts” courses that will let you walk—IF you pay for the cart anyway.

Long Island Newsday reports latest course to fall victim to the “carts are faster than walking lie” is the Eisenhower Red on Long Island. Now I’ve never traveled to Long Island, and likely never will. But there was something in the article that caught my eye—the tacit admission that carts are about boosting revenues, not speeding play.

“County officials say making cart use mandatory will speed play—though some golfers disagree—and raise $100,000 to $150,000 in revenues.”

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it. Courses got rid of caddies because they ultimately were an expense. And they added carts as a revenue enhancer. I’d love to know what the profit margin is on a golf cart.