There are few things in golf that I enjoy as much as trying out a new course.

A restless soul, I rarely play the same track twice in a row. This summer alone, I’ve played eighteen new clubs, completing my goal of playing every public course in Washtenaw County, Michigan. I’ve also played courses in West and “Up North” Michigan, in Maryland and at Torrey Pines in San Diego. In all, I’ve played twenty five different courses (some I had played in previous years).

Unfamiliar courses are an adventure. Like an explorer with an incomplete map, a player can get an approximate lay of the land from a scorecard, but never really know. To find the source of the Nile, Speke and Burton actually had to make the journey. A new course begs to be explored in the same way.

Standing on the first tee, I always wonder what’s in store. Will the course be a beauty, or a dog? Hard to conquer or easy? Memorable? Forgettable? Fun? Frustrating? A day at a new course always is filled with possibilities.

And it’s the possibilities that draw me onward. Each hole offers a new experience; a new view; a new test of golf. Balls land in unexpected places. Traps are closer – or farther – than they seem. Water unexpectedly comes into play – or doesn’t. Seemingly flat greens reveal themselves to be multi tiered.

There are regrets on the journey. Putts take unexpected turns. Playing cautiously, I often underclub. Or, arriving at my ball, discover that there was a better way to play the last shot.

But there also are triumphs. To play a hole perfectly on the first try is exhilarating. Discovering that the ball has landed in the center of the fairway on a blind shot makes me grin.

Finding a course’s soul is part of the adventure. Corporate, resort, real estate development, family run or traditional – each has its own distinct flavor. On a couple, I could almost see men in white sport coats and women in beehive hairdos standing on the clubhouse porch. I have a real fondness for the older, family-owned tracks that were laid out by the founder, and still are maintained by his grandchildren.  Ernie Els’ first design – Whiskey Creek—seemed to reflect his personality. A few lacked any soul at all, having apparently been built solely for the purpose of boosting the value of nearby housing lots.

But in my explorations, I’ve found that nearly every course has at least one hole that makes the trip worthwhile. Sometimes it’s the scenery; on others it’s the strategy. A few I like simply because I can just grip it and rip it.

On the very best courses, the good holes come in bunches, and the atmosphere and character are palpable. Those are the tracks that I take note of, and plan to visit again.

But not tomorrow. Tomorrow a new course beckons.

While cleaning a bunch of scorecards from my bag this week,  I realized that I haven’t kept score during a round for quite some time. I had sixteen cards, and on only one had I recorded numbers for more than three holes. That’s when it occurred to me that I haven’t recorded a single score for my handicap in nearly two seasons.

I don’t know why I’ve fallen out of the habit. It’s not that I’ve been playing poorly and am trying to avoid the issue. On the contrary, I know that – a few driver distance issues aside – I’ve been striking the ball very well. I also know that I’ve been chipping and putting with accuracy.

The sixteen cards are for twelve different courses, and if I thought about it, I am sure that I could go back and reconstruct a good many of those rounds. I have a terrific memory for holes and shots and rounds.

But I don’t really have any interest in knowing what, exactly, I shot. I’ve really been enjoying golf this summer while playing as many different courses as I can. I’m taking the time to enjoy the scenery, and the flight of the ball. I often pause to take photos of the course. In my bag is my Palm pilot; I take notes about things that occur to me as I’m playing.

I may have fallen out of the habit earlier this summer when I spent a couple of rounds hitting balls just for the fun of it. I’d get to the 150 mark and drop a few balls to fire away at the pin. Or, coming to a good driving hole, would hit three or four just to see how far I could bomb it. Putting is my favorite part of the game, so I’d take a few extra ones just for the heck of it.

And now that I think about it, I’ve been doing that all summer. I usually play alone, on weekdays, and in the early mornings, so there is no one around to complain. If I play three, four, or five balls, no one is the wiser.

Golf is a lot of fun when you don’t keep track of your shots. I may not keep score again.

My partner and I were playing two different courses.

We started each hole on the same tee box, but from there, our paths diverged. The course I was playing was relatively well maintained; the one he was playing was as pockmarked as the face of the moon. My course was a decent test of golf; his was designed by a madman currently committed at Arkham Asylum.

Not surprisingly, given the state of the course, Paul was not playing well. The fairways narrowed at exactly the point where his tee shots landed. On occasion, the designer had seen fit to toss a fairway bunker right on his favored line.

Where Paul found the rough, it was unnaturally long. Even the sadists who set up the US Open had never attempted anything like he found that day. And when his ball landed on the fairway, it was nearly always in a divot.

The greens that he was playing were a nightmare. Cratered by ball marks, they made every putt bounce unnaturally. Spike marks – there seemingly were a large number of players wearing metal cleats on the plastic-only facility – directed his ball away from the hole.

I, on the other hand, was having a pretty good day. I realized that I couldn’t use my driver on every hole, so I hit a bunch of three and five woods. I saw a few divots—no more than you might expect – but none of them affected my swing. The rough was longer than the fairway, but that was just another reason to stay away from the driver. Bunkers made the course challenging. And the greens that I played were just fine; I never took more than two putts.

I had been paired with Paul by chance and the starter, and I doubt I’ll ever see him again. I’m curious, though, about his game. Was he a good player having a bad day? Is he a poor player who makes excuses to escape personal responsibility? Or does he have a natural inclination to see the worse that gets in the way of his game.

All I know is that if I had to play the course he was playing, I’d quit golf.

When playing in casual groups, I’ve found that it’s a matter of good manners to complement your partners’ well played shots: “Nice drive” for particularly long pokes; “Good shot” for well struck irons; “Nice par” whenever appropriate; “Good save”; “Good putt”; And so on.

On a 525 yard par five recently, I uncorked the longest drive I’ve hit in years—a 300-plus yarder. The shot was soaring and long and straight down the middle. The ball bounced a couple of times and rolled for what seemed like ages.

My playing partner, Mike, said “Nice drive.”

For my second, I briefly considered a three wood to get to the green in two, but decided to lay to the 100 mark. Again, I stuck it well and Mike muttered “Nice shot.”

The shot played too well, though, and left me with 60 yards to the green. The flag was set just a couple of yards from the front. That’s a tricky shot: a three-quarter wedge with the potential to either come up short or – catching it thin – fly over the green. Three things could happen, and two of them were bad. To play it safe, I took out a seven iron and played a bump-and-run to a foot from the hole.

“I never would have thought of that,” Mike said. “Now THAT was a golf shot.”

I thought about that line over the next few holes. There is, I think, a discernible difference between a good shot, and a Golf Shot. An average amateur like myself might hit many good shots over the course of a round, but only one or two “golf shots.”

The drive was not a Golf Shot. It was just a long blast down the fairway; no thought there, nor planning. Neither was the second a Golf Shot. It was well struck, but I had intended to get to the 100 yard mark, where I could hit a full gap wedge into the green. Instead, I hit it too hard and left myself with a tricky third.

The bump-and-run was not pretty. Bounding and bouncing up to the green, it had none of the graceful arc of a lob off a sixty degree wedge. But it was a Golf Shot. It got the ball to the hole efficiently, and minimized the risk of error. I had considered all of my options, and successfully executed. It was exactly the play called for at that moment.

So on that shot, Mike had given me the best complement of all: I had made a golf shot.

I think I was propositioned on the golf course yesterday. But at this moment, I’m still not sure.

To he honest, I have never been very good at picking up signals send by the female of the species. It may have something to do with the fact—that with my severe hearing loss—female voices are generally too high for me to hear; I miss inflections and tones. If we lived in an earlier time when women simply waited for a man to take action, I would not be married—or even have been on very many dates.  My high school girlfriend—we dated for three years and were voted “cutest couple” as seniors (all the cuteness was on her part)—used to laugh that she tried to get me to ask her out for three weeks before she gave up and invited me to a movie. Looking back, I think I can pinpoint a number of times when I completely missed various girls’ signals.

I met Mrs. Golfblogger when the ladies of the church arranged things so we had to sit next to each other at several church socials. Seventeen years later, I am quite convinced that she put them up to it. After a couple of those events, she asked me if I’d like to go play miniature golf with her. We were married six months later.

Yesterday was another one of those days when—hours after the incident—I slapped myself upside the head. Not that I have any interest—Mrs. Golfblogger is more than I probably deserve—but it would be nice to see a train coming before it hits me.

The course was very busy and—playing as a single—I was stuck behind several quartets of retired gentlemen. They were playing from the blues and were appallingly slow. The course was clearly too much for them. Behind me were four ladies of uncertain ages. One was a grey haired grandmother type, two perhaps were my age, and the fourth might have been in her twenties.

While waiting for the retired guys to clear out, the ladies caught up to me several times. The first time, I said “hi” to be polite and told them about the slow foursomes ahead—mostly so they wouldn’t think that I was the problem. They said not to worry about it and enjoy the round.

On the fourth—or was it the fifth or sixth—time they caught up to me, one of the middle-aged women got out of her cart and walked over to mine as I was parked next to the white tees (it was a cart-only course). She was definitely my age, fit, but not thin, handsome and wearing a pink shirt and khaki shorts.

“I think that cart is your lucky number,” she said.

I said something brilliant like “huh?”

She explained. “Its 69 ... I think that’s your lucky number.”

I looked over the side. The cart was indeed number 69. I chuckled; that was a funny observation.

“You’re alone,” she said. “I could ride with you if you like.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I like to play alone.”

“You don’t have to play alone,” she said.

I said something about that being ok, and headed up to the tee box, hit my shot and played on. They didn’t catch up to me again.

It was on the ride home, as I was mentally reviewing the round, that the scene replayed itself. And I’m still not sure if I was being propositioned, or if she was just bored and being funny.

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.