As I write this, the final days of April are whittling away to nothing.
Yet when I awoke this morning and surveyed my kingdom from the large bay window in our living room, I was chagrinned to discover my little Civic was covered with snow.
One of my roommates traipsed past me and announced cheerfully, “Hooray for the snow.”
“You’re not being funny,” I shot back flatly.
I have little-to-no sense of humour before the first cup o’ mud batters its way into my metabolism in the morning. Besides, I was already furiously cataloging the series of small annoyances that would no doubt accumulate throughout the day as a result of this spring mockery.
Aside from trivial nuisances, there was a larger question to consider: how will this latest snowfall affect the start of the impending disc golf season?
For the uninitiated, (poor devils), disc golf is the carefree and hippy-loved cousin of regular golf. You have 18 tees and 18 targets and you throw small plastic discs at these targets — trying to hit them in as few throws as possible.
Don’t call it “frolf.”
For the past month my roommate, Chris Madden, and I have been pining for the Mount Mac links. Last summer we would play a round nearly every evening after work.
Well, he was fully employed; I was, you know, less so.
Regardless, it was a joyful little ritual that got us out of the house for an hour or two and put us in the right frame of mind for the night’s activities. Even during bad rounds (and there were plenty of those) you could always count on a handful of magical tosses, which would float through the air like angel wings, careening their way through the trees before landing mere feet from the basket.
In disc golf the targets are baskets, not holes.
Since I’m jonesing for the sport so badly, it is reasonable to inquire why I don’t just say “nuts to you, weather” and play a renegade round in the snow. Believe me, I have no problem adapting traditional summer activities — like soccer or walking around in a tee-shirt — for the winter. But disc golf is a different animal.
A typical disc golf player will carry anywhere between two and, I don’t know, ten, discs with them on a given round. Each of these discs has a different purpose; much like golf clubs, some are drivers, some are mid-range, and some are putters. But they all have one thing in common: they are hard to find when thrown errantly.
I’m known to throw errantly.
Given the difficulty in locating them at the best of times, I can picture my discs flying off their desired routes and burying themselves in snow banks, never to be seen by me again. I can picture losing three or four in a single round.
At $15 a pop, that might be fine for you YG workers, but that would seriously cut into my Russian Prince budget.
So winter disc golf is out, which brings me back to my foul mood this morning. Every one of these spring flurries removes me one day further from the season, which wouldn’t be so bad if I still had Breaking Bad episodes to watch, but I’m all caught up.
So when I walked outside this morning I swore emphatically at the oncoming sleet.
But surely one rude gesture deserves another.