Johannesburg – It was a little after 7am when we arrived in Bronkhorstspruit for a pastime, if one would even call it that, comprising many spots of bother.
Last Sunday though, of all the many obstacles that awaited us at the golf course – from the natural, the manmade, the physiological and the psychological – we had to first face the bitter cold.
It was a numbingly nippy day.
It was not until we had opened the car doors that the message on a small LED screen near the entrance of the golf course – showing that the temperature at that time of the morning was a terrible 3ºC – registered.
Before my foot even touched the ground of this town situated about 50km east of Pretoria, just on the border of Gauteng and Mpumalanga, a stinging chill pierced through the tights I had under my skort, making me wish I had opted for a warmer pair of pants instead My fellow players, a lively pair of long-time friends, were in an even more chilling predicament.
They had taken advantage of a bargain and bought really cool pants, pun intended, and in the same colour.
And they chose Bronkhorstspruit to debut them. It was not a long walk from the parking lot to the pro shop to check in.
It was an even shorter walk from the pro shop to the tee box to start the game. Yet in that steady plod, with my friends in matching pants, we feigned a measure of optimism that the weather would get warmer as the morning progressed.
Even as we saw our breaths in ultra- high definition in the freezing cold, we remained hopeful the day would get warmer. Even as we shivered at the sight of our companion, the one who towers over us, with his nose hair and a beard encrusted with rime, we looked forward to a warmer day.
At the tee box, we found another sucker for punishment who had braved the cold from a less chilly Pretoria to face the elements in Bronkhorsts.
His eyes lit up when he saw us. We could tell the fellow had played there a few times judging by the layers he was wearing, complete with mittens to keep his fingers warm.
It was a miserable hour at least during which the conversation between shots was mostly moaning about the bitter cold.
And as the morning progressed, and the rays of the sun teased us with a little warmth, and the rime melted off the greens, and the numbness disappeared from our fingers, we had to face the truth.
Dealing with the elements was a lot easier than facing the fact that we are no Tiger Woods.
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