Lee Geiger

Golf is an exercise in Scottish pointlessness for people who are no longer able to throw telephone poles at each other.

Florence King

You haven’t lived until you’ve walked out onto an airport tarmac when you weren’t supposed to.

That’s my rationalization, at least. After waiting nearly an hour for our luggage, which is now longer than our flight from Dublin, I take it upon myself to breach the baggage claim doors at Edinburgh International Airport to search for our suitcases. Mind you, my previous two attempts to locate our bags were unsuccessful, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, if a plane runs into me it’ll make for a heck of a story. So would getting arrested for trespassing.

I spot one of those small airport luggage trailers. Inside is a dude in an orange-vest nursing a smoke. Behind him is a cart overflowing with bags, including my suitcase.

What. The. F.

I sprint towards the trailer, screaming, waving my arms like a mad man. I look like a terrorist in All-Birds. I’m not supposed to on the tarmac, of course, but I don’t care. This Bucket List golf trip has been postponed for two years due to Covid, and I’m not about to let some lazy Scottish baggage handler waste another minute of my time. I’m angry, on a mission, and I slept a whopping two hours on the flight from San Francisco.

A pick-up truck suddenly appears. Two orange-vested Scotsmen jump out, and one gallops towards me like Secretariat. He’s speaking the Queen’s English, but I can’t understand a word. I just know he’s not welcoming me to Scotland.

Two minutes later our bags are circling baggage claim. The squeaky wheel got the grease.

Saturday, May 21

The airport drama concluded, we’re finally on the road to St. Andrews. Scotland is GORGEOUS! Everything is so, freaking green. Mixed in are huge patches of bright yellow flowers, which the driver tells me is canola, which is used in Scotland to make fuel. With gasoline approaching $7 a gallon, I make a note to plant some in my backyard.

We pull into St. Andrews, but the only thing I can see are bleachers. Erected for the 150th Open Championship in July (say “British Open” and you’ll get angry looks from the locals), these enormous mini-stadiums overlook the first fairway and 17^th green (the legendary “Road Hole”). The hair on the back of my neck begins to rise. Wow.

Me and the other seven members of our crew sit down for dinner at Seafood Ristorante, a stone’s throw from the Hotel Du Vin, our home away from home for the next four nights. The restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the beach where the opening scene from “Chariots of Fire” was filmed. My head is spinning. The first tee of the Old Course just down the street. I’m positively giddy. I can’t believe I’m here.

Dinner is nothing short of phenomenal. But the night is young (actually, it’s still daytime…sunset isn’t until ten o’clock). We stroll over to Hams Hame Pub and Grill, located across the street from the 18^th green of the Old Course. Because there isn’t a table for eight, the waitress directs us to another room in the back. Talk about luck! Not only do we have the room to ourselves, but it features a TV the size of Texas. We settle in and watch the third round of the PGA Championship, and order enough whisky to make a Scottish caddie proud. Lucky for us our hotel is just a few stumbling steps away.

Life is good. Really good.

Sunday, May 22

Let the golf begin.

If we wanted to play the Mecca of Golf, the Old Course at St. Andrews, we’d have to also play one of the other six courses in the St. Andrews complex. For us that’s the Castle Course, located seven miles outside of town. This wasn’t our first choice, however. The Castle Course was designed by David McLay Kidd, who did a masterful job designing the original course at Bandon Dunes. But he also designed Tetherow in Bend, OR, hands down the WORST golf course any of us has ever played. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than play that dog track again.

We’re presented golf hats featuring a cursive “LG,” the logo for Links Golf St. Andrews, our tour operator. And because these are my initials, everyone in our group now has a beautiful memento paying homage to the person primarily responsible for setting up this trip. Smart money says most of these hats will never again to see the light of day.

The Castle Course exceeds our expectations, primarily due to the spectacular views offered of the town of St. Andrews. Otherwise, few holes are noteworthy. Hitting a ball out of the thick Scottish hay is beyond frustrating, and a handful of my shots are measured in feet instead of yards. I manage to finish strong, pounding a driver 280+ yards over a cavern on the 18^th hole and thus cut off a huge chunk of this lengthy par-5. I follow that shot with a pretty 4-iron that draws to the back of the green. Two putts later and I notch my first birdie of the week.

Final Score– 88 (net 73/my index is 12.6).

Because it’s Sunday, the Old Course is closed for golf but open for everyone in town to walk, run, or picnic on. It’s the town’s version of Central Park. I light up a stogie and walk the entire course with my roommate, a recently retired biotech legend who just finished writing a book about his work experience and will soon to have a building named after him. An impressive guy to say the least, but what I really love about him is that he no longer snores. Booyah!

We call an audible on our dinner plans and instead return to the private room at Hams Hame. It’s Super Soccer Sunday in the U.K., and we catch the second half of Manchester City vs. Aston Villa. The walls of the pub literally shake as Man City scores three goals in six minutes to come from behind and capture the English Premier League title. I’m so excited, I order fish and chips for dinner, and delivered on my plate is a piece of fried cod that would fill my entire suitcase. A bevy of whisky chasers leave me asleep in my chair while watching the final round of the PGA Championship. It’s the perfect end to an incredible first day.

Tomorrow, we play the Old Course.

Monday, May 23

Black pants. Black turtleneck. Black golf shirt. Black golf hat. I’m ready. I throw my golf bag over my shoulder and walk to the Old Course. It’s a chilly 55 degrees and overcast, with a stiff breeze blowing in off the North Sea. This is Scotland, and this is perfect.

Playing the Old Course has been a dream of mine, something I honestly thought would never happen. Not that I didn’t have the means to afford it, or the time to make it happen. It’s just that guys like me aren’t supposed to play golf courses like this. I’ve seen golf’s most ancient ground on TV dozens of times, and have researched it to death on my computer. But now I’m here, playing not with strangers but with friends I hold near and dear to my heart. Is this really happening? No matter my score or how I hit the ball, when it comes to golf, today I will have climbed Mt. Everest.

I shake hands with my caddie, David. A retired RAF fighter pilot who flew missions in Bosnia, he’s stout in stature and an inch or two shorter than me. “Two dreams have come true today for me,” I say to David, “for not only do I get to play the Old Course, but I finally have a caddie who has to look up to me.” He heartily chuckles and delivers a fist pump. I like him already. He’s getting a good tip.

I’m the first of our group to tee off. I’ve been playing golf for half a century, and rarely am I nervous over a shot. But my hands are sweaty, and my legs are shaking. I’m terrified that I’ll either, A) hook my ball out of bounds to the left, B) slice it into the temporary bleachers on the right, or C) hit a dribbling worm burner that doesn’t roll past the red tees. Dear God, what if I actually swing and miss? Oh, the horror.

I’ve even got a gallery. Standing behind me is my gang and their caddies. To my right are a couple dozen people milling about the pro shop and the practice putting green, each sneaking a peek at who is about to tee off. To my left are golfers and caddies playing the 18^th hole, keeping an eye out to make sure an errant tee shot doesn’t come whizzing at their heads. And because you’re teeing off in the middle of town, locals and tourists crane their necks to catch some of the action. I look back toward the historic Royal and Ancient Clubhouse and spot two people filming me with their iPhones.

How in the name of Old Tom Morris did I get here? Driver in hand, I take aim at a small bush in the distance. Ray Charles couldn’t miss this fairway, it’s so wide. I clear my mind and focus on smashing the back of the ball.

TWACK! I’ve crushed it, a high-arching ball flight with a small left to right fade. I’m twenty yards right of my target, but I’ve managed to steer clear of the bleachers. I’ll have a short iron into the green. My Mother of All Exhales drowns out the polite kudos from the peanut gallery.

I par the first three holes. Other than driving a ball into a gorse bush on the 6^th hole, and taking two shots to get out of a bunker on the 8^th hole, I’m playing VERY well. David might be the best caddie I’ve ever had. He’s navigating me around the Old Course’s many quicks and menaces, and I’ve managed to avoid nearly all of the fatal bunkers, most of which come with oddly peculiar names. Plus, he’s hilarious, a great storyteller, and I can’t get enough of his Scottish accent.

My focus is laser-sharp, and I’ve never hit my wedges better. Truth be told, the Old Course is defenseless without wind, and you would not give it a second thought if it were placed in the middle of Nebraska. The great Sam Snead once said, “Until you play it, St. Andrews looks like the sort of real estate you couldn’t give away.”

But this is The Home of Golf. This is St. Andrews. This is history.

We finally reach the 17^th hole, the legendary “Road Hole,” considered by many to be the hardest par-4 in all of golf. The recommended play here includes a blind tee shot launched over a building fashioned with a sign proclaiming “The Old Course Hotel.” David tells me to aim at the “e” in “Course.” Right before taking the club back, David whispers “take your normal swing, laddie.” I do, and the ball sails over the “C.” “Well done,” says David. “You’re going to be very happy with that result.” If God were to strike me down right here and now, I will die a very happy man.

My ball lands just a yard into the left rough. I have 145 yards to the pin, which today is located left of the dreaded Road Hole bunker. I have a real opportunity to make par. David hands me a 9-iron and says to aim left of the flagstick. I hit the ball well, but it’s right of the pin. It lands on the green but rolls off the back. Darn it!

My ball comes to rest right smack in the middle of the “road” behind the 17^th green, which is in play at St. Andrews. My options are twofold; I can turn my back away from the green and try to ricochet the ball with a low iron off an ancient stone wall located on the other side of the road, or I can putt it from the road directly towards the hole, requiring me to strike the ball hard enough to roll across a crushed gravel path, up a steep grass embankment, and rolls towards the hole. But not so hard that it rolls across the green into the Road Hole Bunker. This shot alone is worth the price of admission to play the Old Course.

David hands me my putter. I’m about sixty feet from the hole. My ball hits a pebble and jumps three inches in the air, but momentum carries it onto the green. I’ve got twelve feet left for par. My putt hugs the right edge but doesn’t drop. Damn, a bogey. But, man, what a memory.

I par the last hole. It’s not the lowest round I’ve ever shot, but that’s beside the point. Never have I walked off a golf course with tears in my eyes. The moment is sweet, and I’m filled with gratitude. I’m a lucky man, and I’ve been blessed with so much. Life has been very good to me.

Final Score — 81 (net 67)

It’s the round of my life.

Tuesday, May 24

I pass on the blood sausage at breakfast and jump on the bus for a 45-minute ride to Carnoustie, considered by many to be the most difficult course in the Open rotation. It’s also the ugliest.

My focus from yesterday is gone with the wind. I play terribly. My hangover from celebrating yesterday’s my good fortune isn’t helping. My only memories from Car-Nasty will be scratching out a par on the 16^th hole and bringing home a souvenir hat embroidered on the back with “The Commish.” Hey, it’s what I do.

Score — 97 (net 82)

It’s our last night in St. Andrews. Tomorrow, we head off for four nights in Edinburgh.

Wednesday, May 25

Kingsbarn is an American style course located about just south of St. Andrews, and it’s on the way to Edinburgh. The views of the Scottish coastline are stunning. A handful of holes remind me of Florida and Hawaii. The only real rain we encounter on the entire trip occurred here, and it was short and violent. We hit our tee shots on Hole #9, pull on our rain gear while we walk to our drives, hit approach shots into a piercing rain coming down sideways, and by the time we reach the 10^th hole the Sun was out. Ah, Scotland.

My shot of the week (other than my opening tee shot at the Old Course) is a bullet of a 4-iron into the 12^thhole, a magnificent par-5 with an ocean on the left. I two-putt for birdie, but then proceed to throw up on myself the rest of the round.

Final Score – 88 (net 73)

Now, here comes the story of the week. Shortly after checking into our swanky hotel, we head to The Whisky Experience on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. Our mild expectations were something akin to a Napa Valley wine tasting. You know, sit around a table and sample some of Scotland’s finest.

Um…Not quite.

The “experience” starts with a ten-minute Disney-esque ride introducing how whisky is made. Picture in your mind the over-21 version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, including a bar that drops down and sits across your lap. We’re going two miles-per-hour, for God’s sake! Next comes a 20-minute video presentation inside an auditorium with two dozen of our newest friends detailing the five whisky regions of Scotland. Thirty minutes into a 90-minute, $50 tour and we have yet to taste a single drop of whisky. This is how riots get started.

We’re eventually led into a room showcasing 3500 bottles of whisky, and we did get to taste one whisky from each of the five Scottish regions. The experience wasn’t what I expected, but at least I know what to buy the next time I venture into a BevMo.

Thursday, May 26

Five days of too much consumption and not enough sleep has finally caught up to me. I haven’t felt this nauseous since the last time Trump claimed credit for the stock market. We’re headed to Muirfield, but all I can think about is where to puke. A shoe bag may have to be sacrificed. I manage to make it to Muirfield without incident, but I feel like death.

Look up the word “stuffy” in the dictionary and you’ll find a picture of the club’s heavy wrought iron entrance gate. Instead of Muirfield it reads, “The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers.” We’re instructed to park our bus down the street in order to maintain appearances. But it’s okay.  We’re skipping lunch at the club and thus don’t need to bring our coats and ties. And we’re playing Muirfield, considered one of the best golf courses in the world.

A dapper gentleman wearing a tweed jacket and hat asks who’s in charge. “I am,” I say with barely the energy to raise my hand. He escorts me to an oak-paneled room benefiting the Treaty of Versailles, where a woman opens a HUGE leatherbound book for me to sign in. I fashion my best John Hancock and head to the locker room, ecstatic in the knowledge that the Geiger name will forever live at this most distinguished of institutions. If they only knew.

I get another caddie named David. He’s a retired fireman from Edinburgh. The wind today is strong, and the reality of playing links golf punches me in the face. Good shots turn into bad shots, simply because they roll a bit too far and become victims of the hidden dangers of the fairways, or the devilish slopes of the greens. Bunkers are so deep, and their walls so steep, that nearly every miscue into the sand results in a penalty shot. Or two. Or three.

My ball striking is good, yet I don’t record a single par (but I did birdie the 17^th hole). My scorecard wouldn’t reflect it, but I fell in love with Muirfield. The layout and course conditions are simply spectacular and the grounds ooze tradition, history, and class. Muirfield is very, very special.

Final Score – 94 (net 79)

It’s time to do some shopping. I’m on a mission to find at least one cashmere sweater for The Pretty Blonde. Edinburgh is beautiful, best described by one member of our crew as “a magnificent medieval city that wasn’t bombed.” The architecture is downright jaw-dropping. I would definitely visit here again and leave the clubs at home.

I order plain pasta for dinner but only manage to get down a few bites. All I ate today was half of a banana at breakfast and an apple I grabbed from the hotel lobby. I need a good night’s sleep.

Friday, May 27

Feeling much better, the bus heads for North Berwick, a 45-minute journey through East Lothian, home of Scotland’s “Golf Coast.” There’s not a cloud in the sky, but on our left is a raging body of water filled with nothing but whitecaps. Better buckle your chinstraps, boys. Today’s going to be a rough one.

A turtleneck, thick sweater and a ski cap are not enough to keep me warm, so I break out my credit card and pay $275 for a wind jacket. But hey, it says North Berwick on it, so I’ve got that going for me.

My caddie says locals wouldn’t play in these conditions. The wind from the North Sea is howling, and just standing is difficult. We play the front nine dead into the breeze. Frustration builds with each errant shot. The wind is even causing balls to move on the green. It’s crazy. And believe it or not, playing downwind is not much better. You have no idea what club to hit because you have no idea how far the ball will travel under these conditions.

Final Score — 90 (net 75)

Many people blessed to play golf in Scotland will tell you that North Berwick is one of their favorite courses, if not their absolute favorite. My next-door neighbor, the noted Sir Lag-a-Lot, talks about playing North Berwick like it is some kind of religious fulfilment. He convinced me it would be my favorite course on this trip, but it wasn’t. Sure, there were plenty of really interesting holes (I especially liked Hole #13 which features a stone wall in front of the green), and the ocean views were incredible. But today was more about survival than it was about golf.

Saturday, May 28

Our last round. Thank goodness. I’m golfed out.

We play Gullane #1, a really fun course that has played host to the Scottish Open. It’s the perfect place to play our final round. Gulland is challenging yet much easier than the other courses we’ve played, not to mention there is hardly a breath of wind. If I’ve learned anything on this trip, it’s that the weather in Scotland is schizophrenic. No wonder whisky is considered a major food group.

Final Score — 88 (net 75)

Prior to dinner, I meet up with John, a former customer from London who’s retired and now splits his time between Edinburgh and France. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but the flames of our mutual respect and kinship still burn bright. We’ve shared much in life away from Wall Street, from my visits to his home in the English countryside, a trip to the Ryder Cup, and making memories at Pebble Beach. One of our insider phrases is “well struck,” and that how I would define our friendship. God willing, we’ll see each other again, sooner rather than later.

Our final meal at The Ivy is fantastic. I order the Shepard’s Pie on the knowledge that I’ve got to buy new pants anyway. As a token of their appreciation, the guys present me with a signed 18^th hole pin flag from the upcoming 150^th Open Championship at the Old Course. I will hang it in my home office and treasure it for as long as I live.

What a trip.

Sunday, May 29

My alarm goes off at 3:00am. I’m on the bus by 3:30. By 4:00 I’m standing at the end of a check-in line for Ryanair that spills out the terminal onto the sidewalk. I’ve got a 6:15 flight to Rome. I make it, but just barely.

Upon reflection, if there’s anything I would do differently on this trip, it would be to take a day off from golf, preferably in the middle. Our bodies and minds could have recharged, and we would have enjoyed seeing more of Edinburgh. And it would have been fun to get to know better the people of Scotland. Of the handful I met, all were wonderful. Nonetheless, this was the Bucket List trip of a lifetime, and I’m grateful for the people of Scotland, as well as the gang of misfits who joined me. I love you guys.

As for the golf, here is how I would rank the courses. Mind you, this is like rating Napa cabernets. They’re all pretty good.

1. Muirfield
2. Carnoustie
3. North Berwick
4. Kingsbarn
5. Gullane #1
6. Castle Course

I didn’t rank the Old Course for one reason– emotion. I invested too much of myself into the experience of playing the course to give it a critical eye. In the end, the Old Course is as much about history as it is about golf.

And now I’m a part of it.